Page 3 of Simmer Down
Heat makes its way from my cheeks all the way down to my chest. The whole time I was standing here, trying to be nice, he was disregarding me. I march up to the truck and pound on the cloudy glass window.
“Can you please move your truck?” I ask.
I catch his silhouette walking back and forth inside the truck, blatantly ignoring me. Steam levels my insides. What the ever-loving hell is this guy’s problem?
I pound on the window with both hands. Politeness isn’t working. It seems this newbie is in need of a harsher welcome. “Hey! Listen, you’re in my spot.”
This time when he walks out of the truck to meet me, he plants himself a foot away, resuming that killer glare from minutes ago.
“Maybe you couldn’t tell by the way I’ve been ignoring you, but I don’t care what you have to say,” he says.
His irritated tone combined with the melodic English accent throw me off-kilter. I didn’t expect to be arguing with a hot James Bond soundalike today, and it’s messing with my head.
“Um, what?” I stammer.
“Oh, bloody hell. Do you really need me to explain? I’m not moving.”
“Excuse me?” My voice hits that shrill register whenever I’m shocked and pissed at once.
“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters, glancing up at the sky. “I don’t have time for this.”
“Well, make time.” My hard tone verges on a bark. “You’re new here, right? I’ll explain. I’m Nikki DiMarco. I run this food truck, Tiva’s Filipina Kusina, with my mom, Tiva.”
I almost mention that it’s her day off, but I catch myself. Impossibly hot dickhead probably doesn’t care about the details. Pursing my lips, I let the momentary embarrassment wash over me.
He deepens his scowl, and I’m jolted back to our confrontation. I point behind me to the rusty white food truck bearing Mom’s name in bold red letters. Underneath the text is an artist’s rendering of a plate of noodles andlumpia. He glances briefly at my truck, then back at me.
“Like I was trying to say before, you’re not supposed to park right next to a competing food truck,” I say. “It’s kind of an unspoken rule here.”
It’s a struggle to keep my voice steady, but I want to be the calm, rational counter to this guy’s angry petulance.
Crossing his arms, he shrugs. “Letmeexplain something. I’m Callum James, and I don’t care. I’m staying right here.”
Those arresting hazel-green eyes peer down at me. Funny, I used to think of green as a cheerful, enlivening color before this stranger turned hostile. Now green will forever be associated with “obnoxious” and “jerkoff.”
“I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but what you’re doing isn’t cool. At all,” I say.
He smirks. The nerve of this jackass.
“Is something funny?” I say through gritted teeth.
He shrugs, letting his hands fall to his hips. Even through the loose-fitting T-shirt he’s wearing, I can tell this prick is cut. It’s obvious from his thickly muscled arms that are covered with ropelike veins, from the broad spread of his shoulders.
It’s a quick second before that smirk widens to a smug smile. “‘Isn’t cool at all?’ Did you honestly say that?”
The rough, guttural register of his voice sends a sheet of goosebumps across my skin. Soft yet lethal. Like a bad guy in an action movie whispering threats to the main character who’s tied to a chair.
He chuckles before letting his gaze fall along the length of my body. Is he seriously checking me out right now? A deep, seconds-long inhale and exhale is the only way I can cope.
I will not punch this douchebag in the face.
I will not punch this douchebag in the face.
I chant the silent mantra in my head while gritting my teeth.
“Hey,” I bark. “Are you kidding me? Eyes up here.”
His shoulders jolt slightly at my demand. At least he has the decency to look embarrassed. But a beat later it melts from his face, leaving behind a steely frown. He takes a single step forward, leaning his head down toward me. “Listen, petal. I don’t care one bit if you think this is ‘uncool.’”
