Page 109 of Falling Back to You

Cal said grace, and we dove into the delicious food.

“Mmm,” I moaned around the first bite, shimmying my shoulders. “New York can’t compare to this.”

The corner of Cal’s mouth tipped up while he watched me. “That good, huh?”

I waved my taco in front of him. “Want to taste?”

His hand curled around my wrist, holding me steady as he took the offered bite. My pulse ticked like a metronome under his touch. His thumb gently brushed over the inside of my wrist, and I swallowed hard.

“Amazing,” he murmured, eyes locked on mine. He let me go, and unsure of what to say, I shoved another mouthful of taco into my mouth to avoid saying something ridiculous. Like I still like you. Tacos shouldn’t be so romantic. They were messy and juicy, but they sure tasted good.

“Want to try mine?” Cal gestured to his half-demolished plate of tacos.

I wrinkled my nose. “Yours are spicy.” And gluten-free because he was worried about cross contamination. Did the man’s thoughtfulness have no bounds?

He smirked. “So you still hate anything hotter than black pepper?”

I stuck out my tongue. “Not all of us were built for shoveling lava into our mouths and calling it dinner.”

“Hey, I saw the cayenne pepper in your spice drawer.”

“Those are for my ginger shots because they help my joints. Trust me, downing those things every morning isn’t a joyride. I swear my eustachian tubes are on fire every time.”

He leaned in. “Have I mentioned how much I love when you use big medical words?” he said huskily.

I arched an eyebrow. “I seem to recall you calling Myles a know-it-all every time he did it growing up.”

Cal laughed, and it echoed off the lake. “Yeah, and I still do. But you are much better looking than Myles and far less annoying.”

“Thank you, I think?”

“It was definitely a compliment.

We finished our tacos as the sun started to set. The golden light flung out its rays in a final farewell before sinking behind the mountains and evergreens, leaving the sky streaked in amber and fire.

After tossing our trash, Cal hugged me from behind, chin resting on my shoulder as we stood watching the colours dance across the sky.

Cal’s nose brushed my ear. “Another thing New York couldn’t do?”

“Yeah,” I whispered. Speaking too loud might shatter the spell, the magic holding us in this moment. Cal’s arms flexed around me, holding me tighter. Like he was afraid I was an illusion, a wonderful dream that ended at the stroke of midnight.

“Hey, mister?”

Cal and I jumped apart, turning to the small boy, no more than eight, shuffling on his feet behind us. Somewhere a camera shutter clicked, but I couldn’t find a lens.

Cal eased into his grinning, sunny self. “Hey, there, bud. You here for tacos, too?”

The boy nodded, eyes shining. “Can I get your autograph?”

My extroverted date shot me an apologetic look, but I offered him a smile. This was part of his life.

“Sure thing.” Cal took the offered pen and paper and signed it in a bold, messy scrawl. He engaged the boy for a few minutes, talking about sports—the boy played hockey—and Cal gave him a few tips.

When the boy finally scampered back to his mom, who offered a grateful wave, Cal turned to me with a flirtatious smile. “Now where were we?”

But it wasn’t to last.

One autograph broke the ice and soon a mob of fans crawled out of the woodwork, gathering around the table and asking for selfies or autographs. Others wanted to talk about the last game and how Cal was recovering after his knee injury. I’d seen clips on the Chargers’ social media page about Cal interacting with fans; he was good at it. Taking time to make them feel special. Like he cared.