by Sarah Smith
“Fine, Nikki.”
He walks away down to the other end of the parking lot, and my breath escapes in a hot huff. One half of me is satisfied at seeing his broad form walk away. But the other half is scolding myself, frustrated that I couldn’t just swallow my pride for one damn minute and accept his offer of help. Yes, he’s a jerk, but now I’ve resigned myself to an afternoon of dealing with car troubles I can’t afford.
Sweat beads on my forehead as the sun blares from above. I fish my phone out of my pocket just as a gray hatchback pulls up right in front of my car, the silver bumper just a foot from the scuffed fender of my Honda Civic.
When Callum climbs out of the driver’s seat, my jaw drops. He pops the hood open, then nods at me. “Open the bonnet of your car for me, please. Now.”
“Bonnet?”
“Hood. The hood of your car.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to help you.”
The muscles in my neck ease from their tension knot at the same time as my heart races. His voice takes a soft yet authoritative tone. I would never, ever admit this out loud, but that tone is killer—sexy, even. It’s the perfect balance of commanding yet polite. I bet he could compel a fish to walk if he spoke in that tone. If he had used it when we first met, I would have been a lot more receptive to whatever he had to say.
I’m tempted to ask why again, but that would be risking my luck. This is a second chance to solve my problem with minimal fuss. I had better take it.
I stay silent and stand to the side, watching while he darts in his back seat to grab jumper cables. He doesn’t ask me to help him as he sets everything up between our two cars or when he sits back in his vehicle and starts the engine. I don’t offer either. I simply stand back, lean on my driver’s side door, and watch him work. No matter how artificial this gesture is, I need it. And Callum knows it.
I cross my arms over my chest, momentarily self-conscious, wondering if he can smell my desperation. It’s obvious judging by how quickly he picked up on my financial situation at the vet’s office that he’s been paying attention while we’ve been working in such close proximity. For one or two days a week it’s just me at the food truck, because even though I’m a stickler on Mom’s days off, we can’t afford to hire anyone else, not even part-time. Our truck squeaks to a halt every time we pull up to our spot on Makena, a signal that we’re in desperate need of new brake pads. The exterior is dingy on a good day. The white paint is peeling off, the painted-on images are fading, and there are dings and scratches galore.
I glance down at my outfit. A blue T-shirt dress that I’ve had for years. Not at all dumpy—more like well loved. And I wear it once a week, which means Callum has seen me in it many times before.
I’m flushed with embarrassment yet again. I’m like a humpback whale, but instead of a sonar distress call, my cry for help is my worn clothing and the rickety state of my belongings.
Fixing my eyes on him, I take stock. He’s a casual clothes guy for sure. I’ve never seen him wear anything other than jeans, khaki shorts, T-shirts, and the occasional short-sleeve button-up. But they always look new, and I don’t think I’ve seen him repeat an outfit yet. And that silver food truck he shares with his brother looks practically brand-new the way it shines like a seashell in the sunlight. Whatever finance job Callum had must have paid a pretty penny for him to drop everything and move to the state of Hawaii, one of the most expensive places you could choose to live in the US, so he could rehab his brother’s struggling small business.
Maybe Finn had money troubles before, but his big brother has seemed to make them all disappear.
He sticks his head out the window. “Now try it,” he says in that same gentle yet firm tone, pulling me back to the present.
Hopping into my car, I shove the key in the ignition and turn it. The second it starts, I’m positively giddy with relief. The fact that it started so quickly means that my battery is still good, at least for a little while longer, and I won’t have to replace the alternator. Instinctively, I almost grin up at him, but I catch myself. He already made it clear today he’s not interested in seeing my smile.
I take a second and will my face back to neutral before stepping out of the car. He removes the cables and tosses them in his back seat. I stand by the hood of my car, alternating between crossing my arms over my chest and clasping my hands behind my back. Nerves swarm my stomach, like butterflies that are angry about being cooped up. I open and close my mouth a handful of times, waiting for the right time to tell him thank you. He saved my skin today, and for that, the very least I owe him are words of gratitude.
He climbs out of the car and turns to me. I open my mouth once more, this time certain I’ll say the right thing, but he speaks first.
“You could say thank you, you know.”
“What?”
He rolls his eyes, then slams the back door to his car shut. “That’s typically what a person says to another person when they’ve done something nice for them.”
His words fall out in a dismissive mutter. It sends me straight from simmering nerves to boiling over.
“You seem pretty fixated on manners and etiquette for someone who doesn’t like to follow those rules himself.” I spin on my heels and walk back to the front door of my car before turning to look at him once more. “I was actually going to say thank you. I was waiting for you to get out of the car so you could hear me clearly.”
I duck into my car, dig through my purse for a twenty, then march up to him. “Here.”
“What is that?” He scowls down at my hand, like I’ve just offered him a hit of crystal meth.
“Money.” I say it in an obnoxious, overly clear tone, like he’s a child and I’m explaining the concept of currency. Yeah, it’s a dick move, but I don’t have the patience or the capacity to try to be nice if he’s going to operate in maximum prick mode during every encounter we have.
He shifts his scowl to my face. “I don’t want that.”
I try to shove it in his hand, but he yanks away. I try again, and again he darts out of my reach. Any bystanders watching us must think we’re demonstrating some seriously awkward dance moves.
“Look, you wouldn’t accept anything when you helped me with Lemon. Let me at least cover this.”
He doesn’t bother to speak, instead letting the disapproval on his face do the talking.
“Just take it,” I blurt.
We stand facing each other while taking twin deep breaths, our chests heaving. Forcing money into someone’s hands when they don’t want it is tiring work. So is darting away from someone trying to give you money that you don’t want, apparently.
“It’s less than I would have had to pay a mechanic to do it anyway,” I say.
“I don’t want your bloody money, Nikki. Don’t you think you’d be better off keeping that than giving it to me?”
I’m frozen at the disdain in his voice. It’s clear in all of his features, actually. From the pitying way he looks at me, his brows creased, his mouth in a purse. Disappointment radiates from him.
It all comes tumbling back to me, the reminder crashing over me like a rogue wave knocking me underwater. He doesn’t want a damn thing from me because I’m his lowly, pathetic competitor whose food truck is in shambles, whose used car is barely functioning, who can’t afford hired help. He wouldn’t dare take anything from me because he doesn’t need it—unlike me, who needs so much because for so long I’ve been barely scraping by.
This must be his warped idea of charity. When he’s tired of despising me, he can simply pity me. It reads like a whole new form of condescending.
“Fine.” I shove the money in my pocket, hoping my cheeks don’t flush so red that he notices.
I hop in my car and speed out of the parking lot, refusing to turn my head or glance in the rearview mirror. I don’t want to give Callum a
ny indication that he’s on my mind.
After picking up the dragon fruit, I drive home, running through my mental Rolodex of new recipes I’ve been planning to try out for the festival. I’ve got a festival to prepare for—to win—and zero time to let Callum James faze me.
* * *
• • •
“So!” I point the pen in my hand at Mom, who sits on a stool at the other side of the kitchen counter. “The veggie pansit seemed to be a hit at the food truck last week, don’t you think? When we tried it with tofu, not so much, so I say let’s eighty-six the tofu pansit and officially add the veggie one to the roster for the Maui Food Festival.”
She sips from her glass of water. “That sounds fine.”
I scribble a note on the pad lying on the counter. “We’ll keep a few old favorites, of course, like the lumpia and the chicken adobo wings. Any sort of finger food will be easier for people to eat when they’re walking around.”
She swats away a fly zeroing in on a nearby basket of ice cream bananas, nods, then rests her chin in her hand.
“What do you think of adding the veggie lumpia to the roster too?” I ask.
Roles have somehow reversed between us. Now I’m the one in full-on work mode all day, every day, our menu for the Maui Food Festival at the front of my mind always. Mom has taken a page out of my book and has been telling me to relax on a daily basis.
She frowns at me. “Sit down.” She pats the stool next to her. I walk over and plop down.
This is the first time since driving the food truck to and from Makena that I’ve sat all day. Energy is coursing through me like electricity. I want to spend every free minute I have perfecting our recipes for the festival. Callum’s blatant pity at the farmer’s market was the boost I didn’t know I needed. I refuse to lose our spot to him. And until we secure victory, I can’t relax, unwind, or think about anything other than our food and how that ties into our future. It weighs like an anvil on my mind.
She puts her hand on top of mine, which rests on the white tile counter. “You’ve been working so hard lately.”
“I want to make sure everything is perfect,” I say. “We’ve got a lot riding on this.”
“When’s the last time you went out and did something fun? Something that wasn’t about work or cooking or the festival?”
I open my mouth, but can’t think of a single thing to say. Other than a handful of leisurely swims at the beach to clear my head, I haven’t taken a break. Not once.
She responds with that knowing expression all moms seem to have. “All those times you tell me that I need to relax and do something fun to unwind, and yet you don’t do it yourself.”
I cross my arms. “That’s different. I’m almost thirty. This is the time to push myself and work hard. You’ve spent a lifetime doing that, Mom. You need the rest more than I do.”
“Everyone needs rest. Everyone needs to have fun.”
“Working is fun for me.”
It’s only a half lie. I love seeing how our food truck business has grown. I love coming up with new recipes and seeing our customers go gaga over them. I love what she and I accomplish every day we work together.
But there’s another part of me. The carefree part that used to spend days off hiking, bar crawling with friends, and napping. I’ve been ignoring that part for the past year and a half. Slowing down wasn’t an option when we had medical bills, a funeral to pay off, and Mom’s savings to replenish.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from admitting all this out loud. Of course it would be nice to indulge in a free day. I could hike one of the trails at Haleakala. Or finally make it to the Pipiwai bamboo forest and see if it’s as stunning in person as it is in every single photo I’ve seen.
She frowns at me, the tan patch of skin between her dark eyebrows barely wrinkling. “Oh, don’t give me that. You make me take days off from work so I can play mahjong with my friends and go to book club.”
Reaching across the counter for her phone, she swipes across the screen, then slides it to me. “Now I’m making you.”
I focus on the image, which is an airline logo. The letters “LHR” don’t sink in at first, but then a second later, it registers. Heathrow Airport. A flight to London.
I squint up at her. “Mom, what in the world is this?”
She pats my shoulder before hopping off the stool. “You’re going to London for a week to visit Auntie Nora and Uncle Nigel.”
“Um, what?”
She runs a hand through my loose waves. “You deserve to go on a vacation. You’ve been working nonstop ever since you moved here to help me after your dad died.”
She rounds the corner of the counter and heads for the sink to load the dishwasher. I trail behind her, stuttering. “But, Mom. England? The money . . . Taking time off from work . . . We can’t afford this.”
I’m still shaking my head, struggling to process the words she’s speaking. How in the world can she just send me out of the country when we have a make-or-break career moment hanging over our heads?
“It’s not costing us anything. Your auntie and uncle offered to pay. They miss you like crazy and are so excited to see you. You haven’t seen them since you were what, twelve? Thirteen?”
I mumble a “yes.” That’s the downside of having family all over the globe. Unless you’re made of money, regular visits are virtually impossible. It hasn’t dampened our relationship though. Mom and I Skype or FaceTime with them a couple times a month, and Mom’s been to London to visit them a few times in the last several years. It would be a dream to visit them. Just not now, not when we’re preparing for the festival and money is so tight.
She files the last dish into the rack and shuts the door of the dishwasher. When she looks at me, I try to focus on her face, try to decipher if this is an elaborate joke. But nothing. Her expression is oddly relaxed.
“You’re staying with them at their house, so you won’t even have to pay for a hotel,” she says.
Brushing past me, she heads down the hall to the bathroom. I tug her arm. “Mom, wait. Okay, fine, yes, a vacation would be nice, but I can’t just leave you alone to take care of the food truck. That’s too much stress. And we can’t afford to close for a week, either, while I’m gone. What about prepping for the festival?”
She does her signature brush-off motion with her hand, like none of these are valid concerns. “Mrs. Tokushige’s nephew just moved in with her, and he needs a temporary job. I talked to him the other night while we played mahjong, and he said he could help out at the food truck if we ever needed it. He used to work at a food truck in San Francisco, so he knows what he’s doing. The festival is more than a month away, and all the dishes we’ve been trying out with the customers have been a hit. So don’t worry.”
I open my mouth, but she shakes her head, her favorite way to cut me off.
“And don’t give me some lecture about how your dad would want me to take it easy. I’ll still take my normal day off. I promise.”
Just then Lemon rubs against my leg. “What about Lemon? She’s pregnant.”
Mom raises her eyebrow at me, a telltale sign that she’s unimpressed with my excuse. “All she’s been doing is eating and napping, and I don’t think that’s going to change for the week that you’re gone. She’ll be just fine.”
I stutter once more. She must have been planning this for weeks behind my back. I’m impressed, shocked, and a little unnerved at her ability to orchestrate such elaborate plans in secret.
“Um . . .”
“No ums, no buts, no nothing. I worked in restaurants my whole life until I had you, remember? I’ll be just fine.” She pats my arm. “You deserve a break. Have some fun while you’re gone, okay? Your flight leaves on Wednesday. I’ll drive you to the airport before I go to work.”
I try and fail to say something in response. So instead, I s
tumble the few steps back to the counter and stare at the flight information on her phone screen.
She stands up and points to Dad’s urn in the living room. “I thought of everything, Harold. Aren’t you proud? I’m the one telling people to slow down and take a break now.”
She shuffles down the hall. “Better start packing, anak,” she hollers from her bedroom. “Only two days until you leave!”
I’ve got no choice. It looks like I’m going to London.
Chapter 7
I shove my carry-on in the overhead compartment and fall into the window seat. Leg one of my journey is down. Five hours in the air from Hawaii to Seattle, a three-hour layover at the airport, and now I’m finally on the plane to Heathrow.
I’m crossing my fingers for a smooth rest of the journey. It’s been good so far. No crying babies, no delays, no bad turbulence.
I take a sip from my water bottle and pull a book from my purse. A fun, light read that should take up a chunk of this nine-hour flight. I crack it open to the first page, barely paying attention to the passengers shuffling through the aisle next to me. Everyone seems to be operating under some unspoken guise of decency I don’t often see before a long-haul flight. People say, “Excuse me” and “Oops! Sorry!” when they accidentally bump into someone. Everyone is taking care to move out of the way to let others through, so as to avoid jamming up the aisles. A guy at the front of the plane even stops to help an older woman lift her suitcase into the overhead bin.
I let out a happy sigh. Maybe Mom was right. Maybe this trip will be the reset I need, the break from real life that will help me feel refreshed and return home reenergized.
Everyone takes their seats on the plane, and I turn back to my book. A heavy plop noise pulls my focus away. I turn to my left and see a backpack sitting on the seat next to me. When I look up, I almost drop my book. There’s Callum James standing above me, chest heaving as he catches his breath.
