Читать книгу Cooking Up Romance онлайн | страница 10

He narrowed his eyes, studying the foodmobile. Erase the neon-pink paint job, and it looked about the same size and style as that other food truck. When she’d first pulled up and had caught his attention through the office window, he’d had a hunch the truck was vintage. Here in Little River Valley, people liked vintage stuff. On closer examination, it most definitely was an original, even for twenty years ago. He had to respect someone who valued history. It showed insight.

Getting nearer to the truck, with a delicious aroma perking up his nose and appetite, even though it was way too early to think about lunch, he made a snap decision. He’d keep all his memories to himself because, as he’d previously decided, he wasn’t going to let her set up. The guys were perfectly happy bringing their lunch pails or piling into cars and driving into town on their break. Why get her hopes up, make her think they had some connection, by playing the reminiscing game?

Those bright blue eyes noticed him coming and another inviting smile creased her lips. Don’t even think about it. Women are bad news, especially ones that look like her.

“I hope you’re hungry,” she said with an eager-to-please expression. An expression that came off far too sweet to ignore. How could she be bad news?

History, remember? As in all women.

Still he fought off a smile. He hadn’t been hungry fifteen minutes ago, but now his stomach growled in anticipation. “Sure smells good.”

She handed him a supersize paper plate with the enormous wrap nearly filling it. “Whoa, this thing’s huge.”

“I know how big construction workers’ appetites can be.”

Yeah, he did, too, but he no longer did the hard work, not for the past five years, anyway. He’d put in his time breaking his back with construction company after construction company, and eventually worked his way up to foreman. Now he was the owner-manager. Half of this wrap was going home to share. Just like her logo said, he’d wrap it up and take it home.

He bit into the wrap. Holy heavenly taste buds, she knew how to season, and the chicken was melt-in-your-mouth tender and juicy. Filled with unexpected vegetables and bits of potato swimming in her special sauce, the mouthwatering spinach-green wrap was more a meal in a megasize tortilla than a substitute for a sandwich. She should’ve named the truck Manwich—Sandwiches for men with manly appetites. But Emma would love the wrap, too, and it was so much healthier than their usual fast food. Still, he didn’t want to get Ms., uh, her hopes up. “What’d you say your name was?”