Simmer Down Page 2

  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’s wearing, 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 before 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.

  Chapter 2

  War isn’t always blood and guts, explosions and air strikes. Sometimes it’s unspoken strategy
, a sneak attack your enemy doesn’t even notice. Sometimes it’s quiet as a mouse, and by the time the other side even realizes they’ve been infiltrated, it’s too late. The damage is done.

  The makeshift cardboard sign I’ve propped against the far end of Hungry Chaps’ food truck is exactly that: quiet, unsuspecting carnage. Day two of Tiva’s Filipina Kusina versus Hungry Chaps, and my side’s victorious already.

  Mom and I enjoyed a steady lunch rush from 10 a.m. to almost 1 p.m., while Callum and his food truck only had a couple dozen in that same chunk of time—and it’s all my doing.

  I stick my head out of the window to call out another order. When I hand the customer their food, I sneak a seconds-long peek at my enemy food truck just feet away. The sign I threw together this morning is holding up well.

  “Mediocre Imperialist Cuisine!”

  The giant black letters practically shout from the ragged chunk of cardboard. They’re probably visible from across the nearby lava field.

  Mrs. Tokushige, Mom’s best friend and our most loyal customer, mutters a thank-you when she comes to pick up her order of chicken adobo wings, all the while squinting at the sign.

  “So strange they would think that sign would be good for business.” She tucks a loose chunk of her thick jet-black hair behind her ear.

  I bite my lip to keep from chuckling. I shrug and tell her, “Bon appétit,” when I hand her the food. “Thank you again for letting us use your commercial kitchen, Mrs. Tokushige. You’ve helped us so much.”

  She flashes a kind smile before dipping her finger in the soy sauce–vinegar mixture of the adobo and tasting it. She lets out a satisfied hum. “Of course, hon. Anything for you and your mom.”

  She pats my hand, and I’m grateful again. Mrs. Tokushige is a widowed property owner who Mom got chummy with after first moving to Maui. They even belong to the same book club and mahjong club. I’m grateful to know her. Not only has she been a generous and supportive friend after we lost Dad, but she’s been invaluable to our food truck, letting us use her commercial kitchen, which is right next to our condo, at a deep discount. I don’t know if we would have made it had we been forced to pay regular prices to rent space.

  “It’s always open for you and your mom, whenever you want it,” she says. “You’re practically family.”

  She tiptoes up and smiles at Mom through the window. “Hi, Tiva! Smells yummy in there! And this adobo sauce, my goodness. Perfectly tangy and salty. I’ll never get tired of it.”

  Mom beams. “Oh, Joan. You’re sweet. Thank you.”

  Their conversation carries on while I inwardly gloat about my sneaky actions from this morning. It was petty as hell for me to arrive early to scrawl that sign. It was also petty to strategically place it at the perfect angle: leaning on the back tire of the Hungry Chaps food truck, facing away from the window and door. Callum and Finn can’t see it from inside their truck, but customers get a full, unobscured view.

  I catch a glimpse of Callum. He’s sporting that same scowl he blinded me with yesterday. Not once does he let up, even when taking customers’ food orders. I wonder if anyone has ever told him that acting pleasant and smiling at the patrons is necessary in the food service industry.

  I duck back inside. “How many lumpia are left, Mom?”

  She drops another order into the fryer. “We’ll be out in an hour probably, if orders keep up.”

  I pat her shoulder, and she smiles. She and I have the exact same facial features: dark eyes, arched eyebrows, narrow button noses, high cheekbones. Even our smiles are the same. Our full mouths stretch across our faces in a straight line instead of curving up like most other people’s. It’s like gazing into a mirror of what I’ll look like in thirtyish years if I opt for a bob hairstyle and maintain an excellent skin care regimen. Considering all the emotional and financial stress she’s been through this past year, she’s wearing it like a champ. She’s a stunning mature woman.

  She pats my lower back. “Don’t slouch, anak. It’s bad for you.”

  I’m a good eight inches taller than her thanks to my dad’s genes. Emotion lodges in my throat, and I have to swallow. It’s the one physical trait of his I have. I’d give anything for one of his burly bear hugs right now, the kind where I’m engulfed entirely in his broad back and arms, the kind that made me feel like a dainty little kid even in my twenties. I wonder what he would think if he could see us, his wife and his only child, trying to carve a place for themselves in the Maui food truck scene.

  I wipe away the thought and turn to help the next customer in line, who orders a basket of lumpia.

  “They love Tiva’s lumpia.” I flash Mom a thumbs-up. “Best on the island.”

  It’s true. This egg roll–like Filipino dish isn’t a unique dish for Maui, not with the island’s strong Southeast Asian population. But Mom’s mixture of finely ground pork with cabbage, carrots, rice noodle, and secret spice blend is a hit with everyone who orders them.

  She glances down at a handful of empty paper trays on the counter, waiting to be filled. “I don’t know about that. Just trying my best.” She shrugs before brushing away a chunk of her hair that’s come loose from her pinned-back style. Her deep brown eyes turn sad. “Now that we have this new competition close by, I have to try harder.”

  I un-grit my teeth and flash her what I hope is a reassuring smile. When I broke the news about the obnoxious new food truck business encroaching on our territory, her anxiety was immediate. I could see it in her frown, in the way her gaze immediately fell to the floor when I told her.

  “People have been driving from all the way across the island to try our food,” I tell her. “We’ll be just fine.”

  Judging by the speedy way she turns back to the fryer without making eye contact, she’s not convinced. And the truth is, as much as I’m willing to wage war on our new competition, I’m not certain we’ll survive either.

  An angry, English-accented bark causes us both to twist our heads in the direction of the Hungry Chaps food truck.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Callum booms.

  When I stick my head out of the window, I see him stomping out of his truck in the direction of the cardboard sign.

  “Mom, take over orders for a bit, okay? I’ll be right back.”

  I zoom out of the truck and head straight for Callum, whispering apologies as I bump into people waiting in line to order. By the time I make it to Callum, he’s red-faced, clutching the sign in one hand. The other one he points at me.

  “You,” he growls. “This is why we’ve had shit for business this entire day.”

  I march up to him until we’re maybe a foot apart. He drops his hand; I rest mine on my hips and lean toward him.

  “That’s part of the initiation at this spot,” I snarl back. “Deal with it.”

  His chest heaves, his mouth splits open, and a gust of hot breath shoots out. I swear, this guy is part dragon with his prickly personality and the rough way he introduces oxygen into his body.

  “Stop saying that.”

  “Make me.”

  The unblinking stare he maintains would have been all kinds of intimidating yesterday when I barely knew him. Not today though. Today it emboldens me, because I know exactly what I’m dealing with.

  “Imperialist cuisine?” His grunt is dialed back in volume, but not in intensity. His tone is a dare, a call to my bluff. Combined with his stance and body language, it’s obvious what he wants me to do. Back off. Apologize.

  Hell if I’m doing any of that. If a pissing match is what he wants, that’s exactly what I’ll give him.

  “Pretty appropriate, don’t you think?” My tone is a sarcastic kind of cheery. “Here you are, this big, bad, intimidating English jerk encroaching on territory where you’re not welcome. That’s the very definition of imperialist, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Once more his
chest heaves. He tosses the sign aside. “That’s some nerve you’ve got posting a sign like that.”

  “And that’s some nerve you’ve got setting up shop when it’s clearly against established etiquette.”

  It’s a struggle to keep my voice below a yell when all I’m aching to do is scream at this jerk for his blatant disregard for rules.

  “Like I said yesterday, there are no laws governing where we park.”

  Hot air pushes against my lungs. “And there are no rules governing the kind of signs you can post either.”

  “That’s bollocks and you know it. You encroached on our space the minute you set that sign on our truck.”

  “Oh, don’t give me some holier-than-thou lecture on encroachment. What you’re doing—parking your food truck right next to ours—is the perfect example of encroachment.”

  He shakes his head, opens his mouth, then bites down immediately. Muscles press against the sharpest jawline I’ve ever seen. It matches his thorny personality perfectly.

  “Oi, Callum!” Finn yells.

  When I look up, I almost gasp. Two dozen customers crowd around us, most of them holding their phones up, recording our spat.

  I mutter, “Fuck,” under my breath at the same moment that Callum mutters, “Bloody hell.”

  Finn is perched with his head hanging out the food truck window, panic in his eyes. He motions for Callum to come back to the truck. Callum gives me one last glare before spinning around and stomping over to Finn.

  I scurry back to my food truck as the crowd disperses, still aiming their phones at me. The anger from my argument has morphed into full-fledged embarrassment. I’m about to go viral and become the laughingstock of Maui’s food truck scene. Freaking fantastic.

  Mom greets me with her hands on her hips, her brow crinkled into a frown. “What in the world was all that about?”

  I sigh and toss another batch of lumpia in the fryer. “I’ll tell you later.”

  * * *