Page 4 of Pitcher Perfect

After five yearsof running my own food truck, I could chop onions like a Cuisinart. It had been an extra-busy morning in my new spot at the center of downtown Dahlia Springs, which meant I had to replenish the onion earlier than usual. That had to bode well for the move from my recently defunct Portland pod of food trucks to the charming small town.

Over the few weeks I’d been parked outside the town’s coffee shop, business had steadily increased. It was nowhere near the consistent rush I’d carefully cultivated in Portland, but I found myself enjoying the slower pace. It was still busy, but I wasn’t run as ragged.

The town had a charm to it that I would never find in Portland. Downtown was a walkable stretch of only a handful of blocks. The storefronts were colorful, and baskets filled with flowers hung from old-looking streetlamps. Gift shops, antique stores, restaurants and cafes, a bookstore, a yoga studio, and a metaphysical shop, among other businesses occupied the buildings. It felt welcoming, like a tourist town, but without many tourists from what I could tell. Maybe in the summer, more people would stop in on their way to the coast.

Dahlia Springs was proudly inclusive. They claimed they’d been queer friendly ever since the town was founded decades before by some liberal Portlanders who wanted a slower pace and less traffic. Or at least that was what I’d been told by several locals who’d talked my ear off while I’d cooked for them. Quite the welcoming committee.

After finishing the onions, I washed my hands and helped a trio of women with their orders. I recognized them from a few previous visits. Repeat customers helped the food truck world go round.

“Are you just passing through?” the blonde asked in a tone that seemed falsely nonchalant.

After growing up in a small Idaho town, I knew the signs of someone trying to find gossip. “I hope to settle here.”

“I’ve heard that before,” the brunette mumbled.

The one with black hair swatted her arm.

The brunette shrugged but looked at me apologetically. “Sorry, but we’ve been burned after getting attached to good food before.” She turned to her companions. “Remember the wine bar?”

The other two released sighs that were a cross between longing and heartache.

“That place was amazing. And the tapas restaurant.”

The brunette looked back at me. “We get a fair number of people who leave the high cost of living in Portland until they learn the limits of small-town life. We might be open-minded, but we’re still rural.” She narrowed her eyes. “You’ve got damn fine breakfast sandwiches, and I don’t want to get attached if you won’t be here long.”

That was a lot to take in. “I’m glad you like my food.” I smiled. “Feel free to get attached. I plan to stay.”

I considered telling them it would be a lot easier if they could help me convince Frank Ambrose to rent his restaurant space to me, but I had a feeling that attempting to strong-arm the grumpy man via townies would make matters worse. I’d dreamt of opening my own restaurant since I was a kid loitering around Jenny’s diner after my mom passed, and I couldn’t do anything to hurt my chances at finally making it a reality.

Once I’d learned that the food truck pod I’d been part of for years was closing down because the landowner wanted to make a buck on developing the land—livelihood of the truck owners be damned—I knew it was my chance to open my restaurant. Between that and my apartment lease renewal coming up, it felt like the right time to move to Dahlia Springs. I’d idealized the place my whole life with my mom’s stories of growing up there and the few family vacations there before she died. It seemed like the perfect place to settle.

I shook my head to clear the storm clouds of grief threatening to roll in. Though it had been over twenty years since she’d died, sometimes it felt like yesterday.

“Are you single? My daughter is a terrible cook and could learn a few things from a cutie like you.” The one with black hair gave a wicked smile.

The brunette rolled her eyes. “Seriously? She’s an adult and can find her own men. It’s not her problem you’re gagging for grandbabies.”

Gagging for grandbabies? Jesus.

“And you know better than to make assumptions about people’s sexuality. Remember that training we had at work last year? Maybe he isn’t interested in women.”

Three pairs of eyes turned toward me expectantly. It wasn’t the first time I’d been propositioned while working at my truck, but someone doing it on behalf of their kid was new.

“Sorry to say women aren’t for me. Though I’m sure your daughter is lovely.”

The woman’s eyes softened. “She is.”

I fixed their breakfasts while she told me about her daughter’s success as an attorney.

I smiled as I thought back to the bumbling cutie who had flirted with me at the paper store a few months ago. I’d met tons of cute guys while living in Portland, but something about him stood out after all this time. His bright-blue eyes and warm smile had put me at ease. It was rare to meet someone in the wild and hit it off like that. There had definitely been a vibe.

Though I would love to meet someone, I needed to focus on my business for a while. Still, I was pissed at my supplier for interrupting my chat with that guy. I’d been about to give him my number when I’d gotten the call about an order mix-up. I doubted anything would’ve happened anyway. We probably would’ve texted a bit, but I wouldn’t have had the time to meet up with how busy my catering side hustle had been at the time. It was more fun to fantasize about what could have been than deal with the disappointing reality.

During a lull in midmorning visitors, I stopped to chug the last of the water in my Hydro flask. After refilling it, I saw two white guys approaching.

“Morning. What can I get you?”

They seemed to also be in their early thirties. The shorter one smiled widely at me, revealing dimples. He had a friendly and outgoing vibe. There was something familiar about him, but I couldn’t place it. He’d probably come by the cart before. The other guy was taller and had dirty-blond hair a bit darker than mine in a gravity-defying swoop. His smile was much flirtier.

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