Cooking Up Romance. Lynne Marshall
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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 man would probably roll over in his grave if he knew it was pink. “I’m sorry to hear that. You know, I remember your father. He had red hair like you, right?” The Winters food truck had shown up at a lot of construction sites he’d worked over the years, but not with her. Except for that first summer.
Her prideful closed-mouth smile and nod told him she loved her dad, and was both pleased and surprised Zack had remembered the man.
He finished off the hand pie and took a swig of water. “I’m fairly sure I remember you, too.” With a happily full stomach, and in the presence of a pretty woman, he was suddenly in a chatty mood. “You were about this tall.” He leveled his hand waist high. “And skinny. Looked like you were all head with that wild red hair.” He half grinned, proud of his recollection.
Well, so much for Lacy’s little-girl daydreams. He’d thought she was “all head” and skinny as a rail? At least he remembered her. Bet you didn’t know you were my first imaginary kiss, did ya? For some crazy reason, probably from still being raw for the last several years, after losing the two men she’d loved most, her dad being the latest, she’d let Zack hurt her feelings. Irrational thinking or not, calling her “all head” had stung, and Lacy did a lousy job of hiding her reaction.
She studied her feet, dejected, awash in insecurity. Why had she thought it was a good idea to wear a chef toque in a food truck? To him, she probably still looked like the puff pastry dough boy with a red wig.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” he said, catching on, a sincere cast to his gaze. “You’ve certainly filled out since then.”
It should be his turn to cringe. Filled out? Now who was saying awkward things? He was trying to fix the unintentional slight, but, still wincing from her childish response, she let him marinate in the iffy-at-best comment rather than immediately letting him off the hook.
His shoulders tensed, and his collar rose slightly up his neck as he must have realized how his statement could come off. “Did not mean to make you uncomfortable, Ms. Winters. Apologies.” Even his cheeks looked a little peachier than earlier on the gorgeous olive-toned tan.
She nodded, appreciating his minor squirm. He was a man of few words, but he’d said the right ones just now. “Call me Lacy.” May as well take advantage and move in while he was in a vulnerable position. “So, what do you say, can I park here during the week? Feed your guys?”
Amused by the obvious battle going on behind those seriously green eyes, Lacy watched as he thought. Ate. And thought more. He glanced over his shoulder to the men on the site who’d stopped working to check out the pink foodmobile. If he’d let her, she’d sell a crateload of food to those men right now. She was ready for this. She knew how to cook, and she’d had a great role model in her father. Maybe she wasn’t completely up to snuff