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She shrugs. “He didn’t believe me. He’s an idiot.”
When I first parked here, I didn’t know Guy was in the middle of renovations on the giant building next to this lot. And even if I had known, it wouldn’t have deterred me. Finding decent parking for a food truck in New York City is like finding a tapdancing unicorn: both impossible and fantastic.
Fortunately for me, a friend owns this empty lot—her company does, anyway—and she offered to let me use it.
“I hadn’t really expected it to affect his business at all,” I tell Fred.
To be honest, I had both hoped and feared that parking my food truck outside Guy’s newest restaurant venture would piss him off. Show him that his attempts to push me down hadn’t worked. But I didn’t expect to have to talk to him. I didn’t expect him to lower himself to the point where he would come over and confront me directly.
Fred shrugs. “Clearly you’ve done something to get his attention if the King himself is deigning to mingle with the commoners.”
We switch places and I plaster a smile on my face before greeting the next customer.
“Welcome to For Goodness Cakes, how can I help you?”
My body goes through the motions of ringing up orders and boxing up cupcakes for the after-work crowd, but my mind is still on the man who’s disappeared inside his restaurant across the street.
It just plain doesn’t make sense. I mean, he’s Guy Chapman. He’s a famous chef. He’s been on TV. He’s renowned for his culinary skills, business acumen, and sexy brooding demeanor. All of his restaurants are Michelin rated. He only hires the best—which knocked me out of the running before I could even start. The fire bit didn’t help.
I didn’t mean to torch him. Normally, I’m very meticulous and safe in the kitchen. It was just that he flustered me. He was standing so close, and he smelled like an expensive forest. Not like a normal woodsy pine scent, but like a fancy forest where the birds wear Rolexes and the deer drive Teslas. He was behind me, so close and leaning in and I…basically lost my mind.
I can’t imagine that my business is affecting him enough for him to need to “speak” to me about anything. My proceeds are not even enough to live off of yet—although I’m creeping into the black. Catering is a necessity since winters in New York City can be harsh and customers won’t likely shovel themselves out of their apartments or brave below-freezing temps.
Fred and I move around the narrow food truck, ringing up orders and switching places as needed. The timer sounds on the oven and Fred calls out, “I got it,” before standing in front of it, holding up a hand and saying, “Live long and prosper.” It’s like her thing, since the oven is a Vulcan.
She insists it’s good luck, and I can’t complain because it makes me laugh. I don’t know what I would do without Fred. She’s a true New Yorker, born and raised. She’s the only person I’ve ever met who can walk, talk, eat, and hail a cab all at the same time. She’s super into fandoms and wears clothes that I don’t understand 90% of the time. She’s ballsy and confrontational, but at the same time there’s a hint of innocence and naivete about her, especially when it comes to her long-term boyfriend. She lets him run all over her. She’s only a little bit older than my little sister, Reese. In a way I feel responsible for Fred.
I turn to the next customer. “Welcome to—oh it’s you. Come to spy again?”
Before Guy started hounding the truck, he sent a lackey in his stead—Carson something or other. He’s a tall, thin hipster who always wears bow ties and suspenders but somehow makes it cool and sleek instead of weird and passé. He always orders the specials.
The line has dissipated and he’s the last one.
“I’m not spying,” Carson says. “I like your cakes. Do you ever make hummingbird cake?”
“You know what that is?” Hummingbird cake is a true southern specialty, banana pineapple spice cake flavored with cinnamon, pecans, vanilla and a cream cheese frosting.
“Darling, despite the fashionable man you see before you, I hail originally from the backwoods of Moultrie, Georgia.”
I gasp. “No! You don’t even have an accent.”
Personally, I’ve been working on talking more like a Yank so I don’t come across as a hick. There is a more than a little bit of stereotyping when it comes right down to it.
He shrugs. “Can you make it?”
“I’m Southern and I bake. What do you think?”
Fred cuts in, handing him a container with the three daily specials. “We’ll make your weird cake if you give us some intel in return.”
He taps one long finger on his bottom lip. “It might be worth it, actually. Despite what you think of my intentions, your product is excellent. Why else do you think Guy cares so much?”
“Cares?” Fred scoffs. “He only cares about himself.”
“That’s not true.” He pops open the small pink box and his eyes brighten at the cakes.
Even though he’s technically the enemy, I can’t help but take delight in his reaction. It’s the best part of my job. I love feeding people. Everyone is happy when there’s cake.
“It is true,” Fred insists. “I don’t know how you work for that monster and live to talk about it, let alone defend him.”
