Page 86 of Stalkers Anonymous

“That’s a good one.” I tap my chin, genuinely considering. “Tacos. And not just because of the hot dog thing. Tacos are a perfect food delivery system. You can put anything in a taco. Breakfast taco. Dessert taco. Regular taco. It’s the world’s most versatile food group.”

His face drops, but I see the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Tacos aren’t a food group.”

“They should be. I’m starting a petition.”

“I’ll refuse to sign it.”

“This is why I like you.” The words slip out before I can stop them, and I feel heat rise to my cheeks. Was that too abrupt? “I mean—”

“You like me, huh?” He’s grinning now, clearly delighted by my slip. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.” He leans back in his chair, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “So what else should I know about you? Besides your aggressive stance on tacos.”

“I’m an excellent parallel parker,” I offer. “Like, unreasonably good. It’s my one true talent.”

“That’s a very specific skill to be proud of.”

“You say that now, but wait until you’re in a tight parking situation and I nail it on the first try. You’ll be impressed.”

“I’m already impressed.”

The way he says it, looking directly at me with those vibrant hazel eyes, makes my stomach flip.

Fuck, he’s hot.

“Your turn,” I say, because I need to redirect before I combust. “Tell me something random. A fact about Cole Matthews that I couldn’t find on Google.”

“You’ve googled me?”

“Everyone googles everyone. Don’t pretend you haven’t googled me.”

His expression flickers—that same hint of something complicated I noticed earlier. “Fair enough.”

“So? Random fact. Go.”

“I can juggle,” he says after a moment. “I taught myself when I was twelve because I thought it would impress girls.”

“Did it?”

“Not even once.”

I laugh so hard I nearly choke on my wine. “That’s tragic. That’s genuinely tragic.”

“The saddest origin story in juggling history.” He’s grinning, clearly pleased that he made me laugh. “What about you? Any failed attempts at impressive skills?”

“I took tap dancing lessons for three years,” I admit. “I was terrible. Like, embarrassingly bad. My teacher told my mom I had ‘anti-rhythm.’”

“Anti-rhythm isn’t a thing.”

“It is if you saw me tap dance.” I demonstrate a small shuffle with my hands on the table. “I’d go left when everyone went right. Every time. It’s like my brain was running on a two-second delay.”

“So you’re saying I shouldn’t take you dancing.”

“Oh God, no. Unless your idea of a hot date involves broken toes and public humiliation.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for future date planning.”