Page 81 of The Golden Scoop

“You make me wear this old thing,” I bicker, pulling at the shoulder straps, “and you show up looking like you’re auditioning for a dating reality show.”

He reaches out, fingers curling into the front pocket and tugging me closer.

“It’s better than any cocktail dress you could ever wear,” he replies, voice low enough to belong in a different kind of conversation. “Signature Emma Miller look. Real. Sexy. Haunts my dreams.”

“Really?” I hook my finger into the opening of his shirt. “That’s because you haven’t met no-clothes-on Emma Miller.”

A small tap to his chest seals it. I walk past him, sliding into the car, watching as he stands there dumbfounded, hand still pressed where I touched him.

The thrill of the tease blooms in my stomach. We’re dangerous, Matt and I. All or nothing. If this works, I have a feeling it’ll be incredible. If it doesn’t, all I can do is hope the friend group survives the downfall.

The drive lands us in a small plaza with picnic tables in the center and three food trucks lined up along the back: tacos, subs, and Greek bowls. Christmas lights hang between poles, casting a warm golden glow. The light breeze carries the aroma of grilled meat and cilantro.

“Anyone else would be surprised,” I say as we step out of the car, “but with your luck, I’m getting used to this.”

“My luck?”

“You’ve accidentally picked my favorite taco truck of the entire city for our first date.”

“Honey, there’s nothing ever accidental about you and me,” he says with a laugh.

My steps falter. I turn. That smirk, equal parts challenge and certainty, sits right where it fuels me the most.

“Take a seat. I’ll order.”

I do. Not because I’m speechless—though I am. Because distance feels necessary right now. If he keeps talking like that, I’m going to end up doing something reckless like jumping his bones in the backseat of his SUV.

Matt’s public persona used to irritate me. Anger me. Still, even then, I could admit he’s built to be in the cover of Men’s Health.

Now?

Now he’s reminding me exactly how long it’s been since I’ve been with anyone, and just how fast my feelings toward him are… evolving.

He comes back balancing a tray stacked full of tacos. My stomach grumbles. For a beat, self-consciousness creeps in. The women he’s used to probably know the names of every piece of cutlery at a Michelin-star restaurant.

I can name twenty different kind of hot sauces, and which peppers are used without thinking. Fork etiquette? Not so much. My hands work fine.

“I didn’t know what you liked,” he admits. “I got a couple of both.”

“Not picky. I like everything,” I tell him, staring at the food without making a move to dig in.

“Even me?”

I roll my eyes, biting my bottom lip to keep from breaking into a smile.

“Fishing much?” I tease.

“I’ll take what I can get,” he shoots back. Then he frowns. “Why aren’t you eating.”

“I will. I’m not super hungry,” I mumble. “Get us started.”

“Mills.”

“Matthew.”

“Eat,” he says stern.

I grab a taco and take a small bite. My mouth waters, craving more. Instead, I give him a thumbs up and put it down.