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.
Turning toward the truck, I find Lucas checking the ratchet straps and securing the pallets of tile for the trek up the hill. His shoulders and back muscles flex beneath his shirt, and my eyes are drawn to a strip of tan skin where his jeans sag just below his hip. His clothes are worn thin but in a way that is more nonchalant than unkempt. He sees me coming and I motion to the bag in my hand, hoping it’ll distract him from my blatant gawking.
“Dinner. Figure my dad, Cody, and you could use a good meal tonight.”
His eyebrows pinch together and he blinks. “Me?” He looks genuinely shocked.
I lightly smack his upper arm. He jerks and his gaze darts to where I’d hit him. “Yes, you.”
Still studying his arm, he mutters, “Why?”
I prop my hands on my hips and tilt my head. “You liked the taco, right?”
His charcoal eyes finally slide up to meet mine, but the relaxed and elated glow from earlier has been replaced by something different. He seems guarded but curious. “Yes, ma’a—um . . . Shyann.”
“So let me treat you to dinner.” Buying extra tacos seemed like an innocent gesture at the time, but judging by the intense way his eyes are locked on mine, I’m thinking something heavy just happened between us.
Without warning, he quickly drops his chin and stomps past me. “We better go.”
I stand there for a few seconds too long but startle when the flatbed engine roars to life, and I scurry around to the passenger side.
I climb in, placing the bag at my feet and trying to settle in for the drive home amid a tension that rolls around and pricks my skin. I watch the minutes tick by on the clock. The truck’s engine seems too loud in the quiet cab, and at the fifteen-minute mark I can no longer take the silence.
“So . . . what did you do before you moved to Payson?”
His eyelashes flutter, but his lips remain closed.
“Do I make you uncomfortable, Lucas?”
He blinks and the tight lock he has on his jaw softens. “A little.”
“Why? Because I get the sense that you’d rather me shut up so you can get this time stuck in a truck with me over with.”
He doesn’t confirm or deny it.
I don’t like the way that feels one little bit. “Okay.” I won’t make him say it.
Turning my head away from him, I lean my temple against the window and decide closing my eyes will help to get me through the last leg of the trip without unleashing hell on the poor guy.