Page 107 of The True Garza

I must.

We vibe in silence for the ride. Beautiful silence. The kind of silence that feels like we’re having an entire conversation without uttering a word.

Until the copter starts lowering as it navigates toward a towering building. Lit up and dazzling in the night sky. A circular helipad protrudes from the roof of the building.

Minutes later, True deftly lands the copter onto the pad, the whipping blades above gradually slowing.

“What building is this?” I ask.

“Lotus Luxury Condominiums,” he answers distractedly as he focuses on shutting down the aircraft. “A friend owns it.”

“And we’re here because…?”

“Hnmh. You’re usually more fun than this.”

Maybe because I’m not trying to be fun. I’m trying to break things off with you.

As the hunk of metal quiets down, True unstraps himself, then leans across and helps me with mine.

“Don’t move. Lemme help you out.” He jumps out then jogs around to my side and opens the door. “Come on.”

I stare at his waiting arms. And,god, how I want to dive into them. “I’m fine. No need.”

I grip the handle by the door, swing both legs out, and start to step down. But I must’ve miscalculated the width of the step because, in a split second, I’m toppling forward. Right into True’s arms.

Hey, Subconscious, you did that shit on purpose, didn’t you? Traitor.

True’s arms around me are firm. Warm.Safe.

He takes two steps back with me, then sets me down. “Good?”

A touch embarrassed, I can only nod.

Brushing a tendril of hair from my face, he tells me, “You’re beautiful.”

So are you. “True—”

He stops me by stepping around me to shut my door. Then he opens the external baggage compartment and gets out a hardcase.

Next, my hand is in his as he pulls me along toward a set of white stairs that lead down from the helipad. He tugs me to the other side of the roof that affords a stunning vista of the Strip. At the edge of the railed roof is a wooden table and two chairs.

“Wait here.”

He lets go of my hand and sets the hardcase onto one of the chairs. Unlocks it, gets out a white tablecloth, then unfolds it and spreads it over the table. A small lantern comes out next, placed in the middle of the table. Then two sets of plates, cups, and cutlery. Two thermoses. The lunch bag with his name on it. A small pouch, from which he sprinkles what looks like rose petals all over the table and chairs.

All while I’m fightingsohard not to smile. Because whatthe hellis he doing?

When he’s finally done, he stands behind one of the chairs and motions for me to sit.

As I do, he explains, “I would’ve set this up in advance, but the copter would’ve fucked it all up.”

“This is adate, True.”

Sitting down, he replies, “I know.”

“You don’t take women on dates, remember?”

Ignoring that, he unzips the insulated lunch bag. “It’s not exactly Sunday dinner, but I had Mom cook us something with some extra love. I’ve got no idea what’s in here.”