by Sarah Smith
I silently recite my other checklist, the one I mentally skim in my head each day, whenever I need a reminder of why I’m here and why all the struggle is worth it. It’s the one checklist I’m eternally grateful for.
My mom is alive. Check.
I get to see her every day. Check.
Even when I mess up, I’m fulfilling the promise I made to my dad. Check.
I focus, crossing my fingers around my grip on the steering wheel, hoping for a good day. I hope I sell out during today’s lunch service. I hope that weird grinding noise that emanates from this rickety truck is just a fluke, and not a sign that I need to replace the brake pads, something I can’t afford. And I hope the gas in the tank is enough to last me until the end of the week, because I can’t afford that either.
With every new concern that hits this mental checklist, worry bleeds into my gratitude. I sigh, gazing out my window at endless palm trees and sand, honing in on the soothing crash of the waves. At least I can count on the stunning beauty of Maui to put me in a pleasant mood most days. My heartbeat slows, my jaw relaxes, and my hands loosen around the steering wheel.
Soon the road transitions from smooth pavement to pockmarked concrete. I pull into that perfect semicircle of dirt overlooking the ocean that I just happened to stumble upon back in December. Once again, I’m grateful. For the last three months, this has been Tiva’s Filipina Kusina’s go-to parking spot. Because of that, we have a steady flow of customers from Big Beach, which means a reliable income most days. Which means we’re that much closer to being out of the hole.
As I turn off the engine, I fix my gaze on an unfamiliar silver food truck situated right next to where I normally park. I climb out and walk over, zeroing in on the Union Jack flag decal that rests on the left side of the window. Over the window reads “Hungry Chaps” in bold black letters. On the right side of the window is a cartoon image of a plate of fish-and-chips and some half-moon-shaped pastry.
I sigh. Hungry Chaps must be a new addition to the island food truck circle. They must not be aware of the unofficial policy of not encroaching on another truck’s territory. I practice a smile and stroll to the closed window of the truck. It’s my turn to offer a friendly welcome and a polite explanation of Maui’s unspoken food truck etiquette to this newcomer, just as the established food trucks did for Mom and me when we first started. The rules are simple: no parking in spaces that other trucks have occupied long term, and no parking too close to another truck unless you have their permission.
Being an island, it makes competition fiercer—there’s only so much space to begin with. When we first started out, we couldn’t find regular parking and had to drive all over the island from open spot to open spot. It was impossible to build a customer base that way, never having a consistent location where people could easily find us. It meant months of unsteady income, which meant we were barely breaking even.
I knock on the cloudy glass window. A lightly tanned face pops up from behind the counter. The window is so smeared that I can barely make out the person.
“Hi there! Do you have a sec?” I say.
“Absolutely! Just a moment,” an English-accented male voice answers. I smile. His accent sounds a lot like that of my uncle, who lives in London with my auntie Nora. I wonder if this guy’s from London too.
A thud sound and the clang of metal dishes crashing to the floor echo from inside the truck. Out of the corner of my eye, a man exits from the back.
He strolls up to me, kicking up clouds of dirt with his heavy steps. He’s a tall, sun-kissed drink of water with honey-hued hair cropped close to his scalp and a few days’ worth of dark blond scruff on his cheeks. I tilt my head back to get a proper look at his face. That’s a new one. At nearly five feet ten inches, my neck is perpetually sore from having to peer down at people. But this guy has to be pushing six feet three inches, maybe even six four.
He looks familiar, even though I know for sure I’ve never seen him before. Probably because he looks like a hybrid of Michael Fassbender and Zac Efron. In other words, impossibly good-looking.
He flashes a smile at me, and I promptly forget what I was going to say. Instead I respond with what I assume is one of the dopiest grins I’ve ever beamed at another human being.
“So nice to finally meet you,” he says.
“Oh, um, thanks,” I stammer, thrown off at how friendly he is to me, a complete stranger.
When he blinks, it’s like I’ve been dazzled by the shiniest peridot gem. His eyes boast the most perfect shade of hazel green I’ve ever seen. But it’s more than just the color leaving me tongue-tied. There’s a genuine kindness behind them I don’t often see when I make eye contact with someone I don’t know. The way he stares catches me completely off guard, like I’m the only thing worth looking at in the surrounding area. It’s impressive, considering the landscape is the very definition of breathtaking with the nearby lush green hills, cloudless blue skies, and multitude of palm trees. Not even the expansive lava field across the road, which appears practically endless as it stretches all the way to the horizon, seems to capture this guy’s attention. Even I stop to gawk at it at least once a day.
I let my gaze linger on his eyes a second longer than what is considered polite. My stomach flips. I could fall damn hard for eyes like that.
For a fleeting moment, the Neanderthal part of my brain takes over. An image of me under him appears. Those hazel eyes pinning me, those thick lips stretched in a smile. A slight shake of my head erases the decidedly dirty thought like the drawing on an Etch A Sketch. What in the world is wrong with me? A friendly greeting from a handsome man shouldn’t send me into an X-rated daytime fantasy. I silently scold myself. This is apparently what eighteen months of self-imposed celibacy will do to a woman.
He sticks his hand out and I shake it, appreciating the firm yet gentle gripping method he employs. I’m so used to men offering weak handshakes that feel like a dead fish in my hand. But I dig this guy’s style. He doesn’t automatically assume I’m too weak to make his male acquaintance.
When he lets go of my hand, he looks back at his truck. “Apologies, I didn’t think you were coming for another hour.”
“What do you mean?”
He points his thumb at his truck. “It’s all ready for you. Just be careful when you walk in because I tripped and knocked over a few metal bowls on the way out here.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Afraid I’m still getting used to navigating my tall self within the confines of a van. Sorry, I mean ‘truck.’” He holds a hand up. “I can assure you, everything is up to code.”
I squint up at him, thoroughly confused. “That’s great, but why are you telling me all this?”
“Well, I thought you’d like to know. You’re the health inspector after all.”
“Oh . . . no, I’m . . . I run a food truck.”
I point to my truck, which is parked behind his. He pivots his frown to it, narrowing his stare, like he’s just now noticing the giant food truck parked nearby.
“You’re not the health inspector?”
I shake my head, hoping the movement comes off as good-natured and not dismissive. “Sorry, I’m not.”
A long moment of silence passes where he takes another long look between me and Tiva’s truck. I count to ten before the silence starts to turn awkward. New guy is clearly confused. Best to use a gentle, cheery approach when I inform him of the unofficial rules he’s breaking.
I clear my throat. “I know this is probably awkward timing, but, um, you’re not actually supposed to park here.”
He whips his head around to me. A glare replaces his confused frown from before, and it is downright lethal. My mouth goes dry. It’s a struggle just to swallow.
Silently, I remind myself that he’s the newbie. He’s just confused, and some people get annoyed when they’re confused. I just need to explain myself, and then he’ll understand. I power through the awkwardness permeating the air between us.
“See, I’v
e had this spot for the past several months, and it’s kind of an unspoken rule on Maui that food trucks don’t park this close to each other if they’re not in a parking lot or at an event. And seeing as I was technically here first—”
He turns around and walks back into his truck before I can finish speaking. My jaw hangs open in the salty ocean breeze. Did he seriously just do that?
I stand for several seconds, arms dangling at my side, processing the moment. Maybe he’s embarrassed and needs a bit of time before he moves his truck. I can certainly understand. I’ve made plenty of mortifying mistakes while learning the food truck ropes. This morning’s menu mishap is small beans compared to the time I lost the credit card reader and could only take cash for a handful of days, or the time I mistakenly filled the sweet chili sauce bottles with sriracha.
I fold my arms across my chest, waiting for the engine to fire up. But nothing happens. Just more clanking sounds from the inside of his truck. I check my watch and see that a full minute has passed since he walked away from me. The longer I stand out there alone, the clearer it becomes. That mid-sentence exit wasn’t embarrassment; it was a dismissal—of me. He’s not going anywhere.
Heat makes its way from my cheeks all the way down to my chest. The whole time I was standing here, trying to be nice, he was disregarding me. I march up to the truck and pound on the cloudy glass window.
“Can you please move your truck?” I ask.
I catch his silhouette walking back and forth inside the truck, blatantly ignoring me. Steam levels my insides. What the ever-loving hell is this guy’s problem?
I pound on the window with both hands. Politeness isn’t working. It seems this newbie is in need of a harsher welcome. “Hey! Listen, you’re in my spot.”
This time when he walks out of the truck to meet me, he plants himself a foot away, resuming that killer glare from minutes ago.
“Maybe you couldn’t tell by the way I’ve been ignoring you, but I don’t care what you have to say,” he says.
His irritated tone combined with the melodic English accent throw me off-kilter. I didn’t expect to be arguing with a hot James Bond soundalike today, and it’s messing with my head.
“Um, what?” I stammer.
“Oh, bloody hell. Do you really need me to explain? I’m not moving.”
“Excuse me?” My voice hits that shrill register whenever I’m shocked and pissed at once.
“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters, glancing up at the sky. “I don’t have time for this.”
“Well, make time.” My hard tone verges on a bark. “You’re new here, right? I’ll explain. I’m Nikki DiMarco. I run this food truck, Tiva’s Filipina Kusina, with my mom, Tiva.”
I almost mention that it’s her day off, but I catch myself. Impossibly hot dickhead probably doesn’t care about the details. Pursing my lips, I let the momentary embarrassment wash over me.
He deepens his scowl, and I’m jolted back to our confrontation. I point behind me to the rusty white food truck bearing Mom’s name in bold red letters. Underneath the text is an artist’s rendering of a plate of noodles and lumpia. He glances briefly at my truck, then back at me.
“Like I was trying to say before, you’re not supposed to park right next to a competing food truck,” I say. “It’s kind of an unspoken rule here.”
It’s a struggle to keep my voice steady, but I want to be the calm, rational counter to this guy’s angry petulance.
Crossing his arms, he shrugs. “Let me explain something. I’m Callum James, and I don’t care. I’m staying right here.”
Those arresting hazel-green eyes peer down at me. Funny, I used to think of green as a cheerful, enlivening color before this stranger turned hostile. Now green will forever be associated with “obnoxious” and “jerkoff.”
“I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but what you’re doing isn’t cool. At all,” I say.
He smirks. The nerve of this jackass.
“Is something funny?” I say through gritted teeth.
He shrugs, letting his hands fall to his hips. Even through the loose-fitting T-shirt he dons, I can tell this prick is cut. It’s obvious from his thickly muscled arms that are covered with ropelike veins, from the broad spread of his shoulders.
It’s a quick second before that smirk widens to a smug smile. “‘Isn’t cool at all?’ Did you honestly say that?”
The rough, guttural register of his voice sends a sheet of goose bumps across my skin. Soft yet lethal. Like a bad guy in an action movie whispering threats to the main character who’s tied to a chair.
He chuckles before letting his gaze fall along the length of my body. Is he seriously checking me out right now? A deep, seconds-long inhale and exhale is the only way I can cope.
I will not punch this douchebag in the face.
I will not punch this douchebag in the face.
I chant the silent mantra in my head while gritting my teeth.
“Hey,” I bark. “Are you kidding me? Eyes up here.”
His shoulders jolt slightly at my demand. At least he has the decency to look embarrassed. But a beat later it melts from his face, leaving behind a steely frown. He takes a single step forward, leaning his head down toward me. “Listen, petal. I don’t care one bit if you think this is ‘uncool.’”
When he makes air quotes with both hands as he says “uncool,” I swallow back fire. The bastard called me “petal.” Where the hell is this guy from, Downton Abbey? Who the hell calls anyone petal anymore?
I open my mouth to unleash a tirade of expletives and “how dare you,” but he cuts me off.
“I have just as much right to park here as you do. I’m not doing anything illegal, and I’m not moving. Get over it.”
He spins around and saunters behind his food truck, leaving me standing there with my jaw on the ground, my fists clenched, and nothing to say.
How the hell did this happen? How was this guy able to shift from charming stranger one minute to insufferable bastard the next? How did he just destroy years of island food truck etiquette in minutes? How did a complete stranger leave me a mess of frustration and outrage?
The window of his truck slides open, and a man with a younger, friendlier version of the hostile stranger’s face sticks his head out.
“Are you all right?” he asks in that same melodic English accent, his own hazel-green eyes glistening with concern.
At least this one’s polite. I slap my hands on the metal countertop lining the window. His shoulders jerk up. “I’d like to speak with that ball of sunshine you work with.”
His eyebrows jump up his forehead. “Um . . .” He twists his head back. “Oi, Callum!”
Callum walks up to the window, still sporting that sour, unfriendly expression on his face. Does this guy suck on lemon wedges before engaging other human beings?
When I wag my finger up at him, he doesn’t even blink. The polite one does though before flashing him a panicked look.
“You want to defy local food truck etiquette by being a complete asshole? Fine.”
The words punch out in a firm, steady tone. My fuck-off tone. Callum’s disrespectful attitude is the last straw in my already shit-tastic morning—in my already shit-tastic life. I can’t take one more thing working against me right now. So I won’t.
“From this moment on, I’m going to make your life a living hell.” I tilt my head to the side. “Deal with it.”
In the split second after I speak, all I see are his eyes. Strangely, they still read kind, and it’s enough to make me question for the briefest moment if I’ve been too harsh. But his brow furrows, his nostrils flare, and his mouth twists into the tightest purse I’ve ever seen. Never mind. If he were truly kind, he wouldn’t have met my politeness with outright dickishness. I spin around and march back to my truck.
“Bloody hell, what did you say to her?” the polite one asks as I walk the six feet back to the other side of the clearing.
The only tidbit I hear befor
e I’m back in my truck is Callum barking the name Finn. Judging by their resemblance, I’m guessing they’re brothers. And Callum would do well to listen to his little brother Finn next time, as it might keep him out of trouble. Too late now though.
I tie on my apron and start prepping for lunch. Sunlight shines through the open window, illuminating the blade of my knife as I chop heads of cabbage. The adrenaline from our fiery exchange is a surprise source of energy. I shred the whole tray in half the time it usually takes.
All he had to do was show one ounce of courtesy. But no. He wanted to start a war. With a total stranger who was perfectly polite to him until he played dirty. A total stranger who’s been through hell this past year and a half, who is tired of ducking from the constant stream of curveballs life chucks at her.
As of today, I’m done ducking. I’m fighting back.
He wants a war? It is motherfucking on.
Click here to order Simmer Down.
Also by Sarah Smith
Faker
Simmer Down
About the Author
Sarah Smith is a copywriter-turned-author who wants to make the world a lovelier place, one kissing story at a time. Her love of romance began when she was eight and she discovered her auntie’s stash of romance novels. She’s been hooked ever since. When she’s not writing, you can find her hiking, eating chocolate, and perfecting her lumpia recipe. She lives in Bend, Oregon with her husband and adorable cat, Salem.
sarahsmithbooks.com
Twitter: @authorsarahs