Healthy food

The drive stretched on for at least fifteen minutes, and I spent every second of it sulking.

Not gracefully, either.

Not in the mature, brooding way that might make me look mysterious and tragic.

No, this was full-fledged, arms-crossed, slouched-in-the-seat, dramatic exasperation.

I was a professional athlete, a grown woman, a 28-year-old global football star—and yet, here I was, pouting like a kid being forced to eat vegetables.

Meanwhile, Lydia sat beside me in the driver's seat, completely unshaken, her posture impeccably straight, her hands positioned perfectly at ten and two, and her expression as unreadable as ever.

She didn't sigh, didn't roll her eyes, didn't even seem remotely affected by my very obvious misery.

She was so professional it was almost insulting.

I glared at her. "You know, I bet you were born in a suit."

She didn't even glance at me. "I'm ignoring you."

"Seriously," I continued, "I can picture it. Little baby Lydia, fresh out of the womb, wearing a tiny blazer, with a clipboard in one hand and a planner in the other, glaring at the doctor for being off schedule."

She exhaled through her nose, which I was going to count as a victory.

I stretched, tilting my head toward her, letting a smug grin creep onto my lips.

"You ever do anything unplanned, Whitmore?"

Her grip on the wheel tightened slightly.

Too slightly.

Too controlled.

Which meant I was onto something.

I grinned wider. "What about love life, huh? You got some passionate, chaotic romance hidden under all that structure?"

Nothing.

Not even a twitch.

She ignored me so hard I could've ceased to exist entirely.

I gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to my chest. "Oh my God. You're hiding something."

"Loud noises won't make me answer," she said flatly.

I leaned closer, resting my chin on my hand.

"You've never been in love, have you?"

"That's too personal."

"Have you ever even dated?"

"That's too personal."

I scoffed. "What, are you a robot? Do you have any life outside of color-coded schedules?"

She exhaled sharply, but still didn't look at me.

I grinned.

"You're actually the coldest person I've ever met," I said. "Even Carmen looks kinda fun once in a while."

"Good for her," Lydia replied smoothly.

I squinted at her, studying.

"You have, haven't you?" I mused. "Had a thing for someone?"

"Too personal."

"Had your heart broken?"

"Too personal."

"Do you even have a heart, Lydia?"

She tilted her head slightly, finally glancing at me.

"You seem very interested in me."

I smirked. "I like a challenge."

She went back to ignoring me.

I leaned back, crossing my arms again, tapping my foot against the floor of the car.

"Okay, fine," I said after a moment. "If I can't get anything fun, then at least tell me your age."

She sighed, adjusting her grip on the wheel.

"Twenty-six."

I blinked.

Then blinked again.

"Wait," I said slowly. "Twenty-six?"

"Yes."

I turned to face her fully, jaw slightly dropped.

"Hold on. Hold on. You're younger than me?"

"Clearly."

My brain short-circuited.

"You—" I pointed at her, processing. "You're two years younger than me."

"Correct."

I let out a slow, disbelieving exhale, shaking my head.

"Unbelievable," I muttered. "I'm older. That means you should be respecting me, Whitmore."

She didn't even react.

"You should be treating me with deference," I continued, sitting up straighter. "Respecting my wisdom, my experience, my right to eat whatever the hell I want."

Still nothing.

I huffed, shaking my head again. "I'm 28 years old. I should be able to choose my own meals like a—"

"You're eating healthy," Lydia cut in, voice smooth and final.

I gawked at her. "Oh my God. You love being in control, don't you?"

She gave me a sharp, knowing glance.

"You have no idea."

I stared at her.

Then, after a beat—

I grinned.

"Well," I said, tilting my head, "this just got interesting."

Lydia didn't flinch.

But for half a second, I swore I saw the tiniest flicker of amusement in her eyes.

The car rolled to a smooth stop in front of a small, charming restaurant tucked away in a quiet street, far from the usual high-end places sponsors dragged me to.

I frowned, suspicious.

This wasn't some overpriced, soulless chain with sleek minimalist décor and tiny portions that left you starving.

No, this place had character.

The warm glow of hanging lanterns illuminated the large windows, where people sat comfortably in cozy wooden booths, chatting over steaming plates of food. T

he exterior was lined with lush green vines, and the air smelled like a blend of spices, fresh herbs, and something rich and buttery sizzling on a grill.

This was not what I expected from Lydia "eat like a robot" Whitmore.

I narrowed my eyes at her as we stepped out of the car.

"What's the catch?" I asked, crossing my arms.

Lydia adjusted her blazer, completely composed. "No catch."

I squinted at her. "You're taking me somewhere that actually smells like real food."

She simply walked ahead, heels clicking softly against the pavement.

"Let me show you," she said, glancing over her shoulder, "that healthy food can be good."

I hesitated.

Then sighed, following her inside.

The interior was just as nice as the outside—warm wood paneling, soft yellow lights, shelves lined with freshly baked bread, jars of infused oils, and tiny potted herbs placed along each table.

It felt homey, the kind of place where the food was made with actual care, not just for aesthetics.

A waiter greeted us with a friendly nod and guided us toward a window-side booth, setting down two glasses of chilled lemon water.

I slid into my seat, glancing around at the plates of food passing by—grilled chicken with roasted vegetables, salmon with quinoa, colorful bowls of grain and greens topped with fresh avocado and citrus dressing.

This was healthy food?

Lydia barely glanced at the menu before setting it down.

"I've already ordered ahead," she said.

I raised a brow. "Bossy."

She didn't react.

A few minutes later, the waiter returned with our food, setting down a plate in front of me—

And damn, it looked good.

Perfectly grilled chicken, seasoned with what smelled like garlic, lemon, and rosemary, resting on a bed of roasted sweet potatoes and crispy kale. A side of hummus, fresh cucumbers, and warm homemade pita bread completed the plate.

I stared at it.

Then at Lydia.

Then back at the plate.

This was healthy?

I picked up my fork, still skeptical, and took a bite—

And—

Holy. Hell.

It was delicious.