Cooking Up Romance

by Lynne Marshall

  His mouth came to mind, while he’d read her menu with that lower lip man-style pout. She wouldn’t mind trying out everything she’d learned about kissing with him since she’d grown up. She snorted and made a dry swallow. Whew, was the grill superhot or something?

  Wait. In her rush, she’d forgotten to turn on the vent and open the back windows. After a quick push of the chicken around the grill, she slid open the extra windows and wiped the tiny sheen from her upper lip. Where had she left the water?

  Finding the bottle, she took another drink and focused on making the best dang wrap she could. Her welfare depended on it since she’d recently quit her other job. While she was at it, she’d warm one of her apple hand pies from the batch made fresh last night. Wasn’t that every man’s favorite?

  For the sake of the next phase of her career, she sure hoped so.

  * * *

  Ten minutes to the second later, Zack Gardner strolled from his office toward the bright food truck. The sight of it made him smile, but he kept it to himself. Wouldn’t want to encourage her when he had zero intention of letting the redhead set up shop. That girlie rig was meant for kids’ parties and Santa Barbara beach volleyball games, not construction sites. Any serious business person should know it, too.

  A flash of her natural red hair while she cooked sent a memory whirling through his mind. The color was the kind so many women tried to match in salons, but usually fell flat. Hers was nothing short of stunning, and he’d only met one other person with that shade in his life. He’d gotten his first summer temporary job in construction when he’d been nineteen. He recalled that he couldn’t believe how hard the job was and how ravenous he’d been, all the time. There’d been a long line of jobs and food trucks over the past twenty years, all blurry. But he remembered his first real job and first food truck just like it was yesterday because, well, everything was the first back then. The Winters Breakfast and Lunch truck. That was it. That guy hadn’t needed a catchy name or flashy color. Winters’s truck had been institution white with black lettering on the side. And didn’t the middle-aged guy have to bring his kid with him during the summer? Just like Zack would have to do over spring break next week with his own ten-year-old daughter, Emma. His memories grew stronger. Back then, John Winters made the best cheeseburgers he’d ever tasted, and Winters’s daughter had bright red hair just like her father. A copper penny came to mind. Could this woman be that kid?

  He narrowed his eyes, studying the foodmobile. Erase the neon-pink paint job, and it looked about the same size and style as that other food truck. When she’d first pulled up and had caught his attention through the office window, he’d had a hunch the truck was vintage. Here in Little River Valley, people liked vintage stuff. On closer examination, it most definitely was an original, even for twenty years ago. He had to respect someone who valued history. It showed insight.

  Getting nearer to the truck, with a delicious aroma perking up his nose and appetite, even though it was way too early to think about lunch, he made a snap decision. He’d keep all his memories to himself because, as he’d previously decided, he wasn’t going to let her set up. The guys were perfectly happy bringing their lunch pails or piling into cars and driving into town on their break. Why get her hopes up, make her think they had some connection, by playing the reminiscing game?

  Those bright blue eyes noticed him coming and another inviting smile creased her lips. Don’t even think about it. Women are bad news, especially ones that look like her.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” she said with an eager-to-please expression. An expression that came off far too sweet to ignore. How could she be bad news?

  History, remember? As in all women.

  Still he fought off a smile. He hadn’t been hungry fifteen minutes ago, but now his stomach growled in anticipation. “Sure smells good.”

  She handed him a supersize paper plate with the enormous wrap nearly filling it. “Whoa, this thing’s huge.”

  “I know how big construction workers’ appetites can be.”

  Yeah, he did, too, but he no longer did the hard work, not for the past five years, anyway. He’d put in his time breaking his back with construction company after construction company, and eventually worked his way up to foreman. Now he was the owner-manager. Half of this wrap was going home to share. Just like her logo said, he’d wrap it up and take it home.

  He bit into the wrap. Holy heavenly taste buds, she knew how to season, and the chicken was melt-in-your-mouth tender and juicy. Filled with unexpected vegetables and bits of potato swimming in her special sauce, the mouthwatering spinach-green wrap was more a meal in a megasize tortilla than a substitute for a sandwich. She should’ve named the truck Manwich—Sandwiches for men with manly appetites. But Emma would love the wrap, too, and it was so much healthier than their usual fast food. Still, he didn’t want to get Ms., uh, her hopes up. “What’d you say your name was?”

  “Lacy Winters.”

  Dang it! Memories were strange things, popping up after lying dormant for years, and right now his recall worked at hyperspeed. “John Winters’s girl?”

  She nodded, a hint of surprise in her stare.

  He knew it. How many people walked the earth with that color hair? Penny! “This is pretty good,” he said, before he had a chance to remember he wasn’t going to go there—reminisce—or give his consent for her to park on his construction site.

  There went that extra bright smile again. It was hard to take his eyes off her, especially while mouthwatering flavors hit his tongue. He looked around for a place to sit and couldn’t find one, so he left the plate on the food truck counter and, using both hands to hold the wrap, took several more bites.

  “Can I get you another napkin?”

  Sauce dribbled over his chin and onto his hands. “Thanks.”

  “Would you like a drink?” she said, after handing off the wad of napkins.

  “Water’s fine.” Wouldn’t want anything to compete with the delicious ingredients he was ingesting like a man who hadn’t eaten in days. “What’s this?”

  She’d placed, next to his wrap, a much smaller plate holding a pastry with a light brown crust.

  “That’s half of one of my apple hand pies. I heated it for you.”

  Why wait until he was too full to want or be able to enjoy dessert? He grabbed it and took a bite. Warm melt-in-your-mouth piecrust hit his taste buds, the kind he only remembered from his mother’s kitchen, until now. Cinnamon-seasoned, obviously fresh apples sweetened to perfection broke through as he chewed. “What’s your background?” He couldn’t help talking with his mouth full.

  “I’ve been a cook at the Local Grown Restaurant here in town for the past three years. Before that, I was a short-order cook at Becky Sue’s.”

  “That breakfast and lunch diner?”

  She nodded, then continued. “My dad got me started in the food industry. This is actually his truck.”

  He knew it!

  “I got it updated and overhauled after he died last year.”

  The man would probably roll over in his grave if he knew it was pink. “I’m sorry to hear that. You know, I remember your father. He had red hair like you, right?” The Winters food truck had shown up at a lot of construction sites he’d worked over the years, but not with her. Except for that first summer.

  Her prideful closed-mouth smile and nod told him she loved her dad, and was both pleased and surprised Zack had remembered the man.

  He finished off the hand pie and took a swig of water. “I’m fairly sure I remember you, too.” With a happily full stomach, and in the presence of a pretty woman, he was suddenly in a chatty mood. “You were about this tall.” He leveled his hand waist high. “And skinny. Looked like you were all head with that wild red hair.” He half grinned, proud of his recollection.

  Well, so much for Lacy’s little-girl daydreams. He’d thought sh
e was “all head” and skinny as a rail? At least he remembered her. Bet you didn’t know you were my first imaginary kiss, did ya? For some crazy reason, probably from still being raw for the last several years, after losing the two men she’d loved most, her dad being the latest, she’d let Zack hurt her feelings. Irrational thinking or not, calling her “all head” had stung, and Lacy did a lousy job of hiding her reaction.

  She studied her feet, dejected, awash in insecurity. Why had she thought it was a good idea to wear a chef toque in a food truck? To him, she probably still looked like the puff pastry dough boy with a red wig.

  “Hey, I’m sorry,” he said, catching on, a sincere cast to his gaze. “You’ve certainly filled out since then.”

  It should be his turn to cringe. Filled out? Now who was saying awkward things? He was trying to fix the unintentional slight, but, still wincing from her childish response, she let him marinate in the iffy-at-best comment rather than immediately letting him off the hook.

  His shoulders tensed, and his collar rose slightly up his neck as he must have realized how his statement could come off. “Did not mean to make you uncomfortable, Ms. Winters. Apologies.” Even his cheeks looked a little peachier than earlier on the gorgeous olive-toned tan.

  She nodded, appreciating his minor squirm. He was a man of few words, but he’d said the right ones just now. “Call me Lacy.” May as well take advantage and move in while he was in a vulnerable position. “So, what do you say, can I park here during the week? Feed your guys?”

  Amused by the obvious battle going on behind those seriously green eyes, Lacy watched as he thought. Ate. And thought more. He glanced over his shoulder to the men on the site who’d stopped working to check out the pink foodmobile. If he’d let her, she’d sell a crateload of food to those men right now. She was ready for this. She knew how to cook, and she’d had a great role model in her father. Maybe she wasn’t completely up to snuff on the finances and business side, but she’d work it out as she went along. She just needed a shot to prove she could deliver on her own. Because, on her own, as it turned out, was how it was going to be. Forever? She shrugged.

  Her father had died suddenly—she hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye. Taking over his truck was her homage to him. Plus, it promised to get her out of the four-walled kitchens she’d spent too many hours trapped inside, where stress, too often, drove the show. That wasn’t what she wanted anymore—this was. Outdoors. Hungry guys. She could do with a little less noise, but why be picky?

  She was ready to be her own boss, to take charge of her life. This overly bright truck was her ticket to renew her love of cooking and reclaim her independence. She wasn’t looking to get rich, just to get by. She didn’t want to put too much pressure on Zack Gardner or to come off as desperate, but she slipped a subtle please, please, please glance his way. No harm in sending subliminal messages, right?

  He was obviously still fighting some internal battle, looking at the other half of his chicken wrap, checking out his work boots, gazing at her silly logo again, then into her hopeful stare. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll try you out three days next week, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and we’ll see how it goes from there.”

  It wasn’t a total yes, but it was a maybe, and maybe was better than good enough today. Yes! She’d count it as a victory. Besides, she was bound to win over those hungry-looking men who’d quit sawing and hammering and were still watching the show over by her pink truck. After they’d had a taste of her hearty wraps, they’d be begging their boss to let her come back.

  “That’s a deal. May I leave my menus for your men, and heat up a few more hand pies for them to sample as a thank-you? I’ve got a pot of coffee ready to go, too.” She’d thought ahead and set up for half of her hundred-cup coffee maker, just in case. “Just say the word.”

  She’d arrived not only hopeful but prepared for success, and now it’d paid off.

  His somewhat flirtatious smile alarmed her. It set off a relay of tingles across her neck and shoulders, and strategically dipped below her collarbone, making her glad she wore a full apron over her thin top.

  “Sounds like a good idea.”

  Putty in her hands! She’d been privileged to see his handsome and far-too-appealing smile again. And it did wonders for her mood.

  “Thanks.” And he was thanking her!

  She tipped her head and grinned, unashamed how glad she was he’d given her a chance. It was all she asked. Then she got right to work heating a couple dozen assorted hand pies as the coffee brewed. While she did, she couldn’t help but notice that Zack had picked up the rest of his wrap to take home. Oh, yeah, she’d sold him all right. Good food in person was always better than a phone call sales pitch. Thanks, Dad.

  “See you Monday,” he said. “We break for lunch at noon.”

  “I’ll be here by eleven thirty!”

  “Park under those trees.” He pointed to a shady spot across the way. “I’ll rig something up for the men to sit on.”

  If that didn’t sound promising for a permanent spot and job, what would?

  Grinning, she watched him walk off toward his office, long strides, narrow hips, construction worker arms and shoulders. Once he was inside, after she’d let herself imprint that fine image in her mind—because, come on, no way was he ever going to be more than a nice fantasy in her life—she finished her preparations for the guys. With everything laid out on the counter and the coffee brewed, she honked her Happy Days theme horn, a horn she’d spent an entire day choosing from the usual and long list of food truck horns. She’d chosen that one because she knew it would make her dad grin. She couldn’t help but notice Zack Gardner peering out his modular office window through the blinds at the sound. Then the guys came like zombies to feed at her truck, and she handed each of them a menu to take with them. “I’ll be here next Monday. Be sure to bring your appetites.”

  Her cheeks were nearly cramping. She hadn’t smiled this long or hard, or been this happy, since she’d landed her first job as a line cook right out of community college working up to short orders in record time. All without going to culinary school. How’s that for beating the odds, Dad? He’d always been proud of her following in his chosen profession, chief cook and bottle washer.

  * * *

  Sunday afternoon Lacy showed up early for a wedding reception at the Santa Barbara Museum of Natural History. She parked, as instructed, out of sight of the outdoor wedding ceremony on the museum Mission Creek grounds. Four other trucks were there for the three-hour-reception gig. She’d been instructed to serve three different wraps—chicken, steak and vegetarian—and to skip the pies since another truck would be the main cake and dessert truck. Whatever. The job was paying a flat rate, which was fine with her. She’d make a good profit. With the next installment payment on her updated truck overhaul, plus the custom paint job due, she was happy just to be here. And in the day and age of monkey see, monkey do, who knew what other jobs it could lead to.

  It was a lovely spring day, California style. The sun was out, temperatures in mid seventies, with only a hint of a breeze. The old and modest museum, designed in the Spanish Colonial Revival style, was located in the Mission Canyon area of Santa Barbara and had been recently renovated. It was beautifully redone, combining minimal architectural improvements to enhance the surrounding nature. Each complementing the other. Literally nestled in riparian oak woodland, the museum setting seemed idyllic for weddings.

  Lacy glanced around at the young, hip and rich group arriving in the reception area. The ceremony must be over. A few women even wore hats, maybe influenced by the royal weddings in England over the last few years. Who knew the reason, but those hats dressed up the crowd. It made the occasion extraspecial, which caused Lacy to smile. The few spring pastel dresses mixed with the artsy black many guests chose to wear made for a nice contrast.

  She’d thought hard before accepting her first we
dding job last month, when she’d just finished revamping her father’s food truck and had gotten all the required certifications. Weddings were a tough subject, even after all this time.

  Five years ago, she’d been engaged to be married to the greatest guy on earth. She’d never believed she could feel so much love for someone other than her parents. Of course, her love for Greg had been on a totally different level, and she couldn’t wait to be his wife. Ever the military gentleman, he’d gone old-school and, in her mother’s rose garden, dropped to his knee to ask her to marry him. So thrilled and excited by his question, she’d fallen to her knees to be face-to-face with him when she’d said yes. They’d cried and laughed and hugged and kissed, and then, because she’d had the house to herself that day, they took it inside.

  There’d been one problem though. He’d been called up for a six-month deployment to Afghanistan, so they’d have to wait at least that long before they could tie the knot. Going in, she’d known and accepted that this would be the life of a military girlfriend and future wife. What were a few months in a lifetime, they’d rationalized together to help make his leaving a little easier.

  Two months after Greg had left, his parents called, sounding shaky and asking her to come to their house. Once there, they’d all been told together in person by an army major in their jurisdiction that Sergeant First Class Gregory Timberland had been killed by friendly fire. Lacy, though stunned, remembered thinking what a horrible job that major had, having to tell families the awful news. In his low and respectful voice with a slight tremble, the major had gone on to say that one of Greg’s own guys had killed him in a horrific mistake. It was an accident, of course, but nevertheless, who had come up with such a terrible term for what had happened? Friendly fire had to be the world’s worst oxymoron.