Tacos for two, p.3
Tacos for Two, page 3
She ran her fingers over the keys.
After all, if you can’t talk to a total stranger, who can you talk to?
LOL.
She pressed on before she lost her nerve.
I’m here anytime you want to vent. Vague vent, of course.
As much as she enjoyed talking to StrongerMan99, she also really enjoyed the rules. They were safe—and they kept their developing friendship safe. In a way, it’d be nice to be able to see the person on the other side of the screen. Did he have dark hair? Blond? Was he telling the truth about his age?
She knew the risks. Knew he could be anyone, anywhere in the world, masking as a single guy in her radius. But that was unlikely since the site’s staff background-checked each applicant and canceled accounts without refund if caught lying.
But at least he didn’t gawk at her. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Fiona Stone?” She’d heard it on every date she’d ever gone on—and after each one, she never knew if the guy was interested in her or in her best physical features. This site was perfect. No photos, no identity except the true one of the heart. Or however their cheesy motto went.
He typed again.
I appreciate it.
And she appreciated him—more than he’d ever know, and probably more than she’d ever be willing to say.
Favorite popsicle flavor? Mine’s grape.
And just like that, the heaviness of their conversation faded. She loved this part of their signing-off routine—taking one last step to get to know each other before saying good night. It was lighthearted, fun—and best of all, it conveyed the message that he wanted to keep learning about her.
She responded.
Orange. Grape turns your mouth purple. Favorite gum flavor? Hint—it’s either mint or you’re wrong.
Cinnamon. 😬
She snorted.
Well, it’s been nice chatting with you.
Hey, now. Don’t forget, opposites attract.
You have a chance to redeem this.
She looked up at the movie.
Do you prefer Meg Ryan’s hair short or long?
Short, obviously.
Redemption secured.
They said good night, then signed off.
Rory slowly closed her laptop. The warmth of their interactions always lingered deep inside, easing the ache like a hot shower after a cold jog. Grady had a point. Eventually, they’d have to meet for their relationship to go any further. But for now, she craved stability, and StrongerMan99 was always a DM away. So far, he wasn’t treating her like she was too much and somehow not enough all at the same time—like Thomas had.
Maybe that meant he wouldn’t run away after realizing she was just a small-town woman who hated change . . . a food truck owner who struggled not to burn toast . . .
And a girl who couldn’t ever get a man to stay.
“Mayonnaise!”
That was it. The ingredient in Salsa Street’s quesadillas he hadn’t been able to figure out. Jude shoved away from the stove and yanked open the refrigerator as the front door chimed. Quesadillas would be his next experiment. For now, he had to finish these tacos.
“What in the world are you doing?”
Jude turned, meat-laden spatula at the ready, and shoved it toward his best friend as he entered the kitchen. “Try this.”
His longtime friend and college roommate, Cody Austin, held up both hands in defense as he rested his hip against Jude’s stainless steel kitchen counter. “I think I just turned vegan.”
Jude extended the sampling of seasoned ground beef farther. He could only imagine what his friend thought, coming over to help quiz him for the bar and finding Jude in an apron, the kitchen a total disaster. “If you hate it, I’ll eat a bite of raw onion.”
“Like an apple?” Cody raised his eyebrows.
“Like an apple.”
“Deal.” He opened his mouth.
Jude handed him the spatula, and Cody shoveled in the bite. He chewed, hesitated, swallowed, then hesitated again. “Totally awful.” He pointed to the peeled onion sitting on the cutting board. “Your turn.”
“You’re lying.” Jude snatched the spatula back.
“I’m lying.” Cody nodded. “I tried to hate it, but man, that was good. Excellent, really.”
“I knew it.” Jude resisted the urge to fist pump, then went ahead and did it anyway. This was cause for celebration. He hadn’t cooked Maria’s beloved taco recipe in about six years, and he’d been afraid he’d lost his touch.
“The cilantro might be a bit heavy.”
Jude scowled. “Impossible.”
“Not everyone loves it like you do.”
“Well, they should.”
“So, are we studying or playing Martha Stewart?”
Jude untied his apron strings. “I got hung up on this one section in the book and wanted a snack, and the snack turned into . . . well.” He gestured to the cilantro covering the island like confetti, the dishes stacked in the sink, and the hamburger meat wrappers piled by the overflowing trash can.
“You know, there are people out there who do this cooking thing for you. And even bring it to your door, for an extra fee. It’s an amazing time to be alive.” Cody swept a handful of cilantro into his palm and dusted it over the sink.
“That’s the idea.” Jude stirred the skillet of meat with a clean spatula. He cast Cody a glance over his shoulder. “What if I was that people?”
Cody squinted, as if trying to follow. “That people?”
“Well, those people.”
“Those people?” Cody echoed.
“Dude. You’re not a parrot.”
“And you’re not a chef. Or a deliveryman. What are you saying?”
“I’m saying, I could be.” He nodded toward the flyer lying on the kitchen counter. “Look.”
Cody picked up the blue flyer and read the big block letters in a monotone voice. “Announcing Modest’s Food Truck Cook-Off, sponsored by Coined Bank & Trust.”
“Not the contest part. Keep reading.”
“The annual food festival?” He blinked at Jude. “But isn’t the festival for food trucks?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have a food truck.” Cody glanced over his shoulder, as if checking to see if one had pulled up and parked in the living room.
“Not yet.” Jude rubbed his hands together. It was crazy. But he felt a little crazy. Because working for his dad had made him crazy. “But I could.”
Cody tapped the flyer against the counter. “Is this like a midlife crisis a decade early? Wouldn’t it be easier to, like, rent a convertible and drive up the California coast or something? I’ll chip in for gas money if that’s the deal.”
Midlife, no.
Crisis? Nearly.
“No gas money necessary. Unless I need gas for the food truck.” Jude frowned. “I guess I need to figure out how that works.”
Cody face-palmed.
When the flyer had come in the mail that afternoon, Jude had almost thrown it away. But the exchange with his family at lunch yesterday and his conversation with ColorMeTurquoise last night had gotten his bar-weary brain churning with what-ifs.
What if he didn’t take the bar?
What if he didn’t stay in the family business?
What if he opened his own food truck—or one day, a restaurant—and actually enjoyed his career?
If he wanted out of the family legacy, it was now or never. He’d never had a shot at it before, but this seemed to be a true opportunity. Or maybe, for the first time, he’d finally mustered enough courage to go for it. Regardless, the festival would be the perfect time to launch into the industry and make a name for himself.
Jude shrugged. “Look, there’s a lot to figure out, but I can do it. I’ve always loved cooking.” There was a special joy in creating something and having someone else find pleasure in it. Something comforting and warm. He couldn’t tell that to Cody, or his brawny, former-football-playing best friend would go into testosterone overload and march right out the door.
But he could be real with ColorMeTurquoise. She’d get it. In fact, he’d tell her tonight. As much as he could, anyway—no specifics. But he could tell her he was finally chasing a dream and that she was partly responsible for giving him the courage to do so. Their conversation yesterday had sparked new initiative in him. Asking her what she did made him reevaluate what he did, and he didn’t like what he saw.
And he wanted her to see the best in him.
Cody handed back the flyer, doubt glazing his expression. “Your dad’s cool with this? Quitting the family firm to drive around tacos?”
“I’m not driving around tacos.” His smile faded. Cody had a point. Hollis wouldn’t just let him leave without consequences. There’d be vague—but intentional—threats using words like trust funds and rewritten wills tossed around if he even tried.
Which meant he somehow had to make his dad think this was his idea. That it was somehow better for the firm if Jude went this route instead of taking the bar—at least for now.
The meat sizzled. Jude reached over to click off the burner and removed the pan from the heat. “Does it ever bother you that you went to an Ivy League university, yet you’re back here in Modest?”
Cody tilted his head. “The same can be said for you.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.” Jude shook his head. “We’re only here because Grandmother grew up in Modest before moving to Dallas later in her life with all their oil money. Her family helped found this town, so she carried out all the Worthington traditions. As the only son, Dad feels an obligation to keep that torch burning.”
“Grandmother?” Cody shook his head. “You never called her something more familiar growing up? Like Nana or Mammaw?”
Jude squinted. “You never met Emma Worthington, did you?”
“I can only imagine.”
“Let’s just say she was more pearls and pedigree than cookies and throw pillows.” More firm pats on the back than warm hugs. Maybe it was no wonder his dad was so stiff and unaffectionate. Still, Grandmother had been generous to the town of Modest with both her time and her money and left behind a legacy that demanded respect for reasons far beyond wealth.
Unfortunately, Hollis wasn’t living out the same. He might have donated annually out of obligation, but doing so was more a power play than true generosity. Grandmother had loved the landscaping around downtown Modest and had spent countless hours beautifying the town with her own hands, gloved though they were. She hosted garden parties and book clubs—which was the reason he’d been introduced to Austen, Hemingway, and Dickens at a young age—and created a nonprofit that supplied art supplies and instruments to the elementary school. She donated funds and first-edition literature tomes to the museum, started a monthly women’s Bible study at the country club, and made frequent efforts to create awareness about and protect local honeybee colonies.
The only thing Hollis ever wanted to protect was his own backside.
Cody shrugged. “I’m pretty happy with the construction business I started.”
Jude pointed. “Exactly. You made your own decision, you started a business, and you’re happy.”
Cody handed Jude the colander sitting on the counter and stepped back as he drained the meat. “What’s your point?”
“The point is—you chose, and you’re reaping those benefits.”
“So you’re saying being a millionaire in Grandmother’s hometown isn’t doing it for you? Why not stay in Dallas then, in your other family mansion, and do law there?”
Jude turned on the water to rinse the grease from the sink. “Because I love Modest.”
“Dude, you’re losing me.” Cody ran his hand over his jaw. “What are you getting at?”
Jude set the colander on the counter and turned to face him. “I never got to choose.”
“And you’re not happy.”
“Right.”
“You know, a girlfriend could help with that.”
Jude shot his friend a look.
“Okay, so to sum up—you’re not happy, and now you’re choosing tacos over the family business.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“What’s it gonna be? Should I quiz you on the bar? Or is my new duty official taste tester?”
What was it going to be?
Jude hesitated. He was most likely diving in over his head. He knew nothing about any of this. He’d never even cooked for more than a few people at a time. It was going to take more than simply figuring out a few secret ingredients and stuffing his own fridge with tacos. He needed a cooking class—probably several. Maybe he could sign up for one of those YouTube courses, take a master class online.
An idea suddenly flared in his subconscious, morphing slowly into possibility. He didn’t know a lot about starting a business, but he knew a great business that already existed. And he didn’t know much about cooking anything other than Maria’s recipe, but he knew an existing food truck that did a stellar job. And right now, he had the funds to invest in learning.
Hope rose against the odds—stubborn like a Worthington. Jude shoved his textbook out of the way, then pointed to one of the barstools on the other side of the counter with a confidence he didn’t quite believe but desperately needed. Decision made. “Have a seat and grab a fork.”
StrongerMan99:
Favorite TV show?
ColorMeTurquoise:
I love King of Queens and Friends reruns.
Would it be weird if I said the same?
No. You still like sports, though, and I’d rather watch grass grow. Actually, watching golf is sort of the same thing.
Fair enough.
First memory?
Hmmm. My dad took me and my brother to this restaurant when I was little. They threw rolls at you from across the room if you asked for one. It was a kid’s dream and a parent’s nightmare.
LOL. I’ve been to one of those before. I got smashed in the face with a roll.
What’s your earliest memory?
I don’t know if it’s my first memory, but it’s an old one. My dad and my aunt took me to Disney World with my cousin. I just remember the parades and the spinning teacups.
Is barfing allowed in the happiest place on earth?
Allowed or inevitable?
It’d have to be both if I rode one of those. 🤣 Okay, new game. Would you rather . . . be able to tell the future or read minds?
Hmmm. Read minds.
Even right now? With us?
Especially right now . . . with us.
You don’t strike me as a risk-taker, and that seems risky.
You make me feel safe.
I’m honored. Also, I have to point out, I’d choose tell the future. We should combine our powers for good and rule the world.
Deal. Now, would you rather let a tarantula crawl down your arm or eat a ghost pepper?
I hate spiders.
That’s cliché.
No, really. I HATE spiders.
I hate spicy food.
More than spiders?
More than anything.
Can I tell you that you’re an absolute weirdo and you not be offended?
I already knew you were going to say that.
Three
“I’ve never understood the appeal of mole sauce.”
“And I’ve never understood your aversion to authentic Mexican food.” Grady shot Rory a look as he measured chicken broth over a mixing bowl. “Also, if you pronounced it correctly—meaning not like the animal that tunnels underground—it might have more appeal.”
She tilted her head, considering. “Doubt it.”
“Can you at least stop eating that Hershey’s bar now?”
Chocolate was her favorite stress snack. She pinched off one more bite, then handed over the remainder of the dark chocolate bar. Grady shook his head as he appeared to fight the grin stretching across his face. “You’re impossible, hermana.”
“I prefer incorrigible.” She wiped the corners of her mouth to remove the evidence.
Hannah stifled a laugh from the bottom of the open truck ramp, where she was set up with a card table and folding chair, carefully creating origami in the late-morning sun. “I think she’s both.”
“Thank you, Hannah.” Grady bowed toward her, and she wrinkled her freckled nose in response.
“Don’t start ganging up on me now.” Rory pointed teasingly to her cousin. She loved when Hannah got to come hang out at the truck—her mom’s old business. Hannah had been at Unity Angels, a home for people with Down syndrome, for almost seven years and loved it. They treated her like family—made sure she knew she was valued and important. A little over a year ago, Rory had volunteered to plan the party the care center hosted to celebrate each resident’s annual achievements. It was the last event Aunt Sophia had been well enough to attend. Rory still remembered her aunt’s proud smile as Hannah walked the stage and accepted her certificate.
When Hannah was around, it was as if Sophia still was too.
Rory smiled at her. “You’re supposed to be on my side, remember?”
“I’m on the side of the swan.” She held up her latest creation as a proud grin split her rounded cheeks.
“That’s amazing.” It really was. Hannah had a natural gift for origami, sort of like Grady had a natural gift in the kitchen. Rory, well—she was naturally gifted at dialing for takeout.
“You know, Rory, you could actually learn to cook rather than stand by bemoaning that you can’t.” Grady turned to the next counter to continue slicing strips of chicken on a cutting board.
“Hear, hear!” Hannah piped up.
Rory hiked her eyebrows as she leaned one hip against the oven door. “Remember the last time you gave me a lesson?”
Grady winced. “Ah, right. The dish towel.”
She demonstrated the fireball with her hands. “Whoosh.”
“Went right up in smoke.” Grady handed her a package of bread crumbs. “You’re right. Never mind. Just measure me out a fourth of a cup of these.”
