Page 142 of Face Off

None of them were promises. They were still more than silence, and I intended to make him feel every one.

Ryan reached the table first, distracted Cade with a complaint about biased scoring, then slipped one hand beneath the linen with the confidence of the barrio kid who had once lifted food from corner markets because stealing was easier than starving. Seconds later, the backup flask appeared between us, concealed against his palm.

He passed it to me without looking.

Cade was called away and I drank before giving it to Ryan and watched him place his mouth exactly where mine had been.

“That was disturbingly sexy,” I murmured.

His eyes met mine over the flask. “I’ve stolen far more valuable shit from scarier men. That was baby shit.”

“That information did not make it less sexy.”

The corner of his mouth lifted before he took another drink. “You want the bad boy, mamacita?”

“I’ve never denied that.”

Ryan leaned close enough for his breath to touch my ear. “I’ll remember that later.”

The connection between us remained complicated, frightening, and strong enough to survive every reason it should’ve died. Ryan believed he was giving me his body while keeping everything important safely behind the door.

11

Ryan

The ballroom had been rearranged while we were outside, the trivia tables replaced by long stainless-steel workstations covered in cutting boards, bowls, aprons, and enough ingredients to feed everyone staying at the castle.

A screen above the makeshift stage displayed: COUPLES COOKING CHALLENGE: STREET TACOS

I stopped inside the doorway. “Fuck yeah. My kind of food.”

Charm nearly walked into my back. “That might be the most enthusiasm you’ve shown for a scheduled activity.”

“This one involves meat, knives, fire and tacos. Finally, something designed for my Chicano ass.”

“It’s a fine Chicano ass.” I say and look at the spread. “There are pastel aprons.”

“I’ll survive.”

Charm surveyed the ingredients with growing interest. “Presentation matters.”

“It’s a taco.”

“It’s a competition.”

“My food tastes good. That’s the point.”

That confidence only applied to Mexican food. Those recipes lived in my hands and required no measuring, instructions, or respect for whatever bastardized version someone printed online. Everything else I cooked at home was meal prep built for strength instead of pleasure, heavy on protein and too low on flavor to deserve an opinion. Food outside my culture had never earned enough of my respect to make me learn how to cook it properly.

“Your food can taste good and look intentional.”

I looked at her. “Fancy-pants shit is your department.”

“Exactly.” She slipped her hand into mine and pulled me toward our station. “You handle the meat and fire. I’ll make sure it doesn’t look like you threw dinner onto a plate during intermission.”

“I do my best work under pressure.”

“And now your best work will have garnish.”