Simmer Down - Sarah Smith Page 0,3
close to each other if they’re not in a parking lot or at an event. And seeing as I was technically here first—”
He turns around and walks back into his truck before I can finish speaking. My jaw hangs open in the salty ocean breeze. Did he seriously just do that?
I stand for several seconds, arms dangling at my sides, processing the moment. Maybe he’s embarrassed and needs a bit of time before he moves his truck. I can certainly understand. I’ve made plenty of mortifying mistakes while learning the food truck ropes. This morning’s menu mishap is small beans compared to the time I lost the credit card reader and could only take cash for a handful of days, or the time I mistakenly filled the sweet chili sauce bottles with sriracha.
I fold my arms across my chest, waiting for the engine to fire up. But nothing happens. Just more clanking sounds from the inside of his truck. I check my watch and see that a full minute has passed since he walked away from me. The longer I stand out there alone, the clearer it becomes. That midsentence exit wasn’t embarrassment; it was a dismissal—of me. He’s not going anywhere.
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