Page 79 of Simmer Down
Through all the convulsing, all the whimpering, all the panting, one thing is clear: this climax is perfection, and the reason why is because it’s with Callum.
He holds me up as I thrash against him, refusing to let himself break until I’ve gotten mine. When I come down, his body tenses, his jaw bulges, and his eyes go hazy. But somehow he’s still got me. His muscled arms shroud me like a warm blanket. Under them, I’m safe. Under him, everything is perfect.
We hug each other as we fall over into a lying position on the couch. Our breathing shallow, we take a second to reposition ourselves. He’s the big spoon like always, and I’m tucked tightly against him. It’s my favorite position to fall asleep in. I stretch against him, my eyelids heavy with each blink. I let them close for real this time, the soft lull of Callum’s breath above me soothing me like a lullaby.
From behind me, he leans his mouth to my ear. “I have to tell you something.”
“Mmm?” is all I can manage from my drowsy haze.
“Nikki, I...”
Before he can finish, I’m sound asleep.
Chapter 18
Every time I look up, it’s the same sight. A sea of food trucks at the Maui Food Festival. Usually from this spot in downtown Lahaina, you get a clear view of the harbor dotted with dozens of boats, but not today.
I retie my apron while scanning the crowd. It’s wall-to-wall people, and it’s barely noon. After just two hours, it’s packed to the max. Today there are a million food trucks and booths set up side by side, as far as the eye can see. People saunter at a snail’s pace from eatery to eatery because walking at a normal speed when it’s this crowded is out of the question.
I relish the nonstop workflow though. It’s the only way to distract myself from my last mind-blowing night with Callum. Since then, we’ve been so busy with festival prep that we could barely find the time to text each other, let alone see each other in person.
I force the focus back to the chaos in front of me. I can’t think about Callum or how much I’d rather be in bed with him than sweating my skin off and cooking for every stranger that passes by.Our last night together was just that: one night. Today is what matters.
Today we find out if Tiva’s Filipina Kusina keeps our coveted spot on Makena Road, or if we have to scramble to find someplace new. I’m sweating like a sinner in church. God bless this black tank top and its ability to hide all the dampness leaching from my pores.
Even breaths and swallows help me keep my composure. All I can manage are nods, polite smiles, and pleasantries whenever I take cash or hand out food, nothing more.
Behind me, Mom fries endless orders oflumpiaand chickenadobowings.
“Three orders of fruit salad, coming right up! Two orders of chickenadobowings, coming right up!” She practically sings every order.
A group of regulars stops by to say hello and welcome her back after the health-related hiatus she took.
She pats my hand. “I was under strict orders from my daughter and my doctor to rest for a few days. But now I’m back and I’m ready to feed my folks. Now who’s ready for somelumpia?”
Soft cheers boom from the small crowd.
Every time she hands a customer their order, she beams. Not an ounce of hesitation is traceable in her cheery attitude. She’s a fitting balance to my nervous energy.
She taps my shoulder. “Isn’t this great? So many people want to try our food.” She looks up at a customer as he takes a bite of chicken wing. “How is it? Good?”
He nods, sauce smeared across his lips. “So, so good, Tiva. I already voted for you ladies online.”
She gives him a thumbs-up while I offer a soft “thank you.” The Maui Food Festival website has an active poll for attendees to vote on their favorite eateries. My hand itches to grab my phone out of thepocket of my jeans and check the results every five minutes. The Hungry Chaps truck is all the way on the opposite end of this row. I can’t see them, which means I can’t gauge how they’re doing. Checking the results as they come in would be an easy way to satisfy my curiosity.
Instead, I clench my fingers into a fist and resist. Obsessively checking the poll two hours into the festival will do nothing other than send my blood pressure to the mesosphere. We have the whole rest of the day left to work, and I can’t lose myself to distraction. My only goal for the next six hours is to cook the best dishes possible so every person that eats our food votes for us.
Penelope saunters up to the booth, her wide smile so bright it rivals the unrelenting sun beating above.
“Nikki! You’re kicking some serious ass!” She holds up her phone to me. “So many people are raving about your food on social media. They’re hashtagging Tiva’s left and right!”
Mom turns as soon as she hears her name, beaming when Penelope shows her all the photos of our food that people have been posting to Instagram and Twitter.
“You’re killing it, Tiva!” Penelope high-fives her before ordering ahalo-halo. “It’s so hot and I’ve been craving this.”
I dispense a generous serving of crushed ice,ube, sweetened beans, coconut, and evaporated milk into a paper cup and hand it to her. She tastes a spoonful, closes her eyes, and moans. The “mmm” she lets slip sounds more like a growl than a hum. Leaning over the counter, she whispers in my ear, “Your boy toy is in the zone. I went over to wish him luck. The look on his face was intense.”
A high-pitched chuckle falls from her lips. All I can do is say, “Oh wow.”
