Probably Jackie taking a break.

I turn and walk to the door, my step a little lighter. I don’t bother to check the peephole before I pull the door open with a smile.

But it’s not Jackie. It’s Lincoln, and he’s holding a takeout bag.

“Edward called me, worried that you hadn’t ordered lunch or left the room. I told him he didn’t need to report your every move to me . . . but I thought maybe you’d like to eat.”

I blink, staring at the bag as he raises it higher.

“Cocko Taco.”

“Did Cricket tell you it was my favorite?”

Lincoln shakes his head. “No. You told me once.”

“And you remembered?” A strange feeling pangs in my chest.

“I remember everything, Blue.”

We stand there for the longest moment, staring at each other in the doorway.

I bite down on my lip, because it’s on the tip of my tongue to say I do too.

Nineteen

Lincoln

“Can I come in?” I ask.

Whitney continues to stare at me, shock evident in her expression. I probably deserve to have her slam the door in my face, but thankfully she doesn’t.

“Only because you brought tacos.”

She turns and walks toward the marble slab table, leaving me standing in the doorway. I don’t waste time following behind her.

“If that’s what it takes . . .”

She glances over her shoulder at me with a raised brow. “Don’t push your luck, city boy.”

Her use of the nickname she gave me the night we met gives me hope that I haven’t completely fucked this up for good.

“Besides, they’re really my second favorite tacos, so don’t go letting your ego get out of control.”

I set the bag on the table and decide that this challenging version of Whitney is a hell of a lot more intriguing than the girl who let me have my way.

When I pull the tacos out of the bag—enough for about a dozen people because I hedged my bets by pretty much ordering the entire menu—she starts laughing.

“Seriously?”

“I wanted to make sure I got what you liked. Whatever we have left over, we can give to the staff. No one says no to tacos.”

Her gaze cuts up toward mine. “Thoughtful of you.”

But I don’t want to talk about employees or how they’re like family. In fact, I want to stay as far away from any topic that’s likely to have us tiptoeing around to avoid land mines.

“If Cocko Taco is second best, where are your favorites from?”

Whitney chooses two foil-wrapped tacos and a few napkins. “Torchy’s in Austin, Texas. You have to order the Trailer Park, served trashy. It’s life-changing.”

“Trashy?” I ask as I make my selections.

“With queso. If you don’t order it that way, you’re literally missing out on life. Fried chicken with queso is everything. And their guac.” She moans. “Seriously incredible.”

To anyone else, it might feel like inconsequential small talk, but to me, this conversation is the best I’ve had all day. I latch onto the information she gives me like it’s a golden nugget.