Page 38 of Thankful for My Orc
“Final rankings,” she announces, though her voice is still slightly unsteady. “Don Miguel takes the crown at 9.75. Birria Reyna comes in second at 8.75. El Jefe is third at 7.75.”
“You make it sound like a courtroom verdict,” I tease.
“It’s not a verdict—it’s standards.” She looks up at me with a small smile. “Though I have to admit, that might’ve been the best taco crawl I’ve ever done.”
“Better than your law school days?”
“Much better company,” she says, and there’s something in her tone that makes my chest tighten with hope.
As we leave Don Miguel’s truck, Jordan stumbles slightly on the curb—nothing dramatic, just a small misstep. I catch her elbow without thinking, the reflex automatic. Then we’re standing too close on a busy East L.A. corner, traffic rushing past, the world blurring around the small space between us.
“Thanks,” she says, but she doesn’t step back immediately.
“Careful,” I murmur, and my hand slides from her elbow down to her hand. Just for a moment. Just to make sure she’s steady.
Her fingers curl against mine—tentative, testing—and for five seconds we’re just standing here, holding hands on the sidewalk like teenagers. The contact sends a jolt through me. Her pulse flutters against my skin, quick and uncertain, and I catch the faint shift in her scent—hesitation softening into something warmer, braver. My senses sharpen around her: the fine bones of her hand, the silk of her skin, the quiet bloom of happiness that wraps around us both.
A low rumble starts in my chest—not quite a purr, but close. I barely manage to suppress it before it’s loud enough for her to hear.
Then someone brushes past us, breaking the spell, and we both laugh nervously and step apart.
But as we walk toward the parking lot, her hand finds mine again. This time, it’s deliberate. Her fingers thread through mine with quiet certainty, and we stroll the remaining two blocks in silence, both pretending this isn’t a massive shift in whatever’s happening between us.
“So,” I say as we reach her Honda. “Verdict on random selection date number one?”
“Better than expected,” she admits, leaning against her car door. “Much better than expected, actually.”
“Good enough to try number two?”
“I think so.” She pulls out her phone and scrolls to what I assume is her calendar app. “When were you thinking?”
“Next weekend? Saturday afternoon again?”
“Saturday works.” She adds something to her calendar, then looks up at me with an expression I can’t quite read. “Wait,” she says, reaching into her purse and pulling out a Ziplok bag with paper slips. “Shouldn’t we pick our next adventure while we’re both here?”
“Good thinking. Your turn to pick.”
She reaches into the bag without hesitation, fishing around among the papers before pulling one out. She unfolds it slowly, and I watch her face for clues.
“Vintage arcade tournament,” she reads, “Oh boy, mine again! I chose this as one of my ten dates because there’s a place in Hollywood with all the classics—Pac-Man, pinball, skee-ball. I went once in law school and always wanted an excuse to go back.”
“Sounds like a challenge,” I say, already imagining her competitive streak in a neon-lit arcade. “But fair warning: total rookie here. Never even been inside one.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I can practically see the wheels turning in her lawyer brain. “Then you’re in luck. I’ll show you the ropes—and if there are tickets or prizes, I’ll even share. Fair warning, though. That doesn’t mean I’ll let you win.”
“Wouldn’t expect it,” I say. “But if I manage a comeback, I expect full bragging rights.”
“Define ‘comeback.’”
“Any scenario where I score one point before total annihilation.”
She laughs, that real laugh that hits low in my chest. “You’re setting the bar low, Ironwood.”
“Smart males do.”
As I watch her drive away, I can’t help but think that random selection might be the smartest idea I’ve ever had. Four taco trucks, one perfect afternoon, complete with the memory of holding her hand.
Less than a full month ago, we were strangers who had incredible chemistry. Today, I watched her argue passionately about cheese pulls and broth techniques, saw her switch effortlessly between English and Spanish, and witnessed her competitive fire in action.
