Chapter 11
There’s just something about closing up the truck for the night—something I never felt at the restaurant.
It’s just me and the grill as I scrub it clean. I can whistle and not disturb anyone. Massage the ache in my lower back from standing and bending all day long. And there’s this soul-deep satisfaction in having done an honest day’s work that didn’t involve crunching numbers and dealing with diva chefs and stressing over whether that was a food critic frowning over his mushroom risotto in the corner.
Mom used to say that food nourishes more than the stomach, and—even though it’s just an ordinary Monday and my food isn’t anything Michelin-star-worthy—I hope I’ve done that for somebody today.
I finish up with the grill and check my watch. Darn. Not quite enough time to run home and shower before my meeting in The Green Robin kitchen with Lucy and Thomas. I’ve been double and triple checking my watch all day. Once again, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Lucy.
It’s become a terrible habit.
But ever since our interaction at home two nights ago, I keep picturing the way she looked, all lit up by the glow of the stars. She was dressed casual like always—a sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers, her hair pulled back with a tie—but her expression was different. It wasn’t filled with rage or disdain.
No. This expression was guarded. And yet, almost wistful at times.
I can’t even put my finger on it, but it made me sad. Made me wonder if things would have been different between us if I’d never left. What would have happened if I’d stayed after my parents’ funeral. If I’d listened to her.
If I hadn’t listened to my dad years before that.
What would happen if I chose to stay now.
But I can’t even contemplate that. Dale is counting on me to come home in August to work on opening the second restaurant. My restaurant. And if Dad was here, he’d be counting on me to leave too. To not get stuck in a small life. A normal life.
He always wanted big things for me, and big things are finally happening.
Of course, I need to get my creative mojo back first. Because despite many attempts, I’m still no closer to a new recipe. So far, nothing I try has turned out right. It’s like my brain has forgotten how to be creative, if it ever was. Maybe tonight’s meeting will help with that. We’re planning to discuss and try out a few recipes for the festival, and being around other food people can sometimes motivate and inspire.
I’m just hoping my truce with Lucy holds up. Since our little chat on Saturday night, I’ve only caught glimpses of her coming and going into the restaurant from my food truck window, so haven’t had a chance to test out our tenuous agreement.
There’s a knock on my back door and I frown. My window’s locked and the sign is flipped to Closed, so it should be clear the truck is shut down for the night. I trudge toward the door and swing it open. Jordan’s standing there, a pizza box in his hand. “Hey.” He holds it up. “Have you eaten?”
Wow, that was nice of him. Or was it? I smirk. “Did my sister send you?” She said something the other day about me not having any friends in town. I told her I was busy working, and that she was the only friend I needed.
“Guilty.” Jordan has the good sense to look chagrined. “To be fair, I had to work late, and Ryder’s hanging out overnight with his grandparents, so I didn’t have anything else going on.”
I hop down from the truck and land in the grass. “Thanks for the offer, man, but I’ll need to take a rain check. I’ve got a festival subcommittee meeting in a few.”
“Ah. No problem. I’ll just see if Marilee wants to hang out.” His eyes light up at the mention of my sister. Dude is so far gone. I wonder if my sister knows. He nods toward the truck. “How are things going since our last chat?”
Guess that was only four days ago. Feels like a lifetime. “Better, I think. Your suggestion to help out on the committee is much appreciated. Seems to have gotten people warmed back up to me, so that’s good. The last few days of business have picked up. And I’ve had a lot of customers use the fifty percent-off coupons I handed out. All in all, it’s on an upward trajectory.”
Which is more than I can say for The Green Robin. I really didn’t mean to overhear Lucy’s conversation on Saturday night, and I hate that my presence has cut her profits by such a drastic amount. But I know it won’t last forever. My truck will only be here for a few months, and then any customers I’ve “stolen” will go right back to the Robin.
“That’s great, man. Super stoked for you. Told you things would work out.”
“Yeah, it’s been good.” I check my watch again. Time to go. “For real, I want that rain check.”
“You got it, man.” We fist bump before Jordan tugs on the brim of his baseball cap and walks away with his pizza.
Meanwhile, I lock up and head over to the Robin, which is dark inside. Lucy said she’d prop open the side door to the kitchen, so I walk around the side and into the white space where she and Thomas are standing side by side at the large white island, their heads bent over something.
They look entirely too cozy.
I have no right, but something in me just protests.
I clear my throat. Thomas jumps and turns, but Lucy just straightens without facing me. Wonder if she’s as annoyed at Thomas’s attention as I am. Or if she’s just taking her time in greeting me because Marilee’s call for a truce is hard for her.
Thomas holds up his hand for a high five. His hair looks shorter than it did the last time I saw him, and he’s got it gelled within an inch of its life. “Welcome to Team Foodie.”
I slap his palm—probably harder than necessary—and smile just a little when he shakes out his hand like it hurts. “I like the sound of that.” Then I saunter to the counter and stand beside Lucy, lowering my voice for her ears only. “Evening, Sunshine.”
She peeks at me, then glances down at a notebook with our food ideas scrawled in it. “Flake.”
Her tone is monotone, devoid of any emotion. What’s going on with her tonight? Another bad few days at the restaurant? But I thought her BOGO coupon idea had merit. Maybe she hasn’t started handing them out yet.
Does it matter what’s going on with her?I chide myself.
No, it doesn’t. We aren’t here to be friends. We are here to figure out an awesome dessert to serve the whole town at the festival picnic.
Lucy straightens and turns, leaning back against the counter beside me. Not too close, but the fact she isn’t insisting on being fully across the room from me is progress. “Now that we’re all here, we can continue the discussion we began on Thursday.” She taps the notebook with the end of her pen. “After our last meeting, I asked Chloe if the food budget could be revised at all to give us more flexibility and scale up the amount of offerings we serve, but it seems the funds were a bit on the paltry side this year. So, our only choices are to either do a potluck-style barbecue for the whole town—something Chloe isn’t super keen on because we usually get a lot of tourists in, and they won’t be contributing—or we serve up something like burgers we can easily mass produce.”
One of the fluorescent lights flickers over the large granite island.
Thomas scratches his neck, just above the collar of his lime-green Hawaiian shirt. “I’m all for the latter option.”
“Same.” I cock my head before trying once again for the easiest option of them all. “But are we sure that we can’t cater the food ourselves with our various businesses? Seems it would be a good opportunity to help out the Hallmark Beach economy. And we could still provide the dessert for free.”
“I’ve already told you,” Lucy says. “Tiny is going to be out of town that week, and the Robin’s backup cook wouldn’t be able to handle it.” Then she purses her lips in my direction. “And don’t bother suggesting again that your truck bear all the load either. We will all be needed to pitch in on the burgers.”
“Wasn’t going to say a thing.” Mostly because of the truce. But also because, while I do think the festival would be an amazing chance to gain some valuable feedback—events with large and varied crowds like that always are—I don’t want to emphasize the “feud” between my food truck and the Robin now that I know how much she’s struggling there.
She squints at me. “You weren’t?”
I want to laugh at how suspicious she looks, as if I’ve told a joke and she’s waiting for the punchline. Or maybe wondering if there is a punchline in the first place. I nudge her sneaker-clad foot with the tip of my loafer. “No, Sunshine, I wasn’t.”
Lucy stiffens and licks her lips like she’s nervous. But why would she be? Maybe all of her energy is being funneled into not biting my head off, and I’m poking the bear. I pull my foot back to myself and determine to behave.
But I have to admit—I like touching her, even if it’s fabric on fabric. What would it be like to really touch her? Would that skin be as silky as it looks? Would her hair, which is back in its usual ponytail, be thick as spun gold, or would it fall easily between my fingers as I?—
Yikes. These thoughts are dangerous. And can’t lead anywhere.
“Blake? What do you think?” Thomas spears me with a look and rubs his hands together.
Shoot. “About what?”
“A bake-off.” Thomas laughs and walks over, slapping me on the shoulder. Kind of hard. Maybe he’s fighting back. Though if he wants Lucy, he can have her. Seriously. They’re two peas in a pod, at least as far as their love of Hallmark Beach goes. Dude’s on the town council and he owns a business…one that’s not going to pick up and drive away.
So even if I did want Lucy for real—which I don’t—then Thomas would still be the better guy for her.
Focus, man. “A bake-off? For what?”
Lucy’s squinting at me again. “To figure out what dessert we want to serve.” She pauses, eyebrows lifted. “Haven’t you been listening?”
She’s speaking, and I’m mesmerized—not by the words coming out of her mouth, but by her mouth itself.
That saucy little mouth that’s tipped up at the corner, the one no doubt trying hard not to launch into a diatribe about how annoying she finds my lack of attention. That mouth that, she promised, will never again taste my food.
Which gives me a really wicked idea. And I know I shouldn’t test the boundaries of our truce like this, but something inside prods me along. “A bake-off sounds like a great idea.”
“It does?” She’s surprised. Maybe she thought I’d say no.
“Yep. Thomas and I will both bake a dessert, and you will be the judge. Winner gets their dessert featured at the festival.” I flash her a grin.
Her returning smile is weak, and her eyes flick to Thomas, who is nodding along with my suggestion. “Oh, but I thought I’d try to come up with something too.” Her voice is weak.
“But then how will we decide which one is best? No, we need a judge, and you’re the perfect candidate.”
Lucy’s eyes narrow at me, but I blink back innocently at her. She turns her body slightly toward mine and leans in, lowering her voice. “I know what you’re doing.”
“And what’s that, Sunshine?”
“Stop calling me that.” She grits her teeth.
“Why would I do that, when it makes you smile so pretty?” I close the gap between us and take a sharp inhale of her orange-vanilla scent. Her nearness is so heady that my vision blurs around the edges, and I have the sudden urge to pull her into my arms.
Yikes.
I should step away. I really should. But then she might become aware of how she affects me.
How she’s always affected me.
“I think Lucy as judge makes total sense.” Thomas is either oblivious to…whatever this is, or is pretending to be as he joins us at the counter and leans in. “What are we whispering about?”
Lucy blinks and jumps away from both of us, dropping her notebook in the process. “Nothing.” She squats to retrieve the notebook, then rises again. “Fine. I’ll be the judge.” Her eyes speak resignation, and my fist wants to double pump the air.
But I haven’t won yet. Now I need to really wow her.
Make something she can’t help but declare the winner.
Do I care about having my dessert featured at the festival? No. It won’t contribute to my overall goal for being here in town, though it might make more people aware of my business if my name is splashed everywhere. “Winner gets their name and business on a big banner at the table where the dessert is offered.”
“I’m all about that,” Thomas says. He stands at the large industrial refrigerator, his eyes skimming the contents inside. Most likely he’s taking stock of what’s available to him, brainstorming ideas.
As for me, I’ve got…nothing.
Which isn’t all that unusual, at least lately. I have literally no idea what to make Lucy. Searching my memories for our high school conversations, I try to recall whether there’s any sort of dessert that she loves more than others, something that will secure me a win. I remember she likes baklava, but that’s time consuming. And besides, it’s not a wow dish.
And I need a wow dish.
“All right, I’m starting the clock now.” She punches something on her phone, and Thomas gets to work pulling things from the fridge and pantry, working with a frenzy I wish I had.
Instead, I stand there and stare at the counter.
“Giving up already?”
I glance up, surprised at the tease in her tone, at the taunting smile in her eyes. Opening my mouth to reply, I stop as her phone vibrates on the island beside her.
“That’s not the timer already, is it?” I say, knowing full well it isn’t.
“Of course not.” She rolls her eyes as she picks up her phone—and her jaw drops. “Sweet macaroni.”
I can’t help but smile. She’s so dang adorable. Adorable and sexy too, leaning one hip against the counter, her hair hanging forward over one shoulder, her long lashes splayed downward as she reads something on her phone.
Then she frowns.
“Everything okay?” I know it’s not my business, but if someone’s hurt her…
“What?” She glances up, something vulnerable in her eyes. “Oh, yeah. It’s just my mom.” Lucy blinks. “I haven’t talked to her in over a month. Tried calling her on Mother’s Day but didn’t hear back. I assumed she was traveling again, and she’d call me when she could.”
I’ve always felt bad for Lucy, how her mom and stepdad just dumped her here her sophomore year of high school because they wanted to go sailing around the world and didn’t want a teenager tagging along. Oh sure, they said it was because it wouldn’t be good for her schooling, but they could have done things differently.
Sounds like not much has changed.
I also catch no hint of anger in Lucy’s voice. Just a mixture of surprise, pleasure, and maybe a hint of sadness too. Does she truly not feel any animosity, or is she just really good at bottling it up?
Thomas is knocking things together and cracking eggs behind me. Shoot. I need to get my head into this competition, though I still have no sense of what I want to bake.
Lucy’s attention is back on her phone, and now she’s biting her lip, her thumb hovering above the screen as if she can’t decide whether to respond. Or maybe what to say. “Sweet macaroni,” she breathes out again.
And suddenly, I have it. I know what to make.
The next hour is a whirlwind as I fling ingredients together. My movements are quick but not frenzied. I know exactly what I’m doing. Somehow, I fall into a trance, ignoring everything else but this certainty building inside my chest. This rightness in what I’m making.
Honestly, I haven’t felt this way in…years.
I boil the pasta. Combine flour and butter in a small dish and create a roux. Add the whole milk, the vanilla bean, the salt. Then comes the mixing of the cream cheese, the sugar, the eggs. A batter is formed and added to the pasta, along with blueberries. I top the custard with sugared panko breadcrumbs and set the creation in the oven.
And when I pull it from inside—slightly puffed and golden brown—I know that my mojo is back. And sure, it’s not a grilled cheese recipe, but it’s something new. Creative.
Exciting.
I turn triumphantly to Lucy and Thomas, who are chatting next to the cooling tin of Thomas’s espresso brownies, and set my dessert on a trivet beside them.
Lucy eyes my contribution. “What is it?”
And I don’t back down from her gaze when I say, “Dessert pasta.” I pause. “Or, as some would call it, sweet macaroni.”
She blanches and blinks, rearing back.
Thomas leans closer to examine my creation. “Impressive.”
I step back, crossing my arms over my chest. “Thanks, man. Yours too.” His brownies do look and smell good, and I’m not surprised he made them coffee-flavored, seeing as how he owns the coffee shop. But I know I’ve got this in the bag. Just like when I hit on a winning grilled cheese recipe, I’m confident in this.
I redirect my confidence toward Lucy, who is still staring at my dessert as if it’s diseased. My confidence slips a bit. Maybe this was a dumb move.
Her lips twist, and her eyes finally find mine. They’re appraising, and there’s a question in them. She’s confused, and I get it. Up until a few days ago, we were at each other’s throats, and here I go making a dessert inspired by her token phrase that’s as cute as she is.
But like Marilee said…sometimes inspiration comes in the most unlikely of places.
It’s not like I asked to be inspired by Lucy. Not like I wanted to be. I just…was. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.
“All right.” Thomas rubs his hands together and then starts to slice into his brownies with a knife. “Moment of truth.” He slips a piece out onto a thick napkin, crumbles of chocolate falling onto the counter. Then he lifts it toward Lucy’s mouth.
Is he going to try to feed it to her?
I literally have to hold back a growl.
Thankfully, he switches directions and hands it to her, so I don’t have to go Hulk Hogan on him—not because I’m feeling anything in particular for Lucy. No. I’m just…grateful to her and the inspiration she provided. And she’s my sister’s best friend, which means she falls under my protection.
Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Blake.
She takes an enthusiastic Lucy-sized bite of the brownie—tearing into it like she tears into life—and mmms. “That’s so good, Thomas!”
You’d swear the guy had just been told he’d found the cure to cancer. His smile is bright enough to light the Vegas Strip for days. “I’m glad you like it, Luce.”
Oh, come on.
I swipe a hand across my mouth to keep from saying something not so nice.
When Lucy is done chewing, she turns her eyes to me and flashes me a grin that looks super forced. “Your turn.” The words ring falsely bright in the air, vibrating like a bell.
And I don’t know what possesses me to do it. I honestly don’t.
But I step around Thomas so I’m standing right in front of Lucy, grab a fork from the counter, sink it into the soft, puffed mass of noodles and custard, and hold the bite up to her mouth, which rounds into an O. Steam wafts from the dessert, twining upward between us.
I blow on the food to cool it down.
Her eyes widen.
One of my hands is just below the fork in case a bite drops, and the other guides the food to her waiting lips. And I can’t even begin to describe the primal satisfaction that wends through me when she takes the bite of something I made between those lips, closes her eyes, and groans. Not a polite mmm. This is a sound of pure pleasure, a sound that holds nothing back. A sound I could sink into. One that leaves heat swirling in my stomach.
“Well?” I both hate and love how low and husky my voice has gone and how my body involuntarily hovers closer to Lucy. She’s got just a tiny bit of custard on the corner of her mouth, and it’s all I can do not to lean in and remove it with my own. “What do you think?”
As if I need to be told she loved it. Her response said it all.
Her eyes flutter open, and she jolts like she’s just stuck her finger in the electrical outlet. Her gaze flicks upward, then past me to where Thomas stands. “Um.”
I take a step back to give her space because what am I even doing? I shouldn’t be flirting with Lucy like this. First of all, the woman hates me. She might like my food, and she might be tolerating my existence for Marilee’s sake, but if the way she’s acted recently is any indication, she can’t stand me.
But even if she could, I can’t promise her anything. I’m leaving again in two months. Just like when I left twelve years ago, there is no future here.
So before she can say anything, or declare my food the winner, I grab a pinch of Thomas’s brownies and shove it into my mouth. Hmm. Not bad. Could use a bit more sugar, but pretty decent for a first attempt.
Then I take the same fork I used for Lucy—hopefully she doesn’t notice—and take my own bite of the dessert macaroni. It’s perfection, just like I thought it’d be.
And yet.
“Wow, dude.” I turn and offer my fist for Thomas to bump. He’s eyeing me curiously, his head cocked. “You are definitely the winner. Awesome job. Let’s get these on the menu.” Then I glance at my watch. “Oh, dang, look at the time. I need to get to bed. Early day tomorrow.”
And I hustle out of there before I do something even more stupid than flirting with a woman who despises me.
Something like…kissing her.