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Chapter One
Trish
“Mr. Hardaway,this is the third piece of cake you’ve had today.”
He snatched the container from my hands. “If you didn’t want people to buy it, you shouldn’t make it taste so delicious.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to hide the smile threatening to break loose on my face. The cranky old man had been a customer since the first week I opened my food truck. Dutifully, he came by every day, and every flavor of my cakes were his favorite.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He dropped his change in the tip jar, grumbling, “How’s Ella?”
I beamed at the mention of my baby girl. “Growing so fast.”
“Get used to it. She’ll be a teenager next week.”
Mr. Hardaway clutched his container of cake as he ambled away.
“See you tomorrow,” I called.
He threw a wave over his shoulder but didn’t turn around. I couldn’t stop my smile as I watched him go. In six months, he’d become a favorite of mine despite his surliness. What was not to love? I was due to close up shop in five minutes, and he had to come get another sugar fix.
I lifted my arms to unlatch the window.
“Am I too late?”
I started at the masculine voice, something about it familiar.
“Almost,” I said, snapping the latch back in place. “I’m out of the short ribs and stuffed chicken.”
The man studied the chalkboard menu mounted on the side of the truck, and I propped my hip against the counter. A few hours on my feet every day was still tiresome, though I was getting used to it. The ache in my muscles came from hard work, which made it totally worth it.
“I’ll have the . . .” The man’s eyes lingered on the menu, his internal debate evident in his voice. “The . . .” Decision finally made, he looked at me, lips parting. A shadow of horror flashed through his irises, and he backed up. “Um, never mind.”
What in the world?
He darted away, disappearing down the street before I could get a word out. Why did he look at me like that?Crap. Why?
Trish, come on.Everything’s fine. The guy just changed his mind. Nothing more. That happens. This is New York . . .
My heart raced, fear clutching me by the throat. I inhaled again. This time, more air filled my lungs than the last. I repeated it until my pulse returned to normal. With shaky hands, I closed the window and prepared to shut down for the day.
I was safe.
Mrs. Quinn would have told me if she thought there was a chance of . . . No. She took care of the residents of Paths of Purpose and not just because it was her job.
I pulled out my phone and fired off a text to her.
Nothing new, right?
Immediately, she responded.
No. Did something happen?
I hesitated. I was supposed to be trying to learn how to live in the real world again. That meant standing on my own two feet. It also meant knowing when to lean on people.
I’m okay. We’ll talk later.
