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
