Grady shot her a knowing look. “Don’t stress out.”
“I’m not.” She guiltily stepped away from the salt and pepper shakers.
Grady pointed with a carving knife. “You’re organizing things. Which means that tomorrow I won’t be able to find them. Look, relax—we’ve got the food festival coming up. That always brings in extra dough.”
According to Grady—and Aunt Sophia’s sales records—that was the case every year. But could they depend on that alone? Red numbers in columns danced in front of Rory’s eyes. It seemed foolish to put all their eggs—well, make that tacos—in one basket. But wasn’t that what she’d done when she quit her pay-the-bills job in insurance and took over the food truck last year when her aunt’s health declined?
It’d started in increments. Rory had filled in while Aunt Sophia was too weak from chemo to work the truck. Grady kept things running, but one man couldn’t take all the orders, fill them, and keep up with the business side of things. So Rory had filled the gaps, thinking it would only be temporarily, until one day they all realized it wasn’t. The decision was made, the will was signed, and a few weeks later, Sophia was gone.
And here they were.
“Like I said, hermana, you’re good at a lot. But for now, why don’t you be good at scooting over. You know he’ll be here any minute.” Grady nudged her out of the way of the stove with the bowl of freshly grated shredded cheese.
Rory glanced at her watch. Wednesday, June 2. “It’s the lawyers’ order again, isn’t it?” The last few Wednesdays, without fail, the Worthington Family Law Firm had ordered enough food for an army and insisted on a rush job. Heaven forbid they order ten minutes sooner instead, to make up the difference. The runner they sent each week—the poor, pale, lanky college kid—always looked as harried as a third monkey trying to board the ark.
And yet every Wednesday she and Grady hurried around during the lunch rush, all at the whim of some rich society family thinking they were too good to wait in line like everyone else. What was that saying about insanity meaning doing the same thing but expecting different results?
The walls of the food truck crushed in a few inches, and she inhaled deeply. Speaking of insanity—a food truck owner who couldn’t cook. But she was here for Aunt Sophia’s legacy. For her cousin Hannah. For all the people depending on her. The Salsa Street wasn’t just a popular restaurant on wheels. It was an heirship. Provision.
Even if it did constantly reek of cilantro.
Grady glanced up from the stove, calm and steady as always, despite their fast-paced morning. “Ready for the box.”
She already held it open.
His warm, big-brotherly smile of gratitude reminded her to take a deep breath. Life didn’t always have to be stressful. The past year had just seemed like it. Right now, the sun was shining—maybe a little too hot for this early in June, even for East Texas, but it was shining nonetheless. And the birds were chirping—although it was sort of a nuisance, really, that one mockingbird that frequently imitated the downtown Modest fire truck—
“She’d be proud, you know.”
Rory cocked an eyebrow at Grady.
“Don’t do that. You look even more like Fiona when you do.”
She twisted her lips to the side. “That’s so annoying.”
“Oh yes, you poor dear. It must be tragically difficult to be constantly mistaken for a leading Hollywood star.” Grady rolled his eyes as he expertly transferred the quesadilla to the waiting black Styrofoam box.
“It is, actually.” That’s why she’d signed up for Love at First Chat in the first place. Total anonymity. No pictures allowed. No more wondering who was actually interested in her versus who just wanted to be on the arm of the Fiona look-alike.
At least Thomas had finally cast his official vote.
Rory artfully arranged the slices of yellow and red peppers atop the rice, then secured the lid on the box, added it to the to-go bag of other orders, and turned to the pick-up window just as the lanky runner rushed up, shirt half-untucked and shoelace untied.
She jerked the bag just out of his reach. “Laces.”
“Not again.” He sighed as he bent to quickly whip them into knots. Then he straightened and held out his hands.
She shook her head. “Shirt.”
He rolled his eyes and shoved it haphazardly into the loose waist of his slacks.
“You know your boss would lecture you. I’m doing you a favor.” She surrendered the heavy bag to his waiting grip.
Grady joined her at the window, straight-faced. “Fly.”
The kid’s eyes widened, and he quickly lowered the bag a few inches south. Grady snorted. “I’m kidding, man. It’s a joke. They don’t do that where you work?”
He sighed. “If you count laughing at people as joking, then yes. The partners are regular comedians.”
Grady tilted his head back and roared, the contagious sound radiating from deep within. Tension melted off Rory’s shoulders. It always did when he laughed. It reminded her of Aunt Sophia. Joy, personified. Another pound lifted off her back. Her aunt would be proud of them, wouldn’t she? They were doing just fine.
Even if business had been slightly declining the past two months. Rory’s stomach pinched again.
Grady leaned farther out the window, seemingly oblivious as always to the stress tap-dancing around him. “You’re funny. What’s your name?”
The guy hefted the bag to hang on his elbow. “Alton.”
“You going to be a lawyer one day, Alton?” Grady shoved a handful of napkins at him. “Don’t forget the sample cups there of jalapenos, if they want any.”
Alton dumped a few lidded cups into the bag and shrugged. “No way. It’s just a job. Beats minimum wage somewhere.”
“You should always do what you love.” Grady slid his knowing gaze toward Rory. “Then it’s
