Chapter 6
Granted, twelve-thirty on a Thursday afternoon isn’t typically The Green Robin’s busiest time of the week.
But looking around the empty dining room, I know something’s off. It’s never this dead—not unless there’s an actual funeral or wedding going on in town. Even then, we usually have some tourists filtering in, especially since tomorrow kicks of Memorial Day weekend.
Winona would be in fits if she saw this. Am I just that incompetent of a manager, or is there more going on here?
I approach Sam, who’s slumped at the hostess stand scrolling something on her phone. When the young woman sees me, she straightens and stuffs her device into the back pocket of her jeans. “Hi, Boss.”
I rub my temple. “Has it been like this since we opened?” I’ve been holed up in Winona’s office for hours, working on ideas for some summer promos and specials the Robin could run, as well as some initial ideas for the Fourth of July Festival. At Sunday’s meeting, Chloe assigned me to the food committee with Thomas Montrose, and we are both supposed to bring our thoughts to the next one tonight.
Sam plays with one of her dangling earrings. “We had a few of the regulars around eleven-fifteen, but yeah. Pretty dead. I think it has something to do with that food truck opening yesterday.”
Of course it does.
I blow out a steady stream of air, trying to not let my worries get the best of me like I did on Saturday. I still can’t believe I got so worked up, and in public, no less. There’s just something about Blake Moffitt that makes me forget that negative emotions do a person no good at all.
But it’s not just about our personal history, whatever Blake accused me of last weekend. It’s about how he parked his business nearly on my front lawn. Customers have to walk right past his truck to get to the Robin, and some are bound to be swayed by the delicious scent of frying cheese.
It has nothing to do with the actual quality of the sandwiches. None.
Although, fine, y’all, the sandwiches are amazing. If his offerings are anything like what he had available at the wedding, Blake’s got gourmet recipes—everything from The Classic to one with pimiento cheese and apple-cherry chutney and another with ham, gouda, and caramelized onions. It’s not surprising. He’s always been talented. I remember how he used to make me and Marilee gourmet pizzas on their backyard grill when we were pre-teens. And how he and Mare would see a recipe of something new to try on TV and recreate it, asking me to be the judge.
Cooking always seemed to make him happy.
But right now, his cooking is making me decidedly unhappy. And according to him, he doesn’t think it’s a big deal that he’s opening his business right on my doorstep.
Well, my empty dining room says it’s a very big deal.
And since nobody else is in charge around here, it’s up to me to set him straight. “I’ll be back,” I say as I head out the Robin’s front door, Sam calling “Good luck!” behind me.
I halt and blink against the bright afternoon light. This can’t be happening. There’s Beach Boys music playing from somewhere—maybe the truck, maybe the speakers at Rainbow Ice next door—and a line stretches from the food truck straight down the sidewalk that leads between the two buildings and meets up with the beach boardwalk just west of us.
The truck itself ruins the aesthetic of Main Street, where all of the buildings are painted bright and fun colors. It’s the kind of downtown where the very definitions of words like adorable and quaint were born. Each storefront and restaurant is unique, but they all tie together to create a wonderful kaleidoscope of color.
Blake’s truck, though? It’s white and black. Oh sure, with some red lettering—but it’s all Los Angeles, big-city fancy, and doesn’t belong here any more than its owner does. But I guess I’m the only one who thinks so, because sweet macaroni, there have to be at least thirty or forty people in this line! And just like inside The Blackberry Muffin on Saturday morning, I recognize a good majority of them. This is like a Saturday crowd, but on a Thursday in the middle of a working day.
My chest squeezes tight, and I back up against the front of the Robin, breathing in and out until air comes more easily.
Surely it’s just the novelty of it, right? All of these folks want to try the hot new thing, but eventually that hot new thing will decide Hallmark Beach isn’t where it wants to be—that Hallmark Beach isn’t good enough for it—and it’ll uproot and literally drive away.
It’s happened before. No sense in thinking it won’t happen again.
But what can I do about it? I already asked Uncle Burt to confirm the details of Blake’s application for a permit, and it sounds like everything was on the up-and-up. Maybe I just need to have patience. To let the excitement die down and hope that the Robin’s faithful service and longevity in this community will draw people back within our walls once again.
Nodding, I turn to head back inside and lick my wounds, but I catch sight of a group of women who work at the Golden Highlight beauty salon and come in every Thursday for our lunch special, the peanut butter bacon burger. They’re walking up the path toward the Robin, but then one of them nudges another and points to the food truck. And I don’t blame them—it’s kind of hard to miss.
Glinda, a twenty-something with straight black-and-blue hair, heads toward the food truck and waits for Blake to slide an order through the window. He looks down at the woman and flashes her a smile—one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Polite, but not effusive or flirtatious.
She asks a question, he gives an answer, and the woman turns and waves her friends over.
All three of them proceed to walk to join the back of the line.
Oh no. Uh uh. Bright and shiny is one thing. Outright thievery? Blake Moffitt will not steal from me.
I simply won’t allow it.
I march toward the truck, my eyes darting this way and that. There’s no way I can get a private audience with him at the window, so there’s only one alternative. Before I can talk myself out of it, I rage-stomp around the front of the truck so as to avoid the line and sneak around to the back, where I fling open the truck door and climb inside.
The heat is the first thing to hit me. Even with a few fans going, it’s warm inside this metal box. The galley is narrow, with a sink, prep station, and the sliding window on one side, and shelves, a fridge, and the grill on the other. The shelves are as organized as I imagined they’d be—not that I’d actually imagined ever setting foot inside this place—with loaves of bread and other ingredients perfectly stacked beside the boxes of extra napkins, cutlery, and disposable food trays.
I’ve never wanted to disorganize—maybe even vandalize—something more in my life, but I push the urge aside. I’ve got a food truck owner to deal with.
If only he didn’t look so put together himself.
Despite the heat level inside, he’s dressed in a blue button-up shirt that’s rolled to his elbows, revealing nicely corded forearms—the kind that belong to guys who work out regularly but are too busy living life to be total gym rats. His khaki slacks are partially covered by a black waist apron, and his brown boots look more suited for a conference room than a food truck in Hallmark Beach.
And yet, he’s still got that impossibly sexy business casual look going on. The kind that is only slightly mussed and partially unbuttoned—like it’s the end of a long day of work, and he’s coming home on a Friday night for pizza and wine and some movie watching and cuddling on the couch.
Gah. This look is not good for my heart. It’s a reminder of those teenage years, when there were nights we hung out like that. Talking. Flirting—though ever since that almost-kiss on my seventeenth birthday, I’ve questioned whether I imagined it all.
This look hearkens back to those memories, almost making me forget that underneath that handsome facade beats the dead heart of someone who would never be satisfied with a small-town life. He’s made that very clear. Which is why it honestly makes no sense that he’s here running a business in Hallmark Beach anyway. There’s got to be a catch. Maybe it’s time I finally took Marilee’s advice and asked Blake exactly why he’s here.
Or maybe the why doesn’t matter, so long as he leaves. Or at the very least, moves his dang truck far, far away.
Flipping a sandwich, he finally looks over at me. His expression doesn’t change—like he has women pop into his truck every day. Like it’s no big deal. “If you want a sandwich, you’re going to have to wait in line like everybody else, Sunshine.”
Sarcasm drips from his tongue. It doesn’t suit him. He was always sweeter than that.
But people change.
“I’m not here for a sandwich.” I walk right up to him and poke him in the chest. His much too muscular chest. The guy was always fit—he played football at his dad’s insistence—but for goodness’ sake. A guy who works around food all day should not have granite pecs. Or such a flat stomach. Or arms that…
Grr. Focus, Lucy. “I’m here to tell you to stop stealing my customers.”
“Your customers?” Blake turns back to his grill, and my hand falls away. But I don’t move an inch. Backing down would be admitting defeat. “They’re in my line.”
“Only because your truck is right there in front of my customers’ faces!”
He butters a few slices of bread—quick as lightning—and tosses them onto the grill. “If they’re so easily swayed by the mere presence of my truck, then maybe they aren’t really loyal to you in the first place. Maybe they’re just settling for what’s here because they don’t know any better.”
How. Dare. He. “As if you would understand anything about loyalty.”
Okay, it’s kind of a low blow, I know. But I still stand by the sentiment.
Blake stiffens but doesn’t respond for a few moments, so we just stand there, my face nearly touching his shoulder. It’s irritating how good he manages to smell despite working with all this grease and dairy. If I worked in here, I’d be sweating through my shirt, my hair piled messy and high, my brow streaked with grime. But Blake somehow looks as put together as his shelves.
Finally, he lifts his spatula and points to the back door. “You’ve said your piece. Now it’s time to go, Sunshine.”
“Enough with the stupid nickname, Flake.”
“You’re one to talk.”
“Yours is appropriate and well earned.”
“And yours seems appropriate enough for an entitled brat who thinks she can waltz into my place of business and whine that she isn’t doing enough to hold onto her own customers.”
I rear back like he’s slapped me. My hands curl at my sides. He did not just say that. Me, entitled? I’m the one who had to move to an entirely new town when I was sixteen years old after living in an apartment that was barely habitable, always wondering if Mama’s job in the school cafeteria was going to be enough to cover food, rent, clothing, and our annual summer road trip ending in Hallmark Beach.
He’sthe one who grew up in the perfect town with the perfect family and never wanted for anything in his perfect life. Until his parents died, of course. But I lost people too. On that ground, we’re even.
My lip curls, and I don’t even feel like myself. All of this anger is going to give me early wrinkles. “If anyone’s entitled, it’s you, thinking you can come back here after what you did.”
“It’s not like I murdered someone, Lucy.”
I find myself strangely disappointed that he called me by my real name. Sweet macaroni, I hate that he still has any sort of hold over my emotions. “No, but?—”
“And I’m tired of you acting like I committed a crime at all.”
“As far as I’m concerned, you did.” Marilee needed him, and he left. He’s guilty of being a terrible big brother, among other things. “But whatever. We’re never going to see eye to eye on it. Just like, apparently, we’re never going to see eye to eye on the fact that you’re a thief.”
He sighs, plating the sandwiches along with a pickle and some chips that look homemade, and slides them through the window, calling out “Jacobs!” before returning to the grill to toss on more sandwiches. “Yeah, I guess we won’t. But answer me this. How can I be stealing from you when we don’t even serve the same thing? Because that was the one condition the council put on my permit. If I ever try to serve the same thing as The Green Robin, I’ll have seven days to pack up and leave.” He flips another sandwich. “I won’t be infringing on whatever your little restaurant serves. And if your customers are as loyal as you say, you won’t have anything to worry about.”
Wait a second. “What did you say?”
He pushes up his sleeves, distracting my eyes for just a moment, and lifts his eyebrows. “I said, I won’t be infringing?—”
“No, not that.”
He said if my customers are loyal… That’s it. “I’ve gotta go.” I head for the back door.
“Finally, a little peace.”
Stopping, I pivot and offer him a wicked grin. “Don’t get too used to it. I’m taking back my customers. And we’ll see who they’re really loyal to after all.”