Prologue #3
“I’m not glaring,” Gabriel said. But he was. And he knew exactly why.
“Is it because of that cute guy?”
“The cute . . . what?” Gabriel exclaimed.
Ren rolled his eyes. “You know he’s cute. I’ve seen you staring at him. You know, when it doesn’t look like you’d like to punch him in the face.”
“No.” Gabriel shook his head vehemently.
“I’m just saying. So he’s got the same name as you. This is a big city. Lots of food trucks. You guys could co-exist peacefully, if you wanted to. But clearly you want to get under his skin.”
“He got under mine first,” Gabriel insisted.
Did he completely believe that? Well, mostly.
He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Sean that he was worried about the problems of having the same name.
It would have been so much easier if Sean had just recognized that right off the bat, and agreed to change his.
But he hadn’t, and he clearly had no intention of changing his mind.
Gabriel was just going to have to change it for him.
Right after the lunch rush, he enacted the first step of his plan. He pulled out his phone, quickly composing a tweet, challenging the food truck community to vote on which On a Roll truck was better.
Maybe, Gabriel thought, it was a low blow. He was going to get more votes, because it was his account, and because he’d spent so much longer in the community. He was well-known, even if most of that reputation had been earned when he was Nonna’s Kitchen on Wheels. Sean was brand new.
Maybe it was time to remind Sean that he was brand new.
Almost immediately, as he settled down outside, on one of the tables set in the festival clearing, to eat his plate of meatballs—yes, even he avoided carbs sometimes—he started seeing retweets and replies, and just like he’d expected, every single comment sided with him.
And maybe he stoked the fire a bit higher by responding to some of them, agreeing with a lot of the comments, often giving a whole string of praise emojis after.
He loved his customers. They were so fucking loyal, Gabriel was touched by it.
This was the kind of thing that Sean needed to see so he’d understand that this battle wasn’t one he could win.
Gabriel was always going to come out on top.
And maybe he got carried away and tagged Sean on a few of the replies. Maybe he shouldn’t have called him an imposter.
His finger hovered over the tweet, wondering if he should actually delete that one. But before he could, a shadow crossed over his vision, blocking the bright California sunshine.
Gabriel glanced up and supposed that he shouldn’t be so surprised to see Sean standing there, a tight-lipped glare on his face, his arms crossed over that perfectly pristine white apron.
He wanted to mess up that apron.
He wanted to take it and tie Sean up with it and defile it.
Maybe Ren was right after all. This guy had really gotten under his skin. Maybe if Gabriel hadn’t been so attracted to him, he could’ve let the name thing go.
But probably not.
Gabriel already knew he was the kind of guy who didn’t “let things go.” It was the Italian in him.
“I can’t believe you did this,” Sean said, gesturing towards Gabriel’s phone. “Couldn’t you just leave well enough alone?”
“No?” It was like this guy didn’t know Gabriel at all; and then it occurred to Gabriel that he really didn’t. “Listen,” Gabe said. “I’m Italian. I’m loud. I’m obnoxious. I’m passionate about stuff I care about. I definitely am not good at compartmentalizing shit.”
“And?” Sean said.
“What I mean is that I was here first. You’re new. This whole Twitter thing proves it. Why can’t you just change your name?”
“Why should I?” Sean challenged.
“I changed mine. And it really wasn’t a big deal. I don’t get why you’re so determined not to. It’d probably help you, too, to not be tied to my obnoxious Italian ass for all time.”
Sean didn’t say anything right away. Just stared at Gabriel like he had two heads. And even though he was clearly pissed off, yeah, Ren was definitely right. He was cute.
Gabriel didn’t want to think it, because Sean probably hated him now.
“I just don’t want to, okay? I have my reasons,” Sean finally said. “And,” he added, his voice going cold and hard, “I’d appreciate it if you could take that whole thread down.”
“Oh,” Gabriel said innocently, “is it making you look bad?”
Sean’s mouth dropped open in shock.
“Actually, it’s making you look bad,” Sean said.
Gabriel had just stabbed one of the meatballs on his plate with a plastic fork.
One of his moist, delicious, red sauce-covered meatballs.
He froze, meatball speared by the fork, and felt his brain go blank with frustrated rage.
Sean didn’t want to tell him why he wouldn’t change his name and thought that Gabriel was making himself look bad?
He’d never pretended to have anything other than a terrible temper.
He was Italian, wasn’t he?
Truthfully, he was actually pretty laid-back most of the time, but when he lost his chill, he usually lost it big-time.
This time was no exception to that particular rule.
Later, he wouldn’t even remember throwing the meatball and watching with gloating satisfaction as it slammed into Sean’s chest, emblazoning his red logo with an imprint of greasy red sauce. It hit the ground with a juicy plop, the only sound that Gabriel could hear over the roaring in his ears.
Sean stared at him in shock, then looked down at the red smear on his chest, and then at the meatball on the ground, and then back up to Gabriel.
“You . . . you . . . you,” he stuttered.
“Yeah,” Gabriel said. “Now we both look bad.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tony approaching the scene, trepidation written all over his face.
“What the fuck is going on?” he demanded.
“It turns out that not only are my balls delicious, they make excellent missiles,” Gabriel said.
Sean’s brows slammed together and he looked completely, totally, incoherently pissed. Gabriel thought that if he’d been in Sean’s shoes, he wouldn’t have felt much different.
But maybe, maybe, it would be enough to convince Sean that it wasn’t worth it to tangle with him.
Sean nudged the meatball with the toe of his black Converse. “You’re disgusting,” he muttered.
“I mean . . .” Tony trailed off.
“Don’t you dare say he’s right,” Gabriel said to his friend. Maybe he’d crossed the line, but if he got what he wanted out of it, it might be worth it.
“I’m right,” Sean said, and then, suddenly, his blue eyes were pinning Gabriel in place, not just flat and pissed off, but blazing hot with passion and indignity, “and if you think this is going to scare me off, you’d better rethink that whole plan.”
After Sean turned and stormed off—probably to try to get the stain off his apron, which Gabriel could tell him was going to be a total waste of time—Tony turned to him. “What the fuck were you thinking?” he asked. “He’s not . . . he’s not a bad guy, Gabe.”
“Are you really going to vouch for that guy?” Gabriel asked, rolling his eyes. “Really?”
“I’m just saying he’s not the enemy. Maybe you guys don’t need to be enemies.”
“That ship’s already sailed,” Gabriel said. “And you know it.”