“You are.” Rory reluctantly dropped her turquoise sweatshirt from her face and reached to hand him the spatula she knew he’d need. Grady was more than just her late aunt’s longtime food truck assistant—this past year, he’d been Rory’s sanity as she struggled to keep the inherited business booming.
And other things from exploding.
She cut her eyes at him. “By the way, I’m not your sister.”
“Close enough—and good thing, or I’d have kicked you out of this food truck a long time ago. You know I wouldn’t keep up this charade for just anyone.” He wrinkled his nose at her as he adjusted the heat on the stovetop burner.
She crossed her arms. “I don’t think charade is the right word . . .”
“Fine. You like farce better?”
“More like, assumption.”
“Right.” He clicked his tongue in mock disapproval. “Customers assume you cook like your aunt and assume I just bus the dishes.”
Rory’s neck flushed as the truth of the statement lingered. “They do not.”
“Sure, they do. Fortunately, Nicole keeps me man enough to take it.” He winked. “Now, can you hand me the—” He stopped as Rory waved the black utensil in his face. “Gracias.”
“See? Maybe I’m not good at cooking, but I’m good for something.” If she were typing that to StrongerMan99, she’d have added #kidding #notkidding. Well, maybe. She hadn’t dared to get quite that vulnerable yet in their online chats. But they were getting to that point. There was something so appealing—so safe—about anonymity. Grady might be as close as family, but it was hard to go there with him. One, because he turned everything into a mushy compliment-fest, but also because technically, he was her employee.
Technically, she owned the Salsa Street food truck.
And technically, she couldn’t cook to save her life.
He pressed the tortilla flat against the skillet. “You’re good at a lot of stuff, Ror—probably more than you know, if you’d ever get out from behind your computer.”
She bristled. “I’m productive on my computer. It’s not like I’m an obsessed gamer or something.”
“Hey, hey, hey, now—what’s wrong with gaming? Everyone needs a break from reality now and then. Me and Nicole play online pool together. She’s getting pretty good.” Grady flipped the quesadilla.
The too-familiar aroma of spicy chicken and peppers filled the small space. Rory’s hair had smelled like smoke for almost a year now. Just one of many things that had changed in the past twelve months.
“Exactly—a break. That’s what my digital art is for me.” Everything made sense on a computer. Colors. Angles. Numbers. They all fit together like a perfect puzzle. In the food truck, however, everything was a frequent reminder of the pressures riding Rory’s shoulders like a pageant queen on a hometown parade float. She couldn’t get lost in that.
It just smothered. Like the smoke from the stove.
“I’ll admit, the updated truck skin you designed for the Salsa Street is legit. I knew you had more in you than those doodles you make.” Grady reached over and clicked on the vent, raising his voice slightly over the sudden whirring.
“Whatever.” She straightened the crooked oven mitt hanging on its peg by the stove. She hated compliment-fests. They always just ricocheted right off while she flailed around to catch them. Any of them. Thomas had done a great job helping her bat them away.
But that was ancient history. If twelve months was to be considered historic, that is.
She shook off the negative thoughts, pausing to align the salt and pepper shakers against the straight edge of the counter. “Besides, until we have the money to put the skin on the truck, it doesn’t really matter what I design anyway.”
Grady shot her a knowing look. “Don’t stress out.”
“I’m not.” She guiltily stepped away from the salt and pepper shakers.
Grady pointed with a carving knife. “You’re organizing things. Which means that tomorrow I won’t be able to find them. Look, relax—we’ve got the food festival coming up. That always brings in extra dough.”
According to Grady—and Aunt Sophia’s sales records—that was the case every year. But could they depend on that alone? Red numbers in columns danced in front of Rory’s eyes. It seemed foolish to put all their eggs—well, make that tacos—in one basket. But wasn’t that what she’d done when she quit her pay-the-bills job in insurance and took over the food truck last year when her aunt’s health declined?
It’d started in increments. Rory had filled in while Aunt Sophia was too weak from chemo to work the truck. Grady kept things running, but one man couldn’t take all the orders, fill them, and keep up with the business side of things. So Rory had filled the gaps, thinking it would only be temporarily, until one day they all realized it wasn’t. The decision was made, the will was signed, and a few weeks later, Sophia was gone.
And here they were.
“Like I said, hermana, you’re good at a lot. But for now, why don’t you be good at scooting over. You know he’ll be here any minute.” Grady nudged her out of the way of the stove with the bowl of freshly grated shredded cheese.
Rory glanced at her watch. Wednesday, June 2. “It’s the lawyers’ order again, isn’t it?” The last few Wednesdays, without fail, the Worthington Family Law Firm had ordered enough food for an army and insisted on a rush job. Heaven forbid they order ten minutes sooner instead, to make up the difference. The runner they sent each week—the poor, pale, lanky college kid—always looked as harried as a third monkey trying to board the ark.
And yet every Wednesday she and Grady hurried around during the lunch rush, all at the whim of some rich society family thinking they were too good to wait in line like everyone else. What was that saying about insanity meaning doing the same thing but expecting different results?
The walls of the food truck crushed in a few inches, and she inhaled deeply. Speaking of insanity—a food truck owner who couldn’t cook. But she was here for Aunt Sophia’s legacy. For her cousin Hannah. For all the people depending on her. The Salsa Street wasn’t just a popular restaurant on wheels. It was an heirship. Provision.
Even if it did constantly reek of cilantro.
Grady glanced up from the stove, calm and steady as always, despite their fast-paced morning. “Ready for the box.”
She already held it open.
His warm, big-brotherly smile of gratitude reminded her to take a deep breath. Life didn’t always have to be stressful. The past year had just seemed like it. Right now, the sun was shining—maybe a little too hot for this early in June, even for East Texas, but it was shining nonetheless. And the birds were chirping—although it was sort of a nuisance, really, that one mockingbird that frequently imitated the downtown Modest fire truck—
“She’d be proud, you know.”
Rory cocked an eyebrow at Grady.
“Don’t do that. You look even more like Fiona when you do.”
She twisted her lips to the side. “That’s so annoying.”
“Oh yes, you poor dear. It must be tragically difficult to be constantly mistaken for a leading Hollywood star.” Grady rolled his eyes as he expertly transferred the quesadilla to the waiting black Styrofoam box.
“It is, actually.” That’s why she’d signed up for Love at First Chat in the first place. Total anonymity. No pictures allowed. No more wondering who was actually interested in her versus who just wanted to be on the arm of the Fiona look-alike.
At least Thomas had finally cast his official vote.
Rory artfully arranged the slices of yellow and red peppers atop the rice, then secured the lid on the box, added it to the to-go bag of other orders, and turned to the pick-up window just as the lanky runner rushed up, shirt half-untucked and shoelace untied.
She jerked the bag just out of his reach. “Laces.”
“Not again.” He sighed as he bent to quickly whip them into knots. Then he straightened and held out his hands.
&n
bsp; She shook her head. “Shirt.”
He rolled his eyes and shoved it haphazardly into the loose waist of his slacks.
“You know your boss would lecture you. I’m doing you a favor.” She surrendered the heavy bag to his waiting grip.
Grady joined her at the window, straight-faced. “Fly.”
The kid’s eyes widened, and he quickly lowered the bag a few inches south. Grady snorted. “I’m kidding, man. It’s a joke. They don’t do that where you work?”
He sighed. “If you count laughing at people as joking, then yes. The partners are regular comedians.”
Grady tilted his head back and roared, the contagious sound radiating from deep within. Tension melted off Rory’s shoulders. It always did when he laughed. It reminded her of Aunt Sophia. Joy, personified. Another pound lifted off her back. Her aunt would be proud of them, wouldn’t she? They were doing just fine.
Even if business had been slightly declining the past two months. Rory’s stomach pinched again.
Grady leaned farther out the window, seemingly oblivious as always to the stress tap-dancing around him. “You’re funny. What’s your name?”
The guy hefted the bag to hang on his elbow. “Alton.”
“You going to be a lawyer one day, Alton?” Grady shoved a handful of napkins at him. “Don’t forget the sample cups there of jalapenos, if they want any.”
Alton dumped a few lidded cups into the bag and shrugged. “No way. It’s just a job. Beats minimum wage somewhere.”
“You should always do what you love.” Grady slid his knowing gaze toward Rory. “Then it’s never truly work.”
She kept her eyes on Alton, bumping Grady intentionally with her shoulder. “But also remember that commitment is important.”
“So is finding joy in the everyday.” Grady pressed closer to the window, raising his voice over hers.
She ignored Grady’s elbow in her ribs. “Yes, but so is financial security and being there for the people you love.”
Alton backed away slowly, wary eyes darting between them like exhausted ping-pong balls. “So, is the life advice free, or will you add that to the company’s tab?”
“Oh, we’re adding it.” Grady straightened with a grin. “They can afford it.”
“They can also afford manners, and yet . . .” Alton’s voice trailed off as he lifted one hand in a wave.
Grady chuckled in his wake. He cupped his hands and shouted after him. “You’re gonna be just fine, Alton!” He shook his head, still laughing as he began cleaning up spilled cheese. “And you, too, by the way.” He raised his brows pointedly at Rory. “Even if you keep working jobs you hate.”
“You trying to get rid of me?”
Grady snorted. “Of course not. I need you.”
The sentiment was meant to be kind, but it felt more like a noose. Salsa Street did need her—and so did Hannah. If only Rory didn’t despise Mexican food at this point.
Rory helped him clean, swiping the mess into her hand with a napkin, her mind drifting into a happier place. StrongerMan99 would get a kick out of that exchange they’d just had with Alton. She couldn’t share any names, though. No hints of anyone or any places that would lead to identity recog—
“You’re doing it again.” Grady snapped open a new trash bag.
Rory cinched the full bag and lifted it from the can. She hated when Grady read her mind. “No, I’m not.”
He ignored her. “Are you ever going to meet this guy? Or should I tell your computer congratulations and get the wife to buy you guys a toaster?”
“Look, we can’t all marry our high school sweethearts and live happily ever after the traditional way like you and Nicole, okay?” Rory hefted the bag and opened the truck door. “Some of us have to get creative.”
“Have to? Hardly. You could walk down that street right there and have any date you wanted.” Grady gestured to the alley behind them. Then his eyes darkened. “But don’t do that. That’s dumb. You know not to do that, right? Bad example.”
“Relax. I’m not desperate. I’m not even really looking.” Rory hesitated at the bottom of the truck stairs as she shifted the bag from one hand to the other. “I just like chatting. Keeping it casual.”
“Casual, as in, perfect strangers.”
“It’s not like that.” In fact, she felt like she knew StrongerMan99 a lot more than most of her in-person friends. Grady perhaps being the one exception, but he was practically family. Come to think of it, StrongerMan99 probably knew more about her than Grady did. And they’d only been talking for about a month.
She knew StrongerMan99 despised cats, frequently ran 5Ks, had a love for classic literature, was secretly a softie for Hallmark movies, and actually enjoyed pineapple pizza. She knew he had one brother, his favorite NFL team was the Saints, he was confident enough to wear pink button-downs, and reluctantly knew all the words to “Ice Ice Baby.”
She just didn’t know his name. Or phone number. Or where he lived, except for somewhere within sixty miles of Longview, Texas. The odds of him living in her own small town of Modest, Texas, were pretty slim. After all, she knew everyone here. Which meant he could even be as far out as Tyler.
“You ever going to meet?” Grady repeated his question, the one Rory thought she had so carefully dodged.
She rolled in her bottom lip. She’d considered bringing the idea up to StrongerMan99 a million times, but each time, dismissed the thought before it could escape her fingers on the keyboard. Had he done the same?
“We have a good thing going now as friends.” She didn’t want to jeopardize that. There was something so safe about having a friend—even a flirty friend—who knew so much about you, yet didn’t know the less-attractive, in-person parts. The rejectable parts.
She’d had enough rejection.
“But what if you could have a better thing going?” Grady gestured with the damp rag he held. “Like, you know. Marriage and kids.”
She wanted those things. One day. But . . . “I don’t like change.”
His expression softened. “I know. There’s been a lot of it lately.”
She nodded, blinking back the memories. Sophia had served more as a mother figure to Rory over the years than an aunt. She didn’t deserve to die in her fifties. Didn’t deserve the cancer that stole her hair and her health but never her smile. If Rory turned into even half the vibrant, vivacious, caring woman Sophia was, she’d be doing well.
Rory might be one-fourth Mexican, but as it was, she wasn’t remotely one-fourth of the way to being as good of a woman as her aunt.
Grady’s voice cracked. “I miss her too.”
Rory lifted the bag, her throat tight. “I’ve got to—”
“I know, I know.” Grady held up both hands in surrender. “Too mushy.” He called over his shoulder. “I’ll just go light this cilantro candle I brought for you.”
The building knot in her throat dissolved into a giggle. She headed for the dumpster, her chest releasing with each deep breath. Despite the turmoil of the last year—of Thomas calling it quits, of her aunt passing—she really was blessed. Anxiety was an old acquaintance that always exceeded its welcome. Time to kick it out the door again for today.
She inhaled deeply, tilting her face to the sun, counting her blessings. She had a lot on her shoulders, sure, and business had slowed, but they were hanging in there. Hopefully the upcoming summer food festival would give them their annual boost of income. She had this online friendship she looked forward to. She had the best brother she could ever need in Grady. And she was meeting her Nicole for happy hour at the Silent Spade Tavern later that afternoon.
Things were good. She could relax.
And then she got the mail.
They never put enough cilantro on his quesadilla.
Jude Worthington Strong swiped his mouth with a napkin, the cheap paper catching on his five-o’clock shadow that always sprung up around noon and was the very bane of his father’s clean-shaven existence.
Wh
ich meant if his beard were a puppy, Jude would have given it a treat.
Hollis Strong—never “Dad” during business hours—raised dark brows at Jude across the gleaming boardroom table. “Did they get your order wrong again?”
“Nah. I asked for extra cilantro, but it’s no big deal.” Jude shrugged before diving back into the delicious, cheesy concoction. Nothing was ever right—or good enough—for Hollis. Jude had learned long ago to let the little things in life slide. Unfortunately, Hollis had yet to catch on. Besides, Salsa Street’s food was delicious, even without the extra cilantro. He’d taken to eating there once a week, and once his family jumped on board, they’d insisted on creating obnoxious rush orders.
The Strongs had to leave their mark of authority everywhere they went, apparently.
“Figures they screwed it up. I don’t know why we keep going back to this Salsa Street place.” Hollis sprinkled a few jalapenos into his salad.
Jude gestured toward his meal. “Because it’s fresh food, and if the doctor finds out you keep eating burgers and fries three times a week, he’s going to lay into you again.”
Hollis scoffed. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
“It’ll hurt you, I believe is the point.”
“Salsa Street is not that great,” Warner chimed in. “The chips are almost always stale.”
“They’re not stale, they’re organic. Besides, you think you can do better?”
“No, but you probably do—Mr. Taco Boy, always helping our housekeeper when we were growing up.” Warner snapped his fingers, thinking. “What was her name?”
Maria. Her name was Maria, and she’d been the only mother figure in the Strong household for most of their childhood until she retired when Jude turned eighteen. Warner knew her name—he was just being his typically rude self.
Jude fisted his napkin. Lately he’d been picking his battles with Warner, and while Maria was worth it—getting Warner to change his spots was next to impossible. “She made good tacos.” The best he’d ever had, actually. Salsa Street, while consistently pleasant, couldn’t come close to Maria’s authentic, four-generational family recipe.
The Key to Love Page 29