Hot stuff.
Johnny Brubaker squeezed his eyes shut and didn’t open them again until he knew all he’d see were the cardboard bowls side-by-side on the food truck’s long prep area in front of him.
He looked at the tickets hanging from the thin rack mounted above the board. He scooped rice, black beans and green beans, then added onion, lettuce and a healthy squirt of his signature barbecue-ranch dressing. He capped the first bowl, put the ticket on top of it and moved to the second. This one needed steak. The next was pork. He finished with all three in under a minute, keeping his line of vision completely under control.
Until a customer at the window of his food truck, Angel’s Food Bowls, asked a question of the woman taking orders.
“Johnny?” Tabitha Jones, the pediatric nurse who helped him on her days off, called out, naturally drawing his gaze.
And there was that sweet butt again. How had it gotten so cute overnight? Six months they’d been doing this, on and off, almost nine months of being neighbors and becoming friends, and now he was noticing her in that way?
“Yeah?” He turned back to his bowls, aware of the male face peering at him through the window but not caring all that much. They’d been parked on a public thoroughfare by San Diego’s Mission Beach for more than three hours, and he’d had people peering at him through that window ever since.
“The health inspector would like to know if he can board the truck.” Tabitha’s voice held a hint of...a less than upbeat tone.
Damn. “Of course he can board,” Johnny said, glancing at the truck’s order window with a mostly sincere smile on his face. He wanted a surprise inspection about as much as the next guy—never—but as an attorney, he knew that the more proven compliance records he amassed, the less vulnerable he’d be to a lawsuit.
The world was full of crazies and he’d discovered that jealousy ran rampant in the food-truck business.
Besides, they had a long line, and a more than thirty-second wait per customer could cause folks to wander away. He’d rather have the inspector in the truck if it meant he could possibly keep business going.
Taking a second to reach into the bin above the driver’s-side visor, he pulled out the portfolio of plastic page protectors, all filled with the various permits and licenses he’d had to acquire, and set it on the driver’s seat of the truck. Then, stopping at the small sink designated only for handwashing, he squirted liquid soap on both hands. He lathered up to his elbows, in between his fingers and on the top of his hands, rinsed, dried himself on a disposable towel and, donning a new pair of plastic gloves, returned to work.
Pretending he hadn’t passed by Tabitha’s backside twice in the process.
What was with him?
Having his mind wander while engaged in a successful project—that he understood. Seemed to be his life story. But to look at Tabitha and see... To look at her that way, it just wasn’t right.
And it wasn’t like him, either.
They were partners in grief. Helping each other out with “life quest” projects, as she called them. Things they had to do so they could get on with the rest of their lives.
They were each other’s shoulder to cry on, propping each other up when necessary.
But they were not sexual beings. They’d both sworn off it until their quests were done. Their friendship was a safe zone. Tabitha’s drive to find her missing two-year-old son took up whatever emotional and physical energy she had left after the duties of her days. And Johnny...he was honoring his dead wife. You didn’t do that by sleeping with another woman.
He didn’t kid himself into thinking he’d never be open to a relationship again. He was only thirty—and alive. Alex Brubaker, Johnny’s father, expected a grand-heir to the family dynasty; Johnny wanted to raise one. But the food truck had been Angel’s passion.
It was his way of making sense of the fact that she’d died so young—senselessly murdered in a robbery over a year ago. If the guy, who’d taken a plea deal to avoid life without parole, had just asked for her purse, for her ATM card, she’d have handed them over. Money hadn’t been that important to her.
Angel hadn’t wanted the food truck as a means of earning cash for herself. She’d planned to donate all the proceeds to charity. Just as Johnny was doing. She’d loved to cook for people. Had loved the idea of traveling around from place to place and being just another person on the beach, working hard like everyone else.
As the daughter of a wealthy oilman and a graduate of one of the country’s most elite culinary institutes, she’d been able to open her own five-star restaurant where she cooked elegant dinners for some of the country’s most powerful people. And she’d been in the limelight, on the food channels, being written up in gourmet magazines.
But her real dream had been the food truck. She’d died before it could happen. So, to honor Angel, Johnny was taking a year out of his life to do it for her.
Getting involved with another woman didn’t belong anywhere in that plan.
“Everything looks good.”
Johnny nodded, barely glancing up from his bowls as the skinny fortysomething inspector spoke from the back of the truck. He was pleased to have the inspector leave positive paperwork for the portfolio. And to see the line still snaking out from the truck. This was the first of four days he and Tabitha would spend here, an hour and a half south of their Mission Viejo homes, and they’d have to make enough this first day—Sunday—to compensate for the smaller crowds and shorter hours on the weekdays.
The truck, his mission, was important, but they’d parked it in San Diego specifically so Tabitha could check out yet another daycare. She was certain this time.
He was, too. Certain that she was setting herself up for one more disappointment. Her goal—finding her son—mattered more than any food truck. He wanted it for her way more than he wanted his own success. He was just finding it harder, after
