Page 1 of Served

CHAPTER 1

LETTY

The lunch rush hits the Mariposa Taqueria like a flash flood, leaving me drowning in orders.

The sizzle of meat hitting the hot griddle fills the cramped quarters in the truck as I battle to keep up. Sweat beads along my hairline, threatening to drip into my eyes as I flip marinated steak with one hand and arrange fresh tortillas with the other.

Damn. Should’ve borrowed a bandana from my brother-in-law, Kyle.

“Two carne asada with extra salsa verde, one pescado with everything, and three quesadillas de pollo!” I chant to myself, keeping track of the orders.

The AC wheezes like it’s on life support and the grill hisses as I plate the quesadillas, the scent of queso and smoky char clinging to my damp tank top. Through the service window, I see four more customers joining the line.

Dios mío.

I’d insisted that Ellie take a couple days off to spend time with baby Serena. “I can handle it,” I’d told my sister, supremely confident. “You and Kyle deserve some family time.”

Well, now I’m paying for that burst of generosity. My fingers fly between chopping cilantro, grilling onions, and pouring horchata. Our customers don’t mess around, especially on Wednesdays, when we park in front of the Deepwood Mountain post office. I think the entire town comes out.

“Order for Griff!” I call through the window, handing a cardboard container to the hefty owner of Nolan’s General Store, who gives me a sympathetic smile.

“Flying solo today, Letty?”

“Ellie’s with the baby. It’s fine, I’ve?—”

A popping sound interrupts me, followed by the unmistakable smell of burning electrical components. The griddle’s light flickers briefly, then goes dark.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, jabbing at the controls. “No, no, no...”

Not today. Not with a line of hungry customers stretching around the lot, and nobody else around to help. I try the stove again. Nothing.

I huff. “Come on, you piece of?—”

Griff peers in through the window. “Electrical problems?”

“Looks like it.” A wave of panic rises in my chest. “I don’t—I’m not sure what to?—”

“Need to close up till you get it sorted out?” he asks kindly. “I can let everyone know.”

My throat tightens. This is our livelihood. Ellie and I have built this business with our bare hands, our abuela’s recipes, and more stubborn determination than sense. The thought of turning customers away makes my stomach churn.

“I might have to…” I admit, the defeat in my voice unmistakable.

“I’d be happy to take a look, ma’am.”

The voice is deep and smooth, sliding over me like silk. A man steps forward from behind Griff, taking off his ball cap.

Suddenly, my lungs forget how to work.

He’s six-foot-something, with tanned skin, a broad, muscled chest, and shoulders that could easily carry the weight of the sky. His dark hair is cropped short in a military fade, and his grin tilts higher on one side, like he’s sharing a secret with me and only me. But it’s his eyes that really undo me—green as the lush Oregon forests I used to hike through with my late husband, Jason. Since when do men smile like that at food truck cooks?

“I’ve got experience with electrical systems,” he continues. “Former Marine Corps engineer.”

The word “Marine” snags in my chest like a thorn. Jason had been a Marine. A series of images flash through my mind: him, so handsome in his uniform…his smile…the folded flag they handed me at his funeral four years ago.

“I couldn’t possibly ask you to—” I begin.

“You didn’t ask. I offered.” Wow, there’s that grin again.

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