Split(30)

She cracks open her Coke and takes a long swig, smacking her lips. “Fry bread taco.” She motions to my plate. “Try it.”

With her plate balanced on her knees, her long, slender fingers delicately unwrap the end of her taco and she brings it to her mouth, bites, and moans. “Oh wow, it’s even better than I remember.”

I stare down at mine, wondering where to start.

“It won’t bite you,” she says through a mouthful of food.

“I . . . I got food poisoning when I was a kid.” A lot.

She licks sour cream from her finger. “From a taco?”

“No, but . . .” There are very few foods that didn’t at one point make me deathly ill. “I don’t eat food I didn’t make myself.”

She hums and I’m afraid to look at her out of fear that she’ll see me as the freak that I am.

But then my plate disappears. I watch as she unwraps the end of my taco and takes a bite just like she did hers, chews, and swallows. “There.” She returns my plate to my lap. “Now if we get sick, we do it together.”

My cheeks ache before I even realize I’m smiling. She risked getting food poisoning for me. As much as the thought of ingesting this food is enough to make me sick, I refuse to disappoint her.

Imitating her, I peel the paper back and bring it close to my mouth, praying if the poisoning hits, it does it when I’m back home so I can be miserable in private.

“Go ahead. It’s fine, I promise.” She presses her fingertips to my hand, guiding the food toward my lips, and the heat of her touch has me squirming in my seat.

Slowly I place the taco into my mouth, bite, and chew. The flavors explode against my tongue. “Good.”

“Right? My mom used to say that Mexico stole tacos from her people. She said the Navajos owned all things made of corn, and that included tacos, although”—she holds up her food and studies it—“pretty sure this is all flour.”

Her mother was Navajo. That explains her complexion compared to her father. “You and Cody, you guys look like her.”

She smiles sadly. “Mom said Navajo genes are always dominant. Said my eyes are a fluke.”

As if responding to being called, the clear blue orbs light with acknowledgment.

“They’re pretty.” I suck in a breath and drop my gaze to the dirt ground. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “I mean, as far as color . . . goes?”

“Thank you.” There’s a smile in her voice, but I don’t dare look because the way she stares at me sometimes I’d think she knows how often I’ve thought of those eyes. How many times I’ve mimicked the curves of her body into my drawings. The gentle dips and feminine flares of her form are masterpieces, like a playground for the eye. I’ve considered carving her into wood, dreamt of using her bare body as a canvas. I’ve fantasized about more than I’d ever be willing to admit.

My stomach tumbles with that same uneasy feeling I had when we first met. Flutters mixed with something dark, a need that makes my toes curl and my skin electrify. No, this can’t be good.

If this is me being uninterested, I’m in so much trouble.





TEN



SHYANN


Every bite of taco Lucas takes is like watching a kid discover ice cream for the first time. He was nervous at first, then tentative but willing, and now ecstasy. He chews each bite, and it’s hard not to stare at the fierce muscle of his jaw as it contracts and releases beneath smooth, tanned skin. I study the tips of his hair that stick out around his hat, straight mostly but with a slight curl at the nape of his neck. I wonder if it’s as soft as it looks.

His chewing slows and his gaze moves to mine. “What?”

“Huh? Nothing.” I swig from my Coke, hoping to hide my face behind it.

His eyebrows pinch together but he goes back to his food and I know he won’t press me.

In the few hours we’ve spent together, I’ve come to know Lucas never pushes or instigates. He’s content to roll with the punches, more of a follower than a leader, prefers to be told what to do, and if my attempt at conversation on the ride up was any indication, Lucas probably wouldn’t even speak unless spoken to.

I never thought that would be an attractive quality in a man. My whole life I’ve been surrounded by bossy men who think they can make all my decisions for me. Hell, I dated my producer for crying out loud. All he ever did was tell me what to do, both at work and in our relationship. I don’t remember a time when I was able to be with a man without needing to be on guard or preparing to go to battle over something. My dukes raised, so to speak.

That’s why Lucas is so refreshing.

He places his empty paper plate in the space between us. It’s stupid, but a twinge of irritation flares in my gut at him separating us with garbage.

“That was good. Thank you.”

“I’m glad you liked it.” I grab our empty plates and fold them into a detritus taco, walking it to the nearby garbage.

The woman who served us says something to me in Spanish—most people confuse my half Navajo, half Caucasian blood for Mexican—and holds up a white plastic bag filled with the food I ordered to go.

“Thank you.” I snag the bag and nearly trip over a little girl who darts past me, running away from a young boy as an older woman scolds them in Spanish.