Page 26 of Unspoken

I wave a hand dismissively. "I don't give a toss about fancy. I want authenticity." I fix him with a challenging stare. "Think you can manage that, Mr. Muscle?"

"Oh, it’s ‘mister’ now?"

"You can call me Sasha," I blurt out. "Alexander is a mouthful anyway."

This time, he definitely smiles. Just a small one, but it transforms his whole face, softening the hard edges. My heart does a little flip in my chest. Bloody hell, I'm in trouble.

"Okay, Sasha. If you insist, I know just the place," he says.

The car ride is tense and I keep my gaze fixed out the window, watching the sun-soaked streets of Vegas blur past. Logan drives in silence, his strong hands gripping the wheel. I want to say something, anything to break the suffocating quiet, but my tongue feels like lead in my mouth.

Something is happening between us. He smiled. I let him call me the way Mama used to call me. I also didn’t snitch to Vladabout the ER trip. And I’m also finding everything about Logan attractive now.

Before panic overtakes me completely, we pull up to a bustling taco truck somewhere in the heart of the city where traffic is loud and people are plentiful. The aroma of sizzling meat and spices wafts over immediately, and my stomach grumbles traitorously as we climb out. But the sound of passing cars and chatter from the long line drowns out the betraying sound.

"So, this is the place," I comment, turning to my companion.

"Is it not up to your liking, Your Majesty?" he asks mockingly, attempting a poorly executed British accent.

I roll my eyes. "It's...different."

"It’s the best place in town," Logan says with pride in his voice. "But if you don’t like it, we can always head back to your mansion and order room service."

"No, thank you. I think I’ve had enough of my room."

I scan the crowd spilling in front of the truck, a mix of English and rapid-fire Spanish washing over me. The sheer comradery of it all is staggering. People are talking to each other while eating or waiting or getting ready to go. Some seem to know each other and others are clearly strangers, except that now they are united by the food made in this funny-looking painted truck.

I feel like an outsider.

"Is it always this busy?" I ask, trying to hide my nerves beneath a layer of bravado as we approach the line to join in.

Logan shoots me an amused look. "This? This is nothing. You should see the line at 2 AM, after the clubs let out."

"They drive from the Strip here?"

"Oh, they do."

"Americans are quite odd. Your fascination with food is rather absurd."

"You say this because you haven’t tried good food yet. You’ll be obsessed with it too afterDon Julio’s Tacos."

We join the queue, and I try not to fidget as we inch closer to the front. When it's finally our turn, Logan steps up to the counter with the ease of a regular and throws at me over his shoulder, "You don’t have any food restrictions or allergies, do you?"

"Not that I know of… Can you ask if—"

Logan doesn’t give me a chance to finish my question of whether the meat here is humane. I try to avoid factory-farmed meat as much as I can.

He rattles off our order to the guy inside the truck in fluent Spanish, the words flowing like honey from his lips. I catch a few familiar phrases you hear everywhere around these parts—carne asada, al pastor, pollo—but the rest is lost on me.

We find a small table nearby, miraculously empty amidst the chaos. As we sit, I work up the nerve to ask, "So, do you come here often?"

Logan shrugs, leaning back in his plastic chair. "When I have the time, yeah. It's a nice break from the glitz and glam, you know? It’s simple but it’s just right."

I nod, even though I don't really understand. My life has been nothing but glitz and glam, a never-ending parade of luxury and excess. But sitting here, surrounded by the sights and smells of something real, something uncomplicated, I think I'm starting to see the appeal.

As we wait for our food, Logan points out the different meats and toppings, explaining the flavor profiles and traditional combinations. I nod along, trying to commit it all to memory. It's a small thing, but the fact that he's taking the time to teach me, to share something he clearly enjoys, makes a warmth bloom in my chest.

"So, where did you learn Spanish?" I ask.

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