Page 19 of The Dallas Dilemma

“What are my options within walking distance?” he asks, and his voice is so light and calming, I feel myself relax a bit.

“Well, there’s a sub shop and a burger place that way,” I say, pointing to our left. Jerking my thumb in the opposite direction, I add, “and a Chinese buffet, a taco shop, and a buffalo wing place down there.”

Dallas meets my eyes as his face lights up. “Do you like tacos? Please say yes. I don’t know if we can still be friends if you don’t.”

My throat threatens to close up at the word “friends,” but I paste on a smile and nod before forcing out, “Of course, I love tacos.”

Don’t you dare be disappointed, Joey Barnes. Being friends is fine. Better, even. At least now you can relax and enjoy dinner without any pressure or confusion.

When we reach the small taco shop and order at the counter, Dallas insists on paying and tells me to grab a table. I find a clean one near the windows and slide into the booth, watching as he takes the receipt and heads toward the hot sauce bar. I observe him as he fills small plastic cups with every type of sauce available, then pops on the lids and stacks them before bringing them to me with a smile.

“I wasn’t sure which kind you prefer, so I got them all,” he says as he sets them on the table.

“I like the green,” I reply with my own timid smile, and he nods.

“That’s my favorite, too. I’ll go grab some more.”

He’s gone before I can say a word, and I feel myself relax a bit. Having the same taste in hot sauce isn’t the highest on the list of things we might have in common, but it’s a start. I watch as he fills three more cups with the green sauce, and as he turns back toward me, the lady behind the counter calls his name. Dallas swings in her direction and sets the sauce cups on the red tray with our food and drinks before thanking her and heading back my way with a wide grin.

“God, this smells good,” he says as he slides into the booth across from me. “Thanks for bringing me here.”

“Thanks for buying,” I say as he plucks two pollo asado tacos from the tray and sets them on the table in front of me before passing me a Styrofoam cup filled with soda.

“It’s my pleasure,” he says, and a shiver runs down my spine at that last word.

Did his tone deepen as he said it? Or did I imagine that?

Dallas grins down at his food as he picks up a taco and dribbles sauce over it. He seems completely focused on taking a big bite, so I must’ve imagined the double-entendre.

Of course, I did.

We’re friends. He said it, himself.

Dallas glances over at me after chewing his bite and swallowing, his gaze questioning. “Is your food okay?”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry,” I mumble and pick up a taco.

Adding a drop of sauce to the end, I take a big bite. I couldn’t stop the moan that vibrates in my chest if I tried. God, this is good. I feel eyes on me, and when I look at Dallas, he’s staring at me with an inscrutable expression. When our eyes meet, his tongue darts out to wet his lips before his gaze shoots down to his food.

That was…weird.

“So, do you eat here a lot?” he asks after the silence stretches between us for too long.

“Yeah,” I say on a laugh, whatever tension I was holding onto draining out of me. “Callie and I grew up on these tacos, and they deliver, so we order them at least twice a month.”

“I can see why,” he says. “This is delicious.”

“Better than pizza?” I ask with a smirk.

“Oh, you still owe me a pizza night. You’re not getting out of that. But, yeah,tonightit’s better than pizza.”

“What did you do for fun in L.A.?” I ask before taking another bite.

Dallas shrugs. “I worked a lot, and when I was off, I mostly stayed home.”

“Really?” I blurt.

“You’re surprised?”

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