“I probably should’ve asked if you liked sushi before, but—uh . . . do you like sushi? Or we can go grab Mexican . . . if you like Mexican food.”

And fucking fuck me. How is he even more endearing like this? He just always has this air of confidence following him around like cologne. Even on the field while people are booing or in the conference room when reporters are grilling him, he never seems off balance. So seeing him stumble over his words, it makes me feel like I might be getting a glance at the real Quinton, not the practiced facade he puts on so well.

“First of all, I love sushi, this is perfect. Second, what kind of person doesn’t like Mexican food?” The thought of people not liking the culinary gift of the gods honestly offends me. “You’re in Colorado now, Howard. This is the home of Qdoba and Chipotle, where we have strived to get as much burrito in our mouths in the shortest amount of time. It’s an institution!”

I don’t mean for my voice to rise, but if there is one thing I’m undeniably passionate about, it’s tacos.

“Damn, killer! I’m on your side, no need to attack.” He drops the menu on the tiled tabletop and holds his hands in front of him, surrendering to my salsa-infused indignation.

I bite the inside of my cheek to stop the smile that’s trying to overtake my face, but it’s useless. I’m defenseless when it comes to playful Quinton. Lucky for me, though, before I can giggle or do something equally as mortifying, the waiter approaches the table.

“Mr. Howard, you’re back!” the middle-aged man with a fantastic handlebar mustache says. “Do you want your usual?”

“Bobby, my man.” Quinton shakes his hand. “I do, but I’m not sure what my friend wants.”

There’s that word again. “Friend.” Blah.

Bobby turns his attention to me. His eyes are wide, but his smile is wider. “Oh yes, you brought a friend today! Can I get you something to drink?”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to order something with sake. But I’m still scarred from the other night and will not be indulging in alcohol of any kind around Quinton.

“Can I have a Diet Coke?” I scan the menu, making sure they have my go-to order. “And I’ll have a rainbow roll, please.”

Bobby nods without writing down the order and takes our menus. Now, this would normally make me pretty nervous, but something about his mustache reassures me. I don’t think you can be anything but dependable with a handlebar mustache that thick. He walks away, calling out his hellos to an older couple sitting in the opposite corner of the restaurant.