4. Winnifred
H igh on adrenaline, I pulled into my parking spot extra early this morning.
It felt like I’d been hit with laughing gas like I was getting a wisdom tooth out today. You know, minus all the drooling and the high confessions about stealing your mothers cash or losing your virginity on prom night.
Today was day one of my new life. Last night I laid on my floor with my notes app open on my phone. I drafted a new note labeled ‘Winnifred Meadows 2.0’. Because from this day forward- well, technically last night forward- the old Winnie is dead. That’s right, ladies and gents. I am made anew. My alter ego- Wendy is now out. Not really, of course. But I had recently watched the shining and when Winnifred on there was asked if she was Winnie or Freddi and she replied with ‘Wendy’ I did get a little excited. That being said if any debt collectors start calling me I’ll be sure to let them know the old Winnie can’t come to the phone right now. Cause she’s dead.
Approximately thirty minutes after I set all of my stuff up, my dough resting in the fridge and my pipers all cleaned and laid out ready for me, that big green truck across the way pulled in.
Crew Wells. The one, the only, man who every time I looked at him felt like a giant stub to my pinkie toe. The first man I’d given my number to after my break up, but certainly not the first man to disappoint me by making me feel invaluable. And I doubt he’d be the last. A real shame considering he had the looks of a disheveled movie star and could certainly flirt like one too.
I watched as he climbed out of his truck, a dark green almost gray Colorado truck that matched him perfectly. All Earth tones and lean, strong muscles. He wore shorts today, not much of a surprise there. It gets pretty hot in my truck despite the autumn chill and I’d imagine even more so in his, where the grill is always on and all his hot air fills the place up. The only surprise being his shorts were shorter than usual, showing off these thick, meaty thighs that looked entirely comfortable to relax back in. My eyes eventually trailed back upward and the image of him being a sexy gladiator was squashed by one of his many, and I do mean many, Hawaiian shirts. This one had pineapples and parrots on it.
See, this was my dilemma. Fact- Crew Wells is incredibly attractive. Fact- He has the body that most men would actually dream of. Also fact- he wears ugly Hawaiian shirts ninety nine percent of the time and it completely ruins the images in my head where he is a hot pirate or a rogue wild man living among the wilderness. First time I saw him in one I thought it was cute. Charming or whatever. But then I got the side of Crew I hadn’t known existed.
After that baseball game I sat around for what felt like an eternity waiting on a call or a text. Anything from him signaling he was still interested in me. Or even if he wasn’t, that he’d at least warn a girl. But nothing came in, and I genuinely wondered if maybe I gave him the wrong number on there. Maybe he lost the note entirely. What if he’s out there now, searching for it in the wind like a lost lonely man waiting for the beacon of fate to shine upon him.
Contrary to my belief, I was wrong. I brought my new business, all hopes and dreams and a whole lot of science and baking into this parking lot begging the universe for open arms. What I got back was him straight up ignoring my flirtatious hello- which I was going to follow up with a wondering of why he never called or texted but never had the chance. Because he walked away without another word.
Now here we were. Three years later and still glaring at each other from across a parking lot. We’d probably be old and gray, our crow’s feet forming more so into dinosaur feet wrinkles, waving our canes at each other and throwing sugar free Jello across the way. Actually, no. We wouldn’t. Because in fifty years’ time Crew Wells would still be here and I would be back in sweet home Alabama.
Which is why, as much as it pains me, I can accept the fact that I am about to do something that I had never accomplished before. Attempt small talk with my mortal enemy. It was for the greater good, my greater good. And if I had my own selfish reasons…then so be it. A girl had to do what a girl had to do.
I hopped down the back of my trailer, casually strolling over to his in my green jumpsuit and pink converse. The closer I got, I could hear his muttering and humming. Phrases like ‘where did I put that- wait, no. I need to turn on- shoot did I leave my truck running’ were mixed in with…was that Hey There Delilah he was singing?
“You’re here early.” I announced, filing down on the usual shortness of my tone until it was as fine as powdered sugar.
Crew turned to me, his once busy albeit relaxed facial expressions forming into a look he reserved all for me. He brows dipped and eyes untrusting. “I usually just give you a heads start because I feel bad for you.”
“Really?” My tone dripped sugary iced tea. “Is that why my line wraps around your truck every night?”
A slight exaggeration. But still, I knew it got a rile out of him when he finally took his eyes from over my shoulder to straight on the bridge of my nose.
“Probably because you’re drugging them into thinking they should come back.”
“If that was the case, I would have poisoned you long ago.”
Crew grumbled an incoherent reply back, something about laxatives in my coffee, and attempted to light the grill in front of him. The ignitor let out it’s familiar tick sound like the one I had in my fancy apartment kitchen, only it wasn’t actually lighting.
“Come on,” he urged the grill and the deep growl in his throat rammed itself straight to my chest. The beating muscle beneath there hasn’t quite picked up on how much we hate this man yet.
“Need some help?” I offered, watching as the blue flame stubbornly refused to pop up.
Crews hands fell from the ignitor and stared up at me. “I never want to owe you a favor.”
“I think you still owe me a favor for that time I let you borrow my spatula that you never returned.”
His mouth drooped. “We agreed to never discuss that again. And I paid fifty dollars for it.”
I smiled at the memory. Apparently, the handle on his very last spatula broke off mid-rush hour. I believed it was an excuse to see me.
“Easiest money I’ve ever made.”
He ruffed a deep sound in his throat, still rattling the knob of the grill until a ‘whoosh’ comes up, a blue to orange flame following the noise. “There.”
He reached above him, arm stretched out to grab a Mauviel copper pot above him. I couldn’t help it when my eyes trailed a little lower than his face. Low enough to see his Hawaiian shirt rising up to show a sliver of toned, lean muscle and a small trail of dark hair receding down to his-
“Why are you still here?”
My eyes shot back up to his face. Crew glared down at the pan on his grill but the question was clearly directed at me.
“I just thought I’d say good morning.”
He looked up at that, one eyebrow raised higher than the other.
“I brought doughnuts.” I lifted the small white paper bag tucked behind my back. He stared at me like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“What?” I let out a dry laugh. “I can’t be a friendly work neighbor?”
Even I can’t take myself too seriously on that end. From day one Crew and I both made it our missions to take each other down. And not in a fun, sexy way.
“You threatened to poison me yesterday.” He pointed out.
“Yeah and now I wish I actually did it,” I crossed my arms, the doughnut bag following my movement. “Maybe it would fix your crabby attitude.”
Crew ignored me, his hand wrapped around the handle of the buttered pan, swirling it around in circles until everything is covered. He reached to his right for a cutting board, pulling out two large sticks of celery and dicing them lightning fast. His knife cut across the vegetable with such speed and accuracy that it was like watching Marie Curie explore uranium's rays.
Funny…he diced the celery. He didn’t just chop it into small slices. But he had tiny cubes of he was sliding from the cutting board to the pan, they landed in with a sharp sizzle. My eyes zeroed in on his every movement, cataloging the knife he was using, how long the celery sat in the butter before he lifted a hand to grab a bottle of unlabeled seasoning. I breathed in deeply through my nose as he scattered it onto the pan. Paprika, salt, pepper, a touch of brown sugar, garlic and onion powder definitely. Something else too…what was that?
I looked down at the celery that was changing in color as it soaked in the spices around it.
“So, do you dice those that way for texture or…?”
“No, it’s to release the fragrance so they combine together more- wait a second.” He turned from the grill in front of him and narrowed his eyes. “You’re spying on enemy lines.”
“What?” I laughed. A clearly fake one judging by how high pitches and squeaky it came out. “What are you talking abou-”
“The competition.” He snapped his fingers as if to say ‘eureka!’ I added it to the list of icks that I used to keep me cold at night when the thoughts of Crews body lurked their way in. “You can’t think of an entree, so you’re going to steal something from me.”
Shit.
My heart rammed against my ribcage, battering around the walls. Truth was, last night in all of my wonderful excitement- and vast overconfidence- I made the mistake of not reading any fine print on the Food truck competition flier. But there, in not bold enough lettering, said all entrees and desserts had to be original recipes. Original. Meaning I couldn’t just throw together a memorized fancy version of your basic chicken alfredo. Which was a big, big problem.
Naturally, as a lover of black and white instructions, I am excellent at following a recipe. Give me any recipe, no matter how challenging, and as long as I have all of the details and I understand the chemistry, I’ll nail it. Every time. In baking at least. Don’t get me wrong, I can cook. I made a good meat loaf. And pulled pork. And chicken dressing. But that’s about it. Basically, anything that I hadn’t watched my nana make weekly on the farm growing up was out of my wheel house.
So I did something I was never a fan of, but in all areas of science was required. I experimented.
I ran to the closest corner store, stocked up on some basics, and decided Winnie 2.0 is an excellent cook who can learn to have fun and experiment with food. And I really did try. It turned out that pulled pork meat loaf was horrible. Not my fault.
After spending hours in my kitchen, I came to a conclusion at two am. I was going to do whatever it took to get that competition money. Even if it meant doing the unthinkable- going to Crew Wells. Not for help, of course. I wasn’t that desperate. For theft though, yes. I was merely going to ‘borrow’ one of his many, many, original recipes for the competition and boom, never use it again.
Turns out he was smarter than I gave him credit for, picking up on it so fast. I fained a gasp, clutching my pearls that weren’t there. “I was not, besides if I was-”
“You are.”
“IF I WAS, it wouldn’t even matter, it’s not like you signed up.” I scoffed.
Crew smiled. And for most people maybe this would be a good sign. But Crew Wells smiling at me meant something lurked around the corner of it. He was luring me in with the promises of puppies and candy in a white van, I could feel it.
His smile grew further as he sense my concern. “I did sign up. Yesterday actually, so if I were you I would worry about yourself and start figuring out someone else to rob.”
My heart picked up even more. No doubt my blood pressure levels rising higher and higher. Crew signed up? He can’t, he can’t sign up. It’s going to ruin everything.
As much as I hated Crew, not even I can ignore how good he is in a kitchen. I may have desserts down to a science but Crew takes cooking and makes entrees that people literally would sing songs about. I hear praise around him all day every day, and I know for a fact his mom is an incredible baker. My ex roommate once tried a piece of her coconut cream pie and said she would literally sell her soul for just one more bite. The knowledge of that mixed with the fact that he is already an excellently talented cook…I can feel my dreams shifting into the wind. My chances of moving home are diminishing one by one. I’m losing it.
“Why would you sign up?” I ran my fingers through my hair, only they get caught in my flower claw clip, causing it to slip out of its hold. I’m too psyched out to fix it. “Why, why would you…you don’t need the money.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You have a 6 figure set up, I am working out of a beat up trailer. You are clearly doing just fine.”
“Are you nervous, doll? Cause I’ll win?” he smiles
He was winning. And he knew it, cocky little…
I ground down on my teeth. “I don’t get nervous.” My racing heart disagreed but I tell her to hush.
His smirk grew like he knew everything going through my head. “Then maybe you should go back to your own truck and find something original to make.”
His emphasizing on original made me want to take a nut cracker to his unmentionables.
“Oh, I will.” I ground out. “And believe me, it’s going to be the best thing anyone has ever put in their mouths.” I took a couple steps closer so our eyes were inches apart, my chest coming dangerously close to his. He eyed me and took it one step further like a secret game of chicken between us. I bit down on my lower lip before forcing out my words with the fury of a hundred fires. “And when I win, I’m taking my money and my parking spot and rubbing it gloriously in your face.”
“I can’t wait.” He smiled.
I turned on my heel, jumped out of his trailer and slammed his doors shut. Only they didn’t shut…they did that sort of awkward thing where they have to be latched so it just bounces back at an uncomfortable pace
Crew Wells was going down. In every possible, conceivable way. And I would be the one to do the job…as soon as I figured out how to cook something original.