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Like I was the only thing that mattered in that moment.

God, it was unsettling how much I liked his attention. Of course I would find a man who didn’t instantly piss me off at this critical time in my life and career.

I shook the thoughts away, focusing back on our conversation. One night—I was allowed one night to set my carefully curated plan aside and enjoy living before it was back to the grind of my goals.

“Most people think chilaquiles are a morning-after-drinking meal. But that’s where they’re wrong.” I leaned closer, lowering my voice like I was sharing a secret. “You eat them the same night you drink, so they can soak up all the alcohol. Prevents the hangover—sometimes. Not that it matters…they’re delicious either way.” His deep laugh rolled through the space between us.

Right at that moment, the server came over, and Dalton’s expression was downright comical, like a starved man who hadn’t eaten in days.

“Based on how you’re looking at that plate, I’m guessing you’re happy with my choice,” I teased, grinning as he stared down at the food. “Okay, so chilaquiles are fried tortilla strips—sometimes people use chips—smothered in salsa de tomatillo, then topped with onions, cilantro, cotija cheese, créma, and—this is the best part—two fried eggs, over easy.” I grabbed my fork and sliced into one of the eggs, the yolk breaking and oozing across the plate. “If the yolk isn’t runny, you’re not doing it right,” I added, my eyes flicking up to catch his reaction as he mimicked my move.

He took a bite, chewing slowly. Then his head tilted back slightly, and a deep, guttural, “Holy shit,” slipped out around his mouthful.

I couldn’t help it—I burst out laughing. “You always that loud, Dalt?” I teased, raising an eyebrow.

He froze for a second and I could see the mischief brewing behind those green eyes of his. He leaned in, lowering his voice to a deep rumble that had my pulse jumping.

“Sometimes, you gotta let a woman know what a great job she did.”

I choked on my bite, coughing as I tried to refill my lungs with air. He gave me that cocky, lopsided grin, clearly enjoying himself.

“Not great at swallowing, Ari?”

I knew that under the polite cowboy’s outer shell laid something…else.

Now all I could picture was his…nope, not going there.

Clearly not waiting for an answer, Dalton tore through his chilaquiles. “Okay, no last names, no job titles, no phone numbers, no addresses. What can I know about you?” he asked, shoveling in another bite of his food.

“Oh, come on, there are plenty of other things to share besides those four.” I rolled my eyes. “Like all the random little shit you don’t tell anyone else. Here, I’ll start. I love Topo Chico, specifically the lime ones, but those things are so expensive now I never get them.”

“Uh, what’s Topo Chico?”

My mouth dropped open at the comment, a scoff falling out at the same time. There was no way I could, in good conscience, let us end the night without him trying one, even if it was going to cost me four damn dollars, or whatever the going rate was for them. Without another word, I slipped from the table.

“Topo Chico.” I took a giant gulp before sitting back down and sliding it across the table, waiting for his reaction. He took a drink without hesitation.

Holy shit, I need sleep.

I’d never given a second thought to sharing a drink with someone, ever. Coming from a family as large as mine, food and eating was a communal experience—we all shared everything. But there was something about watching his lips wrap around the same bottle mine had just been on that had me shifting in my seat. Suddenly, I wanted my drink back to see if it tasted like him…

You don’t need sleep. Jesús Cristo, that’s what you need.

He coughed, a giant hand covering his mouth, before giving me a weak smile. “So…spicy water?”

“You hate it,” I laughed, pulling it back to my side.

“I don’t hate it, but I’d never willingly choose that to drink.”

He was so much sweeter than my brother or cousins would ever have been. The crisp bubbles ticked my nose as I watched the way Dalton watched me. At the sports bar, he’d been tense, shoulders practically in his ears, back rigid. But here, where it was just the two of us, he was relaxed. His strong legs were spread out over on my side. The heat radiating off them was a constant temptation to bump against them with my own.

“Your turn,” I rushed out, taking another bite, in desperate need of something else to focus on.

“Hmm,” he mused, finishing off the last of his food. He probably would have licked the plate if I wasn’t sitting across from him. The mental picture had a smile stretching across my face.

“My favorite candy is those chewy orange and yellow rings covered in sugar, but they have to be the off-brand from the gas station. They taste better.” His smile was so different from the one he’d given earlier, and I couldn’t help but think I was receiving information he rarely gave out.

“The only candy I like I don’t think you’d classify as candy, because they’re all spicy.”