It was theirs.
Acknowledgments
Writing a novel is sort of like raising a child—it takes a village. Special thanks to my talented tribe, including but certainly not limited to my awesome agents, Tamela Hancock Murray and Steve Laube, and to my brilliant editors, Kelsey Bowen and Amy Ballor. You guys make me look good!
Additional thanks to the marketing and design teams at Revell—Brianne, Gayle, Mackenzie, Karen, Michele, and Erin. I knew I liked you all from that first sip of coffee during our meeting at the 2019 ACFW conference, but wow—you guys are the best! Thanks for your hard work and heart work.
To my former assistant and current friend, Bri McMurry—I’ll forever remember you jamming out with me to Taylor Swift in that little oil and gas office on the fourteenth floor, where the idea for this book was born many moons ago. I still remember telling you the heroine was going to be named Bri, and here we are. You’re welcome.
To Allen and Jim—I’m honored to be on this journey with you brothers in Christ. Thanks for walking me through all The Things. Pass the salsa.
Georgiana—I couldn’t do this writing thing without your encouragement and critiques. Rachel—thanks for always harassing me to keep writing because you want more to read. Lori—you’re always one Vox away from a totally on-point brainstorming session that saves the day. Ashley—how were we ever NOT friends? Thanks for being you. Casey, Anne, Cat, Melissa, Katie, and Jenn—thank you for prayers, texts, salads in bed, pillow talk, counseling via text, random trips to monasteries, and other daily contributions to help me keep my sanity. Love you guys!
Last but never least, to my husband, Topher—I’m so glad neither of us canceled that first coffee date. You’re the best thing to ever come from a nonfat, white-chocolate mocha. I love you!
CHAPTER
ONE
If Rory Perez could find a way to wad all the cilantro in the entire world into a ball and hurl it into outer space, it still wouldn’t be far enough removed for her preference.
“That’s enough, right?” She pulled her sweatshirt up over her nose and turned pleading eyes to Grady, who stood by the food truck’s efficiency stove and sprinkled the vile weed into a bubbling quesadilla mixture.
Grady shook his head, humor dancing around the laugh lines by his eyes—wrinkles Rory was pretty sure she was responsible for. Probably responsible for the gray hair streaking his dark temple, too, even though he was only in his midforties. “Calm down, hermana. He asked for extra. Besides, who’s the chef here?”
“You are.” Rory reluctantly dropped her turquoise sweatshirt from her face and reached to hand him the spatula she knew he’d need. Grady was more than just her late aunt’s longtime food truck assistant—this past year, he’d been Rory’s sanity as she struggled to keep the inherited business booming.
And other things from exploding.
She cut her eyes at him. “By the way, I’m not your sister.”
“Close enough—and good thing, or I’d have kicked you out of this food truck a long time ago. You know I wouldn’t keep up this charade for just anyone.” He wrinkled his nose at her as he adjusted the heat on the stovetop burner.
She crossed her arms. “I don’t think charade is the right word . . .”
“Fine. You like farce better?”
“More like, assumption.”
“Right.” He clicked his tongue in mock disapproval. “Customers assume you cook like your aunt and assume I just bus the dishes.”
Rory’s neck flushed as the truth of the statement lingered. “They do not.”
“Sure, they do. Fortunately, Nicole keeps me man enough to take it.” He winked. “Now, can you hand me the—” He stopped as Rory waved the black utensil in his face. “Gracias.”
“See? Maybe I’m not good at cooking, but I’m good for something.” If she were typing that to StrongerMan99, she’d have added #kidding #notkidding. Well, maybe. She hadn’t dared to get quite that vulnerable yet in their online chats. But they were getting to that point. There was something so appealing—so safe—about anonymity. Grady might be as close as family, but it was hard to go there with him. One, because he turned everything into a mushy compliment-fest, but also because technically, he was her employee.
Technically, she owned the Salsa Street food truck.
And technically, she couldn’t cook to save her life.
He pressed the tortilla flat against the skillet. “You’re good at a lot of stuff, Ror—probably more than you know, if you’d ever get out from behind your computer.”
She bristled. “I’m productive on my computer. It’s not like I’m an obsessed gamer or something.”
“Hey, hey, hey, now—what’s wrong with gaming? Everyone needs a break from reality now and then. Me and Nicole play online pool together. She’s getting pretty good.” Grady flipped the quesadilla.
The too-familiar aroma of spicy chicken and peppers filled the small space. Rory’s hair had smelled like smoke for almost a year now. Just one of many things that had changed in the past twelve months.
“Exactly—a break. That’s what my digital art is for me.” Everything made sense on a computer. Colors. Angles. Numbers. They all fit together like a perfect puzzle. In the food truck, however, everything was a frequent reminder of the pressures riding Rory’s shoulders like a pageant queen on a hometown parade float. She couldn’t get lost in that.
It just smothered. Like the smoke from the stove.
“I’ll admit, the updated truck skin you designed for the Salsa Street is legit. I knew you had more in you than those doodles you make.” Grady reached over and clicked on the vent, raising his voice slightly over the sudden whirring.
“Whatever.” She straightened the crooked oven mitt hanging on its peg by the stove. She hated compliment-fests. They always just ricocheted right off while she flailed around to catch them. Any of them. Thomas had done a great job helping her bat them away.
But that was ancient history. If twelve months was to be considered historic, that is.
She shook off the negative thoughts,
