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If she only knew how accurate that was.

CHAPTER7

VANESSA

The scent of sizzling meat and fresh herbs dances through the air as I lead Jack through the bustling food festival. Street lamps cast a warm glow over the vendor stalls, and my stomach growls at the sight of steaming dumplings.

"So this is how humans congregate for sustenance," Jack says, studying a food truck's menu with intense concentration.

I laugh, nudging his shoulder. "You make it sound like a science experiment. Haven't you been to a food festival before?"

"I find group eating customs fascinating." He tilts his head. "What's the protocol here? Do we sample everything?"

"That's the fun part." My fingers brush against his arm. "No rules. We just try whatever looks good."

A nearby vendor calls out, "Fresh tamales! Best in Twin Oaks!"

"Those smell incredible," I say, already moving toward the stall. "Want to start there?"

Jack follows, his movements precise as always. "I trust your judgment on local cuisine customs."

We order two tamales, and I watch his face as he takes his first bite. His eyes widen slightly.

"This combination of flavors is... unexpected. Pleasant."

"Just wait until you try the Korean fusion tacos." I point to another stall. "They do this amazing bulgogi-"

"You seem different tonight," he interrupts, studying my face with that intense focus I'm starting to find endearing rather than unnerving.

"Different how?"

"More relaxed. Your shoulders aren't as tense. Your smile reaches your eyes more frequently."

I pause, realizing he's right. The knot of anxiety that usually sits in my chest during dates has loosened. "Maybe I'm just hungry."

"No," he says. "I've observed you eating before. This is different."

"You know, most guys don't analyze my body language quite so thoroughly."

"Most guys are idiots." He says it with such matter-of-fact conviction that I burst out laughing.

"Can't argue with that." I grab his hand, surprising myself with the boldness. "Come on, those tacos aren't going to eat themselves."

The Korean fusion tacos are just as amazing as I remembered, but I'm finding it hard to focus on the food. Jack's gaze hasn't left me since we sat down at one of the rickety festival tables. He watches me like I'm some rare specimen, cataloging every movement.

"You have a very precise way of eating," he says, leaning forward. "You separate the components, sample each individually before combining them."

Heat creeps up my neck. "Are you seriously analyzing my eating habits?"

"Should I not?" His brow furrows. "I find your methods fascinating."

"Most people just... eat." I take another bite, suddenly self-conscious. "You're kind of intense, you know that?"

"Is that unfavorable?"

"No, it's..." I wipe my mouth with a napkin, buying time to find the right words. "Different. Most guys are either trying too hard to impress me or barely paying attention at all."

"And which would you prefer?"