Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
The look that passed between Richard and Dick made my skin crawl. But why? They were just being protective of their family, right?
"Another time," Richard said smoothly.
As James led me away, I was almost tempted to repeat what I just heard Dick and Richard talking about, but I worried he’d read too much into it. After all, James was literally looking for problems. For all I knew, Richard and Dick were simply hoping to help their new in-law with her business. It would be her call if she wanted to accept their offer or not.
For the moment, I let myself simply be grateful that he was here to save me from awkward encounters of the Dick variety—that we could both agree to handle our mutual attraction like adults.
“Are we really going to dinner?” I asked.
“If you’d like.”
I was about to protest, but my stomach betrayed me by growling.
“Your stomach has spoken,” he said. “I know the perfect place.”
Half an hour later and after a bumpy ride in James’ truck across snow-covered roads, we pulled up to a fast-food Mexican place called Terry’s Tiny Tacos.
21
EMMA
“Surprise,” James said. “The reviews online will tell you this is only a three star establishment, but the pictures were fantastic. Personally, I think it’s worth a shot.”
“You drove us half an hour to a three star taco shop?” I asked.
James drummed his fingers on the wheel, smiling at me from beneath a black wool beanie that made his eyes seem dangerously bright and inviting. “It sounded like a better idea until you put it that way.”
“Lucky for you, I happen to be very curious to know just how tiny these tacos are. So I will allow you to take me into this place.”
James hopped out of his side, shut the door, and then pulled my door open, extending a hand. “It’s icy. I’m going to have to insist you hold my hand the whole time.”
“Is that right?” I asked.
“That’s right,” James said, taking my hand and helping me out of the car.
It was cold, too, and James also had to insist that I huddle against him for warmth for the whole ten second walk from the truck to the front door. The inside smelled like grease and beef, which, under some circumstances might have been disgusting. Considering I was starving, it smelled like heaven.
I ordered myself a “tiny taco fiesta,” which was a sampler platter of fifteen tiny tacos, each smaller than the palm of my hand and loaded with precisely one bite’s worth of food.
James ordered a “tiny burrito bomb,” which was basically the same thing, except burrito style.
We took our seats on creaky barstools painted in a gaudy bright green, brown, and yellow color palette. The vinyl covering the seats was splintered from what I assumed were decades of tiny taco enjoyers.
“If nothing else,” I said, lifting my first tiny taco—beef, cheese, beans, and pickled cabbage. “These things are super cute.”
James lifted a tiny burrito and balanced it on the tip of his index finger. “Adorable,” he agreed. “But how do they taste?” he asked with a cocked eyebrow.
I took my first bite, chewed, and considered.
“Hmm,” I said. “Five stars for the tiny factor. Three stars for taste.”
James chewed his burrito, swallowed with a slight grimace, and nodded. “I’m no mathematician, but I’d say that puts us above a three star average. See? Not as bad as people said.”
I was hungry enough to deal with the mostly overcooked meat, slightly stale taco shells, and questionable ingredient combinations. I also had to admit I was having fun.
"So," I said, picking up my fourth tiny taco, "how did you even find this place?"
"Would you believe me if I said I have a sixth sense for questionable Mexican food?"
"Absolutely not. And if you did, I’d say your sixth sense was more of a curse for leading you to a place like this."
He grinned. "Fair enough. Truth is, I spent an hour this morning looking for the most ridiculous place I could find. Figured you could use a break from all that resort perfection."
"My hero," I said dryly, but something warm bloomed in my chest. He'd been thinking about me. Planning this.
"Enough about me and my talents,” he said. "How'd you get into wedding planning?"
"My parents, actually." I picked at the shell of my fifth taco. "Dad's a perfectionist who can't handle social interaction. Mom's a dreamer who can never follow through on details. So I ended up being the family organizer. Every event, every holiday—if it needed planning, it landed on my plate. I think my first official family job was a trip to Boone, North Carolina. I was twelve, and I got super into it. I called hotels, trail guides, and tourist destinations. I planned the whole thing on this giant poster board. Dad was worried about letting me handle it, but mom convinced him to give me a shot.”