Page 30 of The Worst Possible Plan

They nodded cautiously.

“And…” I searched desperately for something inspiring. “Food. People like food. I like food. We all like food. Carbs. Yum.” I wasn’t sure I’d landed the motivational speech I’d been aiming for.

“Obviously food,” the chef muttered.

“People generally expect it at food trucks,” said the woman.

“Right. Excellent point.” I laughed.

They didn’t.

“So…” I tried again. “What if…” Dangerous beginning. “Everyone just moved a little?” I demonstrated the distance with my thumb and forefinger, as if visual aids could make this work.

The chef didn’t even hesitate. “No.”

The blonde answered at exactly the same time. “Also no.”

Interesting.

Unanimous agreement was possible after all. Just not in my favor.

I watched them. “Out of curiosity… how difficult is it to move one of these?”

The chef looked genuinely horrified. “They each weigh six tons.”

“Ah.” I nodded thoughtfully. “So…” Another dangerous beginning. “Not like parallel parking.”

“No,” snarled the chef.

“Not even remotely,” added the blonde.

Good to know.

Behind me, another truck rumbled into the lot.

Everyone turned.

A brightly painted dessert truck rolled slowly toward us before stopping twenty feet away. Across the side, in giant pink letters, were the words: SWEET SURRENDER.

A woman leaned out the driver’s window. “So…” She smiled nervously. “Am I late?”

I took a deep breath. “I’m going to need more coffee.”

“You and me both.”

The deep voice drifted in from behind me. A voice I recognized.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

I slowly turned around.

Captain Competent stood a few feet away, one hand resting on the open door of his white SUV and a thick manila folder tucked beneath his arm. Sunlight caught the silver badge stitched over his chest, and somehow—not that I was looking—his boots were still ridiculously clean.

How? Did the man polish them hourly? Did deputies have a secret boot fairy? His eyes swept over the line of food trucks. Then over the chef and the blonde. Then the dessert truck.

He looked at me. His expression remained perfectly relaxed. Mine probably looked slightly panicked.

“Morning, Hartwell,” he said.