The day after my first win, he sent an order of pancakes to my house with syrup on the side, along with a text:I wore these today on my tits. Hope you love your brekkie, hot-stuff stud-muffin.
I ate the pancakes. They were tasty. But not as tasty as getting back at him by snapping a picture of myself on the beach with a clown and tagging it with his name—Hanging with my finance wizard, Patrick.
I’m waiting for the next installment. It’s got to be coming tonight. This taco truck hassetupwritten all over it.
He strides over to me, whipping off his aviator shades. They complete the look he’s working—the pressed pants, the polished shoes, and the tailored white shirt. He probably came from the office. By contrast, I’m in jeans, a T-shirt, and a ball cap.
He flashes me a grin. “Two in a row, man. That’s the way to do it.”
Hmm. I’m not picking up on a prankster vibe. I peer around. “Did you bring a bag of skittles? You’ll give me some then say you licked them all?”
He pulls a face like that’s ridic. “Who has time for that?”
“Fair point.”
I glance at the yellow truck. “Did you hire a stripper to jump out of a giant taco while wielding a starter spanking kit?”
Patrick scoffs. “Starter? I’d figured advanced for you. Also, don’t try to guess my next move. This won’t end. Ever. And you don’t want it to.”
Truth. We’ve played so many pranks on each other over the years that it’s our love language. “But when I can predict your next move, I win the round,” I say, seizing a chance to take control of the game. I do like control—almost as much as I love winning.
“Fair enough,” Patrick says, then clears his throat, nodding to the nearby truck. “In all seriousness, the owner of Ruby’s Taco Truck loves you. I had lunch here the other day, and you came up. Hope you don’t mind if we skip the Maddox rec and go here? The tacos are huge. You only need one.”
Boom. I spot my opening. “Hold on. You just reminded me I forgot to reply to Maddox’s last text.”
I grab my phone, and type out a quick message and send it, but not to my agent.
Rejoining the conversation, I tell Patrick, “Tacos sound great. Just make sure it’s big enough for me.”
“That’s what she said,” he quips without missing a beat.
I smirk, feeling smug. “Check your texts, asshole.”
He does, and his eyes widen as he lets out a long “Fuuuuuck” as he reads my note to him:You’re going to say this in five seconds.
I blow on my fingernails. “Don’t forget I play to win.”
“You bastard,” he mutters.
“You mean you fucking steely-eyed, brilliant bastard who just schooled you in your game?”
“Yes,” he grumbles, then adds, “I’m not worthy.”
“That is true. But I’ll treat you to tacos anyway.”
We reach the truck, which features an illustration of a Chihuahua holding a big taco. “Is that the owner’s dog?”
Patrick nods. “Yup. Roman’s pup is Ruby. She has a dog bed attached on the side of the truck. That way she won’t get in the way of the food, but she can hang with Roman.”
I walk around the truck, smiling when I spot the cute min-pin critter sleeping in a comfy-looking bed. I snap a shot of the truck and send it to Milo in New York. He’s obsessed with his pooch too, and his dog goes to work with him every day at his bike shop.
When I return to Patrick, he says, “Roman will probably want a selfie with you. You cool with that?”
“Always,” I say.
“Good. I figured the team would be happy as well, since they love your good-guy-about-town image. They released some shots of you from that charity thing you did the other week.”
I don’t follow that stuff too closely, but I knowMaddox does, and if there were a problem, he’d have told me. Still, I’m curious. “What sort of shots?”