7. Sophie #2
“Obviously food,” the chef muttered.
“People generally expect it at food trucks,” said the woman.
“Right. Excellent point.” I laughed.
They didn’t.
“So…” I tried again. “What if…” Dangerous beginning. “Everyone just moved a little?” I demonstrated the distance with my thumb and forefinger, as if visual aids could make this work.
The chef didn’t even hesitate. “No.”
The blonde answered at exactly the same time. “Also no.”
Interesting.
Unanimous agreement was possible after all. Just not in my favor.
I watched them. “Out of curiosity… how difficult is it to move one of these?”
The chef looked genuinely horrified. “They each weigh six tons.”
“Ah.” I nodded thoughtfully. “So…” Another dangerous beginning. “Not like parallel parking.”
“No,” snarled the chef.
“Not even remotely,” added the blonde.
Good to know.
Behind me, another truck rumbled into the lot.
Everyone turned.
A brightly painted dessert truck rolled slowly toward us before stopping twenty feet away. Across the side, in giant pink letters, were the words: SWEET SURRENDER.
A woman leaned out the driver’s window. “So…” She smiled nervously. “Am I late?”
I took a deep breath. “I’m going to need more coffee.”
“You and me both.”
The deep voice drifted in from behind me. A voice I recognized.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
I slowly turned around.
Captain Competent stood a few feet away, one hand resting on the open door of his white SUV and a thick manila folder tucked beneath his arm. Sunlight caught the silver badge stitched over his chest, and somehow—not that I was looking—his boots were still ridiculously clean.
How? Did the man polish them hourly? Did deputies have a secret boot fairy? His eyes swept over the line of food trucks. Then over the chef and the blonde. Then the dessert truck.
He looked at me. His expression remained perfectly relaxed. Mine probably looked slightly panicked.
“Morning, Hartwell,” he said.
“Morning, Eric—uh, I mean Walker. I mean Sheriff Walker.” Wow. Already with the verbal diarrhea. Wonderful. “So…” I continued, feeling my cheeks flame. “I can explain. The trucks are here.”
He glanced toward them. “I noticed.”
“They’re… not where they’re supposed to be.”
“I noticed that too,” he said.
I swallowed. “The inspector changed the layout. And now nobody wants to move.”
“I gathered.”
I nodded. “So…”
“So?”
I shrugged. “I don’t really have an ending for this sentence.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. Barely. I wasn’t even sure I’d seen it.
“You usually don’t,” he said.
Was… Was that a joke? I blinked. Captain Competent had jokes.
Who knew?
He shifted the folder under his arm. “I came by because the food vendor permits still need signatures before tomorrow.”
I looked down at the stack of paperwork still sitting on Helen’s clipboard.
Right. Permits. Those.
The permits that had completely fallen out of my brain the second six-ton trucks started arguing with each other.
The chef stepped forward. “Sheriff.”
Captain Competent gave him a nod. “Tony.”
They knew each other? Of course they knew each other. Everyone in Maplewood Falls seemed to know everyone. That included the sheriff.
Tony pointed toward the trucks. “Inspector wants us moved.”
“I know,” answered the sheriff, his voice calm as if Tony had just informed him it might rain later instead of announcing the beginning of World War Food Truck.
“We’re already connected,” informed Tony.
Captain Competent’s gaze moved behind Tony. “Yeah. I can see that.” His eyes followed the thick electrical cables stretched neatly across the pavement before drifting toward the power boxes.
Tony folded his arms over his chest, a defiant look in his eye. “We’re not moving.”
The sheriff nodded once. “I figured that was your position.” There wasn’t a hint of irritation in his voice. Just the quiet acceptance of a man who’d probably spent half his career listening to stubborn people explain why they weren’t about to do the thing they absolutely had to do.
The blonde woman propped her hands on her hips. “It’ll take us an hour to disconnect everything.”
“And another hour to hook it back up,” Tony added.
The sheriff looked toward the spaces marked with bright orange spray paint on the pavement. Then toward the access lane and the electrical hookups. His eyes swept slowly across the lot, taking everything in with an ease that made it seem almost effortless.
I found myself watching him. It was annoyingly attractive.
Competence shouldn’t be sexy. Yet somehow there he stood, studying asphalt like it contained the answers to the universe, and part of my brain was going…
Yep. There it is. Nothing says “take me now” quite like a man silently calculating turning radiuses. Wonderful. This was who I’d become.
The sheriff finally pointed toward the pizza truck.
“Tony. If you move six feet instead of twelve… she can swing back another six.” He gestured toward the lobster truck.
“Your electrical cable still reaches. The dessert truck backs into this space.” He pointed toward the empty corner.
“You leave the emergency lane open.” He glanced at both of them.
“Everybody passes inspection.” He said it so matter-of-factly that it almost sounded obvious.
Tony scratched his beard. “That actually works.”
Seriously? Didn’t I say this already? But because now the sheriff says it, it’s better?
“It does,” answered the sheriff, like he hadn’t just untied a knot that had been strangling everyone for nearly an hour.
I stared. Forty-five seconds. That was all it had taken him to repeat my suggestion and somehow come out looking like the hero. I hated people who could do that. Correction. I hated how ridiculously attractive I found people who could do that. There was an important difference.
Tony sighed. “Fine.”
The blonde nodded. “Fine.” She didn’t even sound annoyed anymore. Somehow, he’d managed to make two people who’d been arguing five minutes ago voluntarily agree with each other. Was that a sheriff thing? Did they teach that at the academy? Conflict Resolution Through Excessive Calm?
The dessert truck driver leaned out her window. “So… where do you want me?”
The sheriff looked at me. “You’re the event planner,” he said, his eyes searching my face. “You tell her.”
My stomach performed an unexpected somersault. I looked around. “Uh…” I pointed toward the empty corner the sheriff had indicated. “There.” My finger remained confidently extended for a full second.
The dessert truck driver smiled. “Perfect.” She started the engine.
I leaned a little closer to the sheriff, taking in his musky aftershave and liking it, and lowered my voice. “That was the spot you were pointing at. Wasn’t it?”
He looked down at me. “It was.”
“I knew that.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“I absolutely didn’t.”
“I know.”
I cocked a brow. “I was hoping you didn’t.” Mostly because I’d been trying very hard to maintain the illusion that I knew what the hell I was doing.
“I figured.”
I looked up at him. “Is it really that obvious?” I almost didn’t want to know the answer. Almost.
He was quiet for a second. Then one corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. “Only to me.”
For reasons I couldn’t begin to explain, that somehow made me feel better. Which probably should’ve worried me a whole lot more than it did.
I couldn’t shake the strange feeling that Captain Competent wasn’t looking at me the way he had yesterday.
And somehow…
I wasn’t sure which of us that should worry more.