by Sarah Monzon
He’d called it. A hurricane. Unnamed, but by the smiles of those in line, one he’d have to thank later. Pulling bags of spinach and containers of feta from the fridge, he restocked the ingredients for his ever-popular watermelon feta spinach salad with spicy cornbread croutons. Of which he had at least four orders for already lined up above the grill.
Water bubbled from the large stainless-steel pot the Hurricane had shoved at him, and he dumped in the last of the macaroni. In another pot he melted butter, added flour, and whisked in milk, adding in cheese, onion, lemon juice, and the rest of his secret ingredients for the Tricia cheese sauce he’d pour over the noodles.
The back door opened and shut, the Hurricane in a Marlin’s baseball cap standing with her hands on her hips. “I told them it would be a while but worth the wait. Most were fine with that, except one guy who seemed wound especially tight.” Her lips pushed to the side before she shrugged. “His problem, not ours. Oh! And I said your famous citrus sweet tea would be on the house with their meal. Hope that’s not a problem, but I did just save you about thirty tickets.”
Adam glanced over his shoulder as he plated two more burgers and a salad. “Seeing as how I’ve run out of tea, that’s going to be a problem.” He’d wonder how she knew about his citrus tea, but it was written in his sister’s handwriting on the chalkboard menu he had out front. Amber had added the famous bit, claiming once everyone had a taste, the word would be a self-fulfilling prophecy.
The Hurricane walked past him toward the fridge. “No problem. What’s the recipe?”
“Problem. It takes over an hour to chill.”
“You’re such a pessimist. Recipe.” Her head cocked to the side, an eyebrow raised in another challenge.
No risk, no reward, and whatever this woman would cook up was better than turning everyone away.
He nodded to the open fridge. “You’re going to need the pineapple, orange, and lemon juice from in there.”
She pulled the ingredients, then shut the fridge. Grabbed another pot and filled it with water to boil and steep the tea. Adam moved past her and lifted a bag of cornmeal, a dozen tomatoes, jalapeños, onions, and limes onto the counter. He paused his movements and looked up from his kneeling position, a grin teasing his lips. “One question.”
She moved the tomatoes in front of her and cleaned off the knife she’d used to cut the watermelon. “Think you have time for one?” Her cheek twitched, hiding her efforts of keeping her smile at bay.
Adam stood and leaned a hip against the counter. The Hurricane continued to work, a small bead of sweat trailing the side of her face. Her shoulder brushed his chest as she reached for the salsa bowl on the other side of him. He would move out of the way if there was anywhere to go, but the inside of a food truck wasn’t exactly known for its expansive space.
“Some things are worth making time for.” Ooph. That sounded too much like Olaf from Frozen. The words and the sappy tone.
Her movements stopped as she looked up at him and used the knife to point at the bag of cornmeal. “I think you should keep all the corny-ness to your cakes, don’t you? That sort of southern charm doesn’t work on me.”
Adam’s grin widened as he opened the bag of meal and tilted the contents into a mixing bowl, studying the woman beside him. He hadn’t meant the phrase to be a pickup line. If Disney quotes could even be used as such. He shook his head. Some habits died hard, and his pattern of teasing was more second nature than anything. No one ever took his playfulness seriously. Not any of the women he’d fake proposed to in the law firm. They’d roll their eyes and slap his arm. A contrived reason to laugh when there didn’t seem to be a genuine one.
The telling twitch still caused the Hurricane’s cheek to jump, the corner of her lip forced down. In an attempt to keep her mouth from curving up? She wasn’t upset by his teasing. In fact, if he was right—and when was the last time his read on someone had been wrong?—he’d say this little lady could take and dish out as much wit as he could.
Adam added the rest of the corn-cake ingredients and retrieved a whisk, his arm making round, sweeping motions as he stirred the dough. Once the right consistency, he poured circles of batter onto the griddle and waited for the telling bubbles.
“Spinach, feta, watermelon, sliced onions, slivered almonds, topped with the balsamic dressing, yes, Chef?” The woman’s voice was less muffled than before, and a glance over his shoulder said why. She’d finally stopped long enough to turn and look at him when she spoke.
“I’m not a chef, but yes.” Adam flipped the cakes and hamburger patties. “How’d you know how to assemble the melon-spinach salad?”
“Besides the fact you didn’t come up with a creative name and called it exactly what it is? I may have eaten here a time or two.”
Oh really? He scrolled through his mind like a rolodex but came up empty. He hadn’t been open long, and he was still getting a handle on all the ins and outs of the truck. Unfortunately, that meant his customer service side had been a bit neglected. But this woman? He would have remembered her for sure.
“I’m going to serve these salads, but when I get back, be ready for more orders.” The back door opened. “Chef.”
“I’m not a—” The door shut. “Chef.”
He spent the next few minutes plating the orders the Hurricane had already brought in.
“Got some help, did you?”
Adam lifted his head from arranging the pico de gallo on top of his protein. His old partner stared at him with a steady gaze. Pushing. Probing. Relentless. The same scrutiny he used on a jury, which worked to determine the direction of his argument. The ones that would sway the group of peers to his side.
“Isn’t your dinner break about over? And since when did you frequent the food truck scene? Your Armani suit doesn’t really fit in to the vibe going on here.” Adam said it with a smile, but the jab held truth.
“Can’t a friend stop by to see an old buddy?”
Adam topped the burger with a corn-cake bun and slid the paper boat into the Hurricane’s waiting hands on the other side of the window. She regarded him with a question in her expression and a sly glance at Hudson out of the corner of her eye. What’s up? her look seemed to say. Too long a story, and if they didn’t have time for him to simply ask her name, they surely didn’t have time for this tale. He gave her a nod of encouragement, reminding her of the line that still stretched too long and the assurance that he could handle this power play at his window. They both turned, her to deliver the order and him back to Hudson.
“A friend, yes. You? No. Not without an angle.”
“Can still read a man in a blink, I see.”
“And you still can’t take no for an answer.”
“Not when I see potential wasted. Adam, you could be helping so many people. Instead you’re here flipping burgers.”
“Flipping burgers never hurt anyone. Don’t be a snob and smirch honest work.”
For the first time, Hudson let go of his controlled demeanor, a sigh expanding his chest. “Look, I know the Forsythe case—”
Adam slashed the air in front of him. “Enough, Burke. You have my answer. Nothing is going to change that, and I don’t want you bringing up that case again. Ever. You got it?” He placed his palms on the workstation, elbows locked, breath shallow. He squinched his eyes and rolled his head from side to side to loosen the muscles that had kinked in his neck. Opening his eyes, he looked down at Hudson. “If you’re the friend you claim to be, then wish me luck in the new direction my life has taken.” He picked up a prepared plate and passed it through the window. “Sink your teeth into the juiciest burger you’ve ever tasted south of the Mason-Dixon Line.”
Hudson took the paper boat and eyed the stacked sandwich with a resigned smile. “Fill my mouth with food to get me to shut up?”
Adam felt his shoulders relax. “You know it.”
“Good luck, Adam.”
“You too.” Adam shook his head as Hudson retreated, stuffing a
huge bite into his mouth.
“Ready, Chef?”
His eyes tracked to the Hurricane, who stood directly in front of his window. “What’ve we got?”
We. He glanced at his watch. In exactly forty minutes, Southern Charm had turned from a him to a we. Adam didn’t know what to do with that little turn of events, so he tucked it away to study later. Even if it sounded strange, it felt right. They worked together like it’d always been this way. Him and…a woman whose name he didn’t even know. He glanced at Hudson’s retreating back. Had they ever worked so in sync? The answer to that was a resounding no. Which was why they hardly ever worked a case together. Hudson had his methods, and Adam…well, what was the point of dwelling on that now?
The Hurricane recited orders as she pulled tickets off her pad. “Twelve mac and cheeses, nine salads, six orders of corn cakes, and fifteen burgers.”
Adam’s brows lowered as he held out his hand. “Give me those.” He leafed through the order tickets, adrenaline spiking through his limbs as he shoved them in a line on the clip above the grill. “Is this all of them?”
Her eyes danced with excitement. She felt it too. That anticipation, the feeling of being alive and knowing something big was right in front of you. The nerves that hit at the slow crawl of an incline at a roller-coaster ride. The quick moments when you asked yourself what in the world you were doing, why’d you get yourself into this situation, and was there any way to get yourself out? Then the peak. A short span of time to look around and tell your body to hold on for the ride of its life.
“For now,” she said.
Adam plunged glove-covered hands into the seasoned raw ground sirloin, forming balls that he pressed into patties. With the meat cooking on the grill, he slicked out of the gloves and exchanged them for fresh ones. His gaze snagged on the blue hat outside the window. “What, now you wait for an invitation? Get in here, Hurricane.”
She jumped, a grin stretching across her face. “Yes, Chef.”
Adam rolled his eyes, but his grin matched hers. He pulled off a glove and held out his hand as she stepped into the truck’s kitchen. “My name is Adam Carrington, and I’m not a chef.” Chefs had James Beard awards and worked in fancy Michelin-starred kitchens, directing their own staff. It was just him and his truck and his self-taught recipes brought on by a love of food.
She placed her hand in his and gave it a firm shake. “Olivia Arroyo.”
He pulled his glove back on and picked up a spatula. “Finally, the answer to my one question. I’m glad we have time for it now.” He pulled down tickets for diners who had ordered only salads and handed them to Olivia. “Can you handle expediting?”
Her smile widened, as if he’d handed her the deed to a mansion instead of a few pieces of paper splattered with grease. “Absolutely.”
They moved as one—a harmony he didn’t think possible with a stranger—him cooking elements on the flattop and deep fryer, then passing them off to her to finish and plate. When he stretched left to lift the basket from the fryer, she leaned right, giving him room. How she’d anticipated his movements, he didn’t know, because she always remained laser focused, her eyes down and her hands busy. With Hudson, Adam would zig left expecting his partner to follow, only to find the man zagging right. Sometimes it worked for their benefit, but other times not. Partners, but on completely different paths. But with Olivia… They were a well-oiled machine. Cogs that turned in perfect time. And speaking of time, they were getting tickets out of the window faster than he’d ever seen.
Olivia bumped the brim of her hat off her forehead and wiped her brow with the back of her wrist before resettling the cap. “That’s it for real this time, Adam.” She scanned the work space, surprisingly clean for the speed in which they’d put out food. Clean and relatively empty. “You’ve sold out of everything.”
For the first time in he didn’t know how long, Adam bent to look out the window. Two people stood in line. He’d only have to tell two people they were closed for the night. Relief washed through him. Relief and a sense of victory that made him laugh out loud. Olivia answered with a wide smile of her own, and he couldn’t help himself as the light feeling turned to gratitude. He’d never have made it if not for the kindness and audacity—and bossiness—of this stranger. Before he knew what he was doing, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, squeezing her in a hug to his chest.
Chapter 3
Olivia stood board straight as the bubble of her personal space popped. The smell of the night clung to the chef’s body. Hints of citrus, jalapeño, fry oil, and hard work cooperated to overpower her senses. She’d been aware of him the whole time they’d worked together, an intuition of where he’d be, what he’d be doing, and what he’d need. She’d anticipated his every move. Except this one. Not that it was unpleasant, but men she’d just met didn’t usually hug her so tightly. It left her unbalanced.
He stepped back, his grin a little sheepish as he tucked a hand into his jeans front pocket. All night he’d oozed confidence, even when she’d walked in on him when he’d been about to turn everyone away. A decision he’d made, and once decided, one he was ready to back. Until she’d forced him to reevaluate the situation because the game had changed. Namely, once she’d ingratiated herself onto his team and turned his business from a solitary affair to a partnership. If only she could convince him she was vital to the success of Southern Charm and, by extension, him. She could really use this job. And experience, since he was willing to share his kitchen. Something the chefs at Seaside would never do. Her ears still rang from the butt-chewing she’d been handed for simply touching Alejandro’s knives.
“Uh, sorry about that.” Adam knocked his hat up off his forehead, leaving a red line and crease where it’d sat. His light-brown hair curled around the edges of the mesh webbing on the sides of his NAVY cap. “I come from an extremely effusive family. Blame them if the way I just said thank you was inappropriate.”
It was. A bit. But she wasn’t offended, so she changed the subject to make him a little more comfortable. Could only help her case when she begged a job from him. She pointed to his hat. “You served?”
He lifted the cap off his head and rotated it to see the front. A look of pride washed over his face. “Nah. My baby brother. Fighter pilot before an accident took away an arm and a leg.”
Wow. Talk about a dump of personal info. And how was she supposed to respond? “I’m so sorry.”
Adam smirked and stuffed the cap back on his head. “Don’t be. He’s in England now with the woman he loves doing a job he loves. God brought him through.”
Olivia shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Idleness made her uncomfortable, and they were nearing her threshold of being still. She snagged a rag draped across the sink and wiped down the prep space.
Adam tugged the moist cloth out from under her hand. “You don’t have to do that. You’ve helped me more than you can know tonight. No way my Good Samaritan has to suffer clean-up duty.”
A perfect segue. She clasped her fingers together, twisting, the movement a release to her pent-up energy. If only she could wrestle the rag away again. “Speaking of helping…”
Adam turned on the faucet and plugged the bottom of the sink. “Yeah?”
This is it, Olivia. Your chance. Seize it. The same speech she’d given herself before she’d barged into his truck earlier. Contrary to what the man in front of her might think given the events of the night, she wasn’t usually this daring. But she was tired of being passed up, and if she didn’t take a step and grab on to the next opportunity with a death grip, she was afraid she’d never get a chance to work in a real kitchen, show the world what she could do with a few simple ingredients and a lot of heart.
She pushed her shoulders back and raised her chin, forcing her gaze to meet ice-gray eyes. Though in color that description might be right, their depths held no coldness that term conjured up. Instead there was only warmth and the sparkle you’d see from silver. So maybe his eyes w
ere silver? But who had silver eyes?
Her challenge mirrored from his open gaze, as it had all evening, and pushed her forward. “I think we can benefit each other.”
He pushed the handle of the faucet down and turned off the flow of water. After setting the food containers to soak, he turned and resettled his full attention on her. “I’m listening.” And he was. Everything about his body language said she had his full attention. No skepticism. No annoyance that she detained him or impatience because he needed to get on to the next thing. Those expressions she knew and knew well. They’d met her every time she’d approached the head chef about a job in the back of the house. Something in the kitchen. She’d have been satisfied with kitchen assistant and willing to work her way up to line cook and, if she held her breath, sous chef. All she wanted was a chance. But every time she knocked on those doors, they slammed in her face. You’re a good server, Alejandro would say. Stick to what you know.
“Olivia?”
Her zoned-out gaze refocused. Right. Adam. Food truck. Now wasn’t the time to drift off to la-la land. Carpe diem and all that. She swallowed hard against nerves and locked her knees. “As evidenced by the crowds today and those of the past week, you need—” An employee. Help. A partner. “Me.”
The side of his lip twitched. “I need you?”
That’s not what I meant. Olivia groaned in her mind. No backing down now though. If she backpedaled, she’d lose whatever ground she held and seem not as in control and confident as someone in the kitchen needed to be. Even with her limited time behind the closed doors of the kitchen as she’d entered and exited to pick up food headed toward hungry guests, she knew one thing. A cook who crumpled under pressure, who couldn’t stand the heat, quickly found herself without a job.
