Page 17 of Beachside Kisses With My Enemy

But it’s not just about our personal history, whatever Blake accused me of last weekend. It’s about how he parked his business nearly on my front lawn. Customers have to walk right past his truck to get to the Robin, and some are bound to be swayed by the delicious scent of frying cheese.

It has nothing to do with the actual quality of the sandwiches. None.

Although, fine, y’all, the sandwiches are amazing. If his offerings are anything like what he had available at the wedding, Blake’s got gourmet recipes—everything from The Classic to one with pimiento cheese and apple-cherry chutney and another with ham, gouda, and caramelized onions. It’s not surprising. He’s always been talented. I remember how he used to make me and Marilee gourmet pizzas on their backyard grill when we were pre-teens. And how he and Mare would see a recipe of something new to try on TV and recreate it, asking me to be the judge.

Cooking always seemed to make him happy.

But right now, his cooking is making me decidedly unhappy. And according to him, he doesn’t think it’s a big deal that he’s opening his business right on my doorstep.

Well, my empty dining room says it’s a very big deal.

And since nobody else is in charge around here, it’s up to me to set him straight. “I’ll be back,” I say as I head out the Robin’s front door, Sam calling “Good luck!” behind me.

I halt and blink against the bright afternoon light. This can’t be happening. There’s Beach Boys music playing from somewhere—maybe the truck, maybe the speakers at Rainbow Ice next door—and a line stretches from the food truck straight down the sidewalk that leads between the two buildings and meets up with the beach boardwalk just west of us.

The truck itself ruins the aesthetic of Main Street, where all of the buildings are painted bright and fun colors. It’s the kind of downtown where the very definitions of words like adorable and quaint were born. Each storefront and restaurant is unique, but they all tie together to create a wonderful kaleidoscope of color.

Blake’s truck, though? It’s white and black. Oh sure, with some red lettering—but it’s all Los Angeles, big-city fancy, and doesn’t belong here any more than its owner does. But I guess I’m the only one who thinks so, because sweet macaroni, there have to be at least thirty or forty people in this line! And just like inside The Blackberry Muffin on Saturday morning, I recognize a good majority of them. This is like a Saturday crowd, but on a Thursday in the middle of a working day.

My chest squeezes tight, and I back up against the front of the Robin, breathing in and out until air comes more easily.

Surely it’s just the novelty of it, right? All of these folks want to try the hot new thing, but eventually that hot new thing will decide Hallmark Beach isn’t where it wants to be—that Hallmark Beach isn’t good enough for it—and it’ll uproot and literally drive away.

It’s happened before. No sense in thinking it won’t happen again.

But what can I do about it? I already asked Uncle Burt to confirm the details of Blake’s application for a permit, and it sounds like everything was on the up-and-up. Maybe I just need to have patience. To let the excitement die down and hope that the Robin’s faithful service and longevity in this community will draw people back within our walls once again.

Nodding, I turn to head back inside and lick my wounds, but I catch sight of a group of women who work at the Golden Highlight beauty salon and come in every Thursday for our lunch special, the peanut butter bacon burger. They’re walking up the path toward the Robin, but then one of them nudges another and points to the food truck. And I don’t blame them—it’s kind of hard to miss.

Glinda, a twenty-something with straight black-and-blue hair, heads toward the food truck and waits for Blake to slide an order through the window. He looks down at the woman and flashes her a smile—one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Polite, but not effusive or flirtatious.

She asks a question, he gives an answer, and the woman turns and waves her friends over.

All three of them proceed to walk to join the back of the line.

Oh no. Uh uh. Bright and shiny is one thing. Outright thievery? Blake Moffitt will not steal from me.

I simply won’t allow it.

I march toward the truck, my eyes darting this way and that. There’s no way I can get a private audience with him at the window, so there’s only one alternative. Before I can talk myself out of it, I rage-stomp around the front of the truck so as to avoid the line and sneak around to the back, where I fling open the truck door and climb inside.

The heat is the first thing to hit me. Even with a few fans going, it’s warm inside this metal box. The galley is narrow, with a sink, prep station, and the sliding window on one side, and shelves, a fridge, and the grill on the other. The shelves are as organized as I imagined they’d be—not that I’d actually imagined ever setting foot inside this place—with loaves of bread and other ingredients perfectly stacked beside the boxes of extra napkins, cutlery, and disposable food trays.

I’ve never wanted to disorganize—maybe even vandalize—something more in my life, but I push the urge aside. I’ve got a food truck owner to deal with.

If only he didn’t look so put together himself.

Despite the heat level inside, he’s dressed in a blue button-up shirt that’s rolled to his elbows, revealing nicely corded forearms—the kind that belong to guys who work out regularly but are too busy living life to be total gym rats. His khaki slacks are partially covered by a black waist apron, and his brown boots look more suited for a conference room than a food truck in Hallmark Beach.

And yet, he’s still got that impossibly sexy business casual look going on. The kind that is only slightly mussed and partially unbuttoned—like it’s the end of a long day of work, and he’s coming home on a Friday night for pizza and wine and some movie watching and cuddling on the couch.

Gah. This look is not good for my heart. It’s a reminder of those teenage years, when there were nights we hung out like that. Talking. Flirting—though ever since that almost-kiss on my seventeenth birthday, I’ve questioned whether I imagined it all.

This look hearkens back to those memories, almost making me forget that underneath that handsome facade beats the dead heart of someone who would never be satisfied with a small-town life. He’s made that very clear. Which is why it honestly makes no sense that he’s here running a business in Hallmark Beach anyway. There’s got to be a catch. Maybe it’s time I finally took Marilee’s advice and asked Blake exactly why he’s here.

Or maybe the why doesn’t matter, so long as he leaves. Or at the very least, moves his dang truck far, far away.

Flipping a sandwich, he finally looks over at me. His expression doesn’t change—like he has women pop into his truck every day. Like it’s no big deal. “If you want a sandwich, you’re going to have to wait in line like everybody else, Sunshine.”

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