Summer Grind
“Who made you Lord Commander of Southwinds, Laura?” Jensen hissed, his light hair haphazardly spiked up in all directions, his black Southwinds Coffee t-shirt soaked at his lower back. The bastard’s broad chest rose as he took a deep breath, readying himself to hurl more words at me.
July’s heat beat down on the two of us trapped together inside a retro, shiny, and unfortunately black food truck, like the vehicle was really a kiln and we were going to be fired into ceramics by the end of the day.
I ignored his soccer star physique—sort of—and snarled back, “You know nothing, Jon Snow.” I fisted one hand on my hip and braced the other against the counter next to the malfunctioning cash register, sweat sliding down my temple. I brushed the drip aside, tightened my blonde ponytail, and stared him down, cornering him inside the narrow galley kitchen.
We’d had near-constant tiffs since we’d begun early this morning and it was only ten o’clock. Nothing had gone right today—the door stuck, we ran out of ice, the Health Department got after us for not having a certificate displayed.
When we set up this morning, the air conditioning conked out. Of course our job was to make hot coffee for the morons who didn’t order it iced on a triple digit day so this meant that working conditions were dreadful. Two words added to my suffering: steamed milk. An unnecessary incremental increase in temperature from a heat source. I’d have to watch my temper or I’d be sure to scream at the next idiot patron who ordered a cappuccino.
Even though I wasn’t holding up a mirror, I was sure that the anger in my eyes matched his, our eyebrows narrowing, our squints identical. But my eyes didn’t look like his. Mine were brown like antique oak wood furniture. His were green like the pale sage of the local Santa Barbara hills, with bits of gold starbursting around the pupils. I’d never admit that I liked the way he looked, his toned muscles and tall body, and I especially hated that I knew his eye color.
I hated him. Always had, always would.
His nostrils flared on his disgustingly handsome face, and I thought I caught something in his eyes—appreciation that I got his Game of Thrones reference? With an exaggerated sigh, he relented. “Fine, I’ll get it. Be back in ten.” I sucked in my breath and my stomach, flattening myself against the counter as he passed along the narrow aisle, catching a whiff of his scent. I knew that scent. His. Like clean laundry plus man.
Still, it would be better to smell it on someone—anyone—else, while hanging out in a walk-in refrigerator, miles away from him. I daydreamed about ice floes, maybe with a friendly penguin. Not with him.
He hopped out of the back of the truck, slamming the door shut. It had stuck on us twice. My boss had gone with vintage cool for this food truck, but the practicalities of actually using it were a nightmare.
Leaving me to run both sales and competitive coffee-making, Jensen made a run to the closest gas station for ice, using the company van we’d brought along with us.
A week ago, our boss Ryan Fielding, a sun-kissed beach bum with unruly golden hair and permanently tanned skin, had gathered all the employees in the supply room in the back of his flagship coffee shop. “My friend Will Thrash is putting on a food truck festival for charity. There’s going to be a competition. Like a chili cookoff, only for food trucks. We’re in the beverage category. It would be great if we could place.”
Southwinds represent!
Ryan gave off the appearance of being the mellowest boss ever. But when he said, “It would be great if we could place” in his raspy surfer voice, what he really meant was, “Get it done.” Those surfer curls hid an astute businessman with a killer product—absolutely fantastic coffee. I’d do anything for him. So when he asked for volunteers to debut his new mobile coffee truck, I immediately raised my hand. Unfortunately, so did Jensen. Brownnoser.
So I was stuck with the jerk all day in this tin can, sniping at each other under our breaths when customers were around, since we had to smile and be nice. We were competing for little tickets that they’d stick in glass jars with the names of all of the trucks. Whoever had the most tickets would win. There wasn’t any monetary award, just prestige. Since Ryan had built up Southwinds here locally, we had a steady stream of customers for most of the morning. In the rare lulls, though, we’d either ignore each other in silence, or order each other around.
Not a fun way to spend a day.
I had to admit, though, that it was a pretty ranch, with corrals of horses off to the side and low rolling hills. A country band played under a tree, with people sitting on hay bales, listening. Food trucks circled an area of bare dirt, with picnic tables in the center under a white tent that provided needed shade. And hundreds of people were milling around, tasting food from at least thirty food trucks.
But dammit, why did it have to be with Jensen? Why alone with him? I mean, I’d just suffered through four years of high school and one of college with the guy, competing against him for everything the entire time—grades, awards, even being a TA for Ms. Roberts our Junior year and Mr. Stierley our Senior year.
I poured a small drip coffee for the next customer—a coiffed blonde with a Louis Vuitton purse—and took her cash, explaining that our credit card machine didn’t work. (Typical.) When I gave her the change back, the cheapskate didn’t put any in the tip jar. I wondered if she’d put her ticket in the jar to vote for us.
The next customer, a kid, thankfully just asked for a small bottle of water. I handed it to him, thinking that Jensen pissed me off so much not just because he was a self-righteous, competitive prick, but also because he simply was born into a completely different world than me—one that I didn’t belong to, and one that I couldn’t visit. And every part about him reminded me of that.
I hung out with the misfits. He didn’t. Wildly popular, for five years, I’d see him shoving fellow jocks good-naturedly between classes, smiling broadly, his teeth like white Chiclets in the sun. Wrapping his muscular arm around the shoulders of a cheerleader or a girls’ soccer player—a different one every few weeks. I hated that he’d wink at me as he passed. He just always seemed to be around me. He even picked me to be his science lab partner—and then proceeded to tease me the entire time. So annoying.
And of course he was Student Body President and captain of the boys’ soccer team. And Prom King.
I spent prom night with Supernatural.
None of this changed when we got to college. He still managed to be in most of my classes. I took great pleasure in beating him in test scores, answering questions he didn’t know, even though he was plenty smart. I just always had to be better than him. Jensen with his Instagram account and 200,000 followers—a showcase of his gifts of privilege. Beach trips and svelte girls in bikinis, ski trips out of state with designer-sunglass wearing guys who looked like him, vacations out of the country to London, Geneva, Fiji, Mexico.
I had an Instagram account, too, with one picture posted. Of my cat. (She’s calico and named Paisley.) In other words, I didn’t do Instagram. But I still looked at his account. Actually, I had an alert set up for when he posted, not that I’d admit that.
Why was he hanging out in a food truck with me on a scorching day when he could be anywhere?
After I checked my phone (he hadn’t posted anything), Jensen popped open the back door with a sticking groan, the air temperature the same outside as in, but he carried two twenty-pound bags of ice. They looked like absolute salvation. I wanted to rip them open, take off all of my clothes, and just roll around on the cubes while they melted on me.
Then I caught a glimpse of his ass as he leaned over to pour the ice into the compartment, and the thought of taking my clothes off with him . . .
Nah.
Rich asshole. Even if he was pretty.
I had no idea why he was working at Southwinds. I figured maybe his dad made him do it since his wealthy family surely hung out with my boss.
At least he went and was an errand boy, so now we could make iced coffee again. Jensen made several more trips to the van for the rest of the bags of ice. He looked pretty good hoisting the bags, his biceps popping in the sun. I mean, not that I noticed.
Someone came up. I peered down, looking out the window to take the next order, but it was Will Thrash, the stunningly handsome dark-eyed, dark-haired cowboy who owned the ranch.
“How’s it?” he asked, looking relatively cool in a trucker hat and a light blue t-shirt that clung to his chest.
How do you respond to that honestly? It was a literal hell made up of a large, elevated metal vehicle trapping heat—it rises—with nothing working, and a hot guy who I hated, and forced to be nice to customers because our boss wanted us to win. I needed no more heat in my life! Just cool! I needed to chill!
But I’d never admit that I was suffering to Will—he’d tell Ryan, and I didn’t want to complain out loud. “Going good,” I managed.
“All except the air conditioning breaking, the cash register getting stuck, and the credit card processing malfunctioning. Oh, and running out of ice,” Jensen butted in.
I glared at him. He didn’t need to tell Will all of that.
“It’s fine,” I reiterated, resting my hand on the counter.
Will raised his eyebrows and gave me a half-smile. “Sounds about right. It’s a cooker. Check in with you later. Seem to have a lotta votes for you.” I watched him saunter away and looked down at the next customer.
“Decaf nonfat mocha,” she ordered, not looking up from her phone. I suppressed a sigh and wrote down the total, while Jensen started making the drink.
As I started to tell her the prices, the woman looked up. “No, make it iced.” She went back to her text.
“Okay,” I said. Jensen reached over and got another cup. I started to tell her the price, and she interrupted.
“Why is it more expensive for iced?”
I had no idea. I just used the price list. “I’m sorry ma’am, I don’t know—“
“You charge different prices for the same size?”
“Ma’am,” I started again, but she interrupted.
“Nevermind. I don’t want it—“
Jensen butted in. “Ma’am, it’s customary to pay for the drink that you’ve ordered.”
“I changed my mind,” she said. “It’s a free country. I have civil rights.” And she turned and left.
I looked at Jensen. “Holy shit. What a bitch.”
“I know right. I can’t believe people feel that entitled.”
“Like you,” I wanted to say, but for once I held my tongue with him. And I kind of wished I could see more of his tongue. Dammit. No. I hated him. We weren’t going to bond in a food truck.
And I was worried about if the heat caused more rude customers. Would we lose votes? I wanted to win!
Two hours later, I’d wiped down the counter and refilled the napkins. The crowd had fizzled for coffee, and most people were hanging out near the microbrew trucks. I slumped against the counter.
Jensen looked at me strangely, and pointed at the ice cubes. “You want one?”
“No.” (I did.)
“Why do you hate me?”
“I don’t.” (I did.)
He raised an eyebrow. “I never took you for a liar, Laura.”
I shuffled my feet on the ground. “I’m just not from your world, okay?”
He walked over to me and braced one hand against the counter on one side of me, the other hand on the other, and bent down. I got a good look at those eyes. Dammit. No eyes. No sculpted face. No pouty lips. No soccer physique this close to me. No good, clean laundry smell.
But he wasn’t letting it up. Leaning into me, he whispered, “It’s because I have money?”
Trapped even tighter in this tin can, with no other move, I nodded.
He seemed to remember himself and pushed back from the counter, grabbing an ice cube. “So?”
“You don’t know what it’s like,” I muttered.
Popping the ice cube in his mouth, he said, “You’re right. I don’t. Tell me.”
All I could think was that the ice cube looked mighty good melting in his warm mouth. I really wanted an ice cube on me. On the back of my neck. In my mouth.
But I didn’t take one. Instead, frazzled by the hot day and just plain tired, I started telling him everything about me. “My aunts call me Scrappy.”
He laughed, and I got another look at the ice cube. I wanted that ice cube. “You are, that’s for sure. You sure you don’t want one?”
I let out a sigh. “Fine.” He pulled out the scoop, dumped some ice in a cup for me, and handed it to me. Picking up a cube and running it down the back of my neck felt like the best thing ever. And it relaxed me and I found myself opening up, unburdening myself. “My dad’s disabled. Bad back. He couldn’t work. My mom does the best she can. She’s a substitute teacher, but they aren’t hiring teachers. So I studied and worked to get the scholarship to U.C.S.B. But I need money for books and I need this job. And you drive me crazy. Why are you always around me?”
He opened his mouth to say something, to retort or deny it, but we were interrupted by a customer. A large man with a large voice poked his head through the side door we’d left open. “Extra-large drip coffee, regular.”
I started, politely, “Sir, we take your money over here—“
“I don’t care what you say, just give me some caffeine.”
Jensen reached around me to address the man. “We sell the coffee over here, sir, and don’t talk to her like that.” Somehow his arms were on either side of me.
The man shuffled off to the front and I turned to Jensen. “I can handle myself,” I hiss-whispered at him, noticing how perfect his ear looked. He gave me a look like he wanted to say something, but backed off.
Once we’d taken care of the pushy, rude man (who told his companion he wasn’t voting for our food truck), I whipped around to him.
“I hate it when you do that.”
He smirked. God, his goddamn smirk. I knew that smirk because it came up every time he did better than me on a test. Every time he knew he’d won. “I know.”
“How do you know?”
“Freshman year.”
And then I remembered. That’s how it all began. One day in the greasy cafeteria early in our freshman year. I’d forgotten my money and he paid for my lunch—French bread pepperoni pizza and baby carrots. “I’ve got it,” was all he said as I panicked, shoving my hands in my pockets. He looked down at me and I saw the starbursts in his eyes and I smelled how good he smelled in that ugly cafeteria. Like clean laundry. And I was mortified. I didn’t want to take his money. No handouts, no pity. I’d earn it myself. But the lunch lady took his twenty dollar bill before I could protest, and rather than confront him, I slunk away to a corner to sit with the nerd clan, cheeks burning.
I’d hated him ever since. We’d been circling each other ever since like boxers dancing before the first punch.
“If we’re going to win this thing, I think we need to have someone outside inviting people in.”
He shook his head. “We don’t need to do that.”
I stepped closer. The sheen on his forehead from the day looked good. I mean, no, it looked dreadful. I had to get away.
“I’m gonna go see what I can do. We need to tell Ryan we did everything we could to bring home the prize.”
Raising his eyebrows, he muttered, “Whatever.”
I went out the side and closed the door, again molding my face into a smile. While it was just as hot outside as it was inside, there was a slight breeze that made it more comfortable and I found myself cooling down. I looked up at Jensen in the food truck and gave him a taunting smile and waved. Then I went over to a group of people and asked them if they were interested in a nice iced mocha.
After twenty groups of people turned me down, I realized that drumming up business outside wasn’t doing any good. When I approached the truck to open the door, it was stuck tight. After I knocked, I heard Jensen sigh and clomp over to the door to open it. But while the handle jiggled, it didn’t open. He did it more forcefully, but still, no.
“Are you stuck?” I yelled through the door.
“No shit.”
He kept trying the door, and so did I, taking turns, but we couldn’t get it to budge. He was trapped inside that oven.
“I think we need to get something to get you out of there,” I yelled.
“No shit.”
“I’m gonna call a locksmith.” While I could run to get Will, I didn’t want him to know we were having problems. Instead, I Googled the nearest locksmith, who said he’d be on his way. I considered getting an axe to break open the window and save him, but that would be dangerous. So instead, helpless outside, for the next forty-five minutes, Jensen handled the coffee truck all by himself, including the cash register and all of the iced drinks for the twenty groups of people who had previously turned me down. I hoped they’d go to the jar and put tickets in, voting for us. And he actually did a fantastic job, getting into a rhythm all by himself, and talking with me through the window while he worked. During a lull, while talking with me about how we were finally getting a lot of tickets in the jar, he grabbed a piece of ice and ran it down his corded neck.
Good grief. I wanted to be the piece of ice.
I mean, not that I noticed what he was doing.
When the locksmith finally came, opening up the door and replacing the lock with a new one and a new key, Jensen looked at me gratefully.
“Thanks for getting me out of there.”
Those sunbursts in his eyes would kill me one day. “I still hate you.” (I didn’t.)
“Good.” He didn’t look like he meant it.
An hour later, the coffee crowd had finally stopped for the day, and we were cleaning up.
“You know,” he said. “If you hadn’t brushed me off for four years—“
“Five.”
“Five years, I would have asked you out.”
I stared at him. No he wouldn’t have. “I don’t want to be asked out as a charity case.”
“I wouldn’t have asked you out as a charity case. Get that chip off your shoulder.”
“You have one too. Why are you here? You don’t need the money”
He looked embarrassed. “Dad told me I needed to get a job. Fieldings were friends with my parents.”
“You see, you didn’t get in on merit.”
“No, Lord Commander, but I’m staying here on merit.”
I put my hand on my hip. “God, you know what you are?”
He stepped forward and slid the customer window shut. Then in a move, he pulled me to him and answered me. “Interested.” And his lips fell onto mine. I reached up and grabbed his neck, pulling him to me, exploding in a kiss that was so heated it made us combust. My toes burned, my thighs sizzled, my tongue tasted his, and I wanted nothing but to feel his arms around me.
He pressed into me, then lifted me up onto the counter, and grabbed a piece of ice. He ran it down my neck, the rivulets of water wetting my shirt, the coolness feeling incredible. Then he popped it in his mouth and took out another one and ran it down another part of my neck. “Cool you off,” he said.
“Impossible.”
I pulled him into me, and he stood between my legs, my ass on the counter, ahem, grinding into me, while I kissed him like I’d never kissed anyone before. I didn’t care about the heat, I didn’t care about our history, I didn’t care about all of the things that had gone on between us. I didn’t care about the competition.
He tasted so good. Like cool ice water and hot tongue, and like the victory of winning. But we were both winning. I let him in.
His green eyes caught my brown ones. “I only got this job because of you.”
The admission made my stomach drop. I realized that he’d been everywhere, always irritating me, for years—and it was intentional. “You did?”
He nodded. “I did. I like you, Laura. Go out with me.”
While I could say no, while I could push back, I didn’t want to anymore. Now that I felt how good he felt in my arms, how right, how strong and steady and there. “Okay.” I pulled his ass to me tighter, wrapped in his arms in the boiling food truck on a ranch, and his lips dove to mine again, tongues dancing, not boxing.
Someone rapped on the window.
“We’re closed,” Jensen mumbled against my mouth.
A throat cleared and we broke apart.
Will looked at us, amused. I felt the dip of embarrassment and the pink rushing to my cheeks from an entirely different source of heat.
“Sorry, sir,” Jensen said, opening the window.
“Sorry,” I said. “We, uh—“
“S’alright, darlin’. Southwinds placed second in beverages. You get an award.” And he passed a trophy through the window.
My eyes lit up. “Yay! I just knew that we’d do it! Ryan’s coffee is the best. I can’t wait to tell him!”
Will gave me a funny look.
“OMG Mr. Thrash, please don’t tell Ryan you saw—“
He just smiled. “If this is the way you two have been the whole time, pretty sure he already knows.” Will turned to walk away and then called over his shoulder. “Bet it’s just part of the daily grind.”
You can read more about Will in The Stars in the Sky here!