Fake Date, Real Fate
Chapter 166: Street Food & Surrender

Chapter 166: Street Food & Surrender

We were barely out of the driveway when I turned to Adrien, still half-smiling. "I can’t believe my dad actually let me come with you."

Adrien looked over, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting casually on my thigh. "Why wouldn’t he?"

I gave him a look. "You asked to take me away for three nights. My dad’s still pretending I’m sixteen and allergic to men."

He arched a brow. "You’re a grown woman, Isabella. It’s normal."

"Tell that to the man with a shovel and access to horror films."

Adrien smirked. "He loves you. And he knows you’re in good hands."

"Good hands? My dad probably thinks your hands are too good, considering you look like you own half the city," I muttered, but a smile tugged at my lips. I leaned back, enjoying the hum of the engine.

He huffed a laugh.

"I miss Ivy already," I said.

Adrien glanced over. "Already?"

"She’s a baby!" I said. "What if Leo forgets to feed her? What if he teaches her to bark at squirrels carrying tiny briefcases or—God forbid—makes her wear a tiny beret and start an social account dedicated to canine existentialism?"

Adrien laughed—head tilted back, full-bodied and unrestrained. That rare, flutter-in-my-stomach kind of laugh.

"An existentialist puppy?" he said. "I’d follow that account. ’Today I chased the tail. But what, truly, is the tail? A part of me, or a separate entity I’m destined to pursue but never conquer?’"

I swatted his arm, trying not to grin. "Don’t give him ideas! Leo would absolutely do that. He’d quote Sartre and make her stare dramatically into puddles."

Adrien reached down and gave my thigh a soft squeeze. "Bella, my love... she’s in safe hands. Your dad’s a vet. Leo would have to try really hard to mess that up."

"He once gave my goldfish Coke instead of water."

There was a beat of silence.

"Ivy’s in safe hands," he repeated, firmer this time.

We cruised down the quiet road, trees blurring into a soft summer green as Adrien’s hand was still warm on my thigh, his thumb tracing lazy circles against my thigh.

We hadn’t even driven five minutes when I spotted it.

A food truck parked just off the road near a little scenic turnout, its faded signage barely legible, but the smell wafting from it? Heavenly.

"Oh my God, they have cotton candy. And tater tots." I gasped, straightening in my seat. "Stop the car."

"There—pull over!" I pointed out the window like we were being tailed by the FBI.

He followed my gaze to a little roadside food stand, glittery lights framing a spinning cotton candy machine and—bless the gods of comfort food—a fryer loaded with golden, glorious tater tots.

"No," he said instantly, like I’d asked to jump out of a moving vehicle.

I blinked. "What do you mean no?"

"I don’t know where that cart’s been," he said flatly. "The sugar could be expired. The sticks could be contaminated. The vendor could be running a front for an underground black market. I’m not taking chances."

I folded my arms. "Adrien. It’s not─" I sighed. "I will personally taste test it for poison, okay? Come on, you’ve never lived until you’ve had fresh tater tots with strawberry cotton candy. They cancel each other out. It’s science."

"You just made that up."

"Correct. But I still want it."

"I don’t think that’s—Isabella." His voice dropped when I opened the door. "Princess. That’s street food. You want to eat food by a guy with no gloves?"

I gasped. "How dare you. The man has no gloves because his hands have been forged in the fires of deep-frying perfection. He’s built up an immunity. It’s called being a culinary badass."

Adrien killed the engine, the sudden silence amplifying the chirping of crickets and the cheerful whir of the cotton candy machine. He sighed, a long, suffering sound that I’d come to adore. With the resigned air of a king being asked to inspect the peasants’ latrines, he unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of the car.

"Fine," he said, his voice tight with disapproval as he locked the vehicle. "But if you get botulism, I’m saying ’I told you so’ at your bedside."

"Noted," I chirped, already halfway to the truck.

The vendor was a jolly-looking man in his late fifties with a magnificent white mustache that seemed to defy gravity. He beamed at me as I approached. "What can I get for ya, miss?"

"One large order of tater tots, please. Extra crispy. And a big pink cloud of cotton candy."

"Coming right up!"

Adrien appeared at my shoulder, radiating an aura of sterile wealth that was hilariously out of place. He scanned the truck, his eyes narrowing on a small smudge on the plexiglass barrier. "Do you have a food handling license?" he asked the vendor, his tone dangerously polite.

The man, whose name tag read ’Frank’, just chuckled. "Got one from the state right here, son," he said, tapping a framed certificate. "Been serving on this road for twenty years. Ain’t poisoned nobody yet."

I shot Adrien a triumphant look. He ignored me, reaching into his coat and pulling out his wallet. As Frank handed me a paper boat overflowing with golden-brown tots and a fluffy pink confection on a cardboard cone, Adrien extended a sleek, black credit card.

Frank squinted at it. "Sorry, son. Cash only." He gestured to a hand-painted sign taped to the counter.

A slow, wicked grin spread across my face. I reached into my back pocket and pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill, smoothing it out before handing it to Frank. "Keep the change," I said grandly.

Adrien looked like he’d just been told his entire stock portfolio had been converted into hamster bedding. He followed me back to the car, watching me as if I were handling radioactive material.

Once inside, I peeled off a piece of cotton candy and turned toward him.

"Open your mouth."

He raised a brow. "Are you feeding me sugar from the hands that just touched an oily tray?"

"Don’t be dramatic, Mr. Germaphobe." I said, wiggling the fluff in front of him. "You’re about to taste the fluff of childhood and freedom. Say ahh."

"I am not saying—"

"Ahhh," I said dramatically, waving the sugar in front of his mouth.

He was still forming the protest on his lips when I pushed the fluffy pink cloud past them.

He froze, his entire body going rigid. His jaw, which had been set in a line of stubborn disapproval, was now forced to accommodate the rapidly dissolving sugar. His eyes, widened in shock and shot me a look that could have frozen lava. I held my breath, waiting for the explosion.

Slowly, reluctantly, he chewed. His expression shifted from outrage to confusion, and then to something unreadable. A flicker of... something. And then he swallowed it.

I grinned. "See? You like it."

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned closer, caught my fingers gently, and licked the lingering sticky sweetness from my fingertips.