Fry Another Day

I thought that could be a drawback for him with Delia. She knew a few wealthy men from the cocktail lounge and frequently dated them. I knew she didn’t want to work in my food truck and sleep on a cot in the diner the rest of her life. I didn’t blame her.

I had to keep everyone working together for the next five days while we almost lived together during the race. I couldn’t let Delia hurt Ollie in case they had a future together. I had to keep Uncle Saul from becoming too depressed about the absurdity of the food truck world.

Hey! I was born for this. I was going to win that fifty thousand dollars—or die trying. The back door to the food truck opened. It was my sometimes attorney, Miguel Alexander. He was taller than me, but that wasn’t hard since I was only five-foot-two and three-quarters. He was darkly handsome, a little sad, and had a wonderful, sexy voice that I could listen to all night.

I’d somehow managed to talk him into coming along for the race. I wasn’t sure exactly why he’d agreed to be there. He’d helped me out of a jam once when I was getting started with my business. I still saw him from time to time. But food trucks really weren’t his thing.

I hoped he was there for the same reason that I’d asked him to come—that there was something more between us. He could be aloof at times, and I didn’t really know him well. He was older, worldlier than me. I knew he’d had personal problems in the past.

None of those things would have bothered me if I hadn’t been already smarting from my boyfriend’s betrayal. Sometimes I knew Miguel and I were meant to be together. Some days I thought the only thing I knew was biscuits.

But I’d been patient and cool. I was ready for the next step in our relationship—a real date. Just the two of us. Someplace nice.

“How’s it going in here?” Miguel asked. “Alex Pardini, the host of the food truck show, is interviewing at the truck back from here. He should be by anytime now.”

“It would be better if they’d given us bacon to work with instead of sweet potatoes.” Uncle Saul scowled as he monitored the biscuits that were in the little oven.

“You think you’ve got it bad, Pizza Papa has to use them for topping.” Miguel chuckled. “The Dog House either has to put sweet potatoes in the buns instead of sausages—or he has to put the sausages into the sweet potatoes.”

“Thanks for the heads-up.” I took a moment to smile at him, hoping there wasn’t flour on my face. I could feel our gazes meet and cling. At least I thought I could. I hoped I could.

I’d convinced Miguel to come along as our “outrider.” Every food truck team could have one outrider with another vehicle. That person could pick up supplies or do other odd jobs along the way.

“Do you need anything?” he asked.

“No. I think we’re fine for right now. Thanks, Miguel.”

“I hope everything is ready for the interview. I’ll be outside if you need me.”

“All right. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” he called out before he left the back of the crowded food truck.

“Hats on,” I told my team.

“Oh, Zoe,” Ollie complained. “Do we have to?”

“Chef Art gave us a five-thousand-dollar stake so we could participate in the food truck race. We’re promoting for him, and for ourselves. Put the hat on.”

“You know, I got this tattoo for a reason,” he continued to grumble. “I don’t want hair or a hat to mess with.”

“At least you don’t have my curly hair that you have to try and stuff under the hat. I had to wear this scarf to hold it down long enough to even try and put the hat on.”

The hats were oversized white chef’s hats with Chef Art Arrington’s name, face, and logo printed on them. They were almost too big to fit in the food truck at one time, with us and all the equipment jammed inside.

The oven chimed and Delia took out the first ten biscuits. “They look good.”

“We have to try one,” Uncle Saul said. “How are we go

I knew he was right. I hated to lose even one biscuit when we were trying to make a hundred. I usually didn’t make that many for breakfast and lunch together on a busy Monday morning at home.

“Okay. Do it. I need some lipstick to talk to Alex Pardini. Delia, you saw the way I mixed that batch. Can you start another one? Ollie, get the next batch in the oven, please.”

My lipstick was fresh and my team was humming when the TV host came to visit. He only peeked in for a moment before he disappeared and his assistant took his place.

“Alex only has five minutes for your pre-race interview.” He looked at his clipboard. “Joey. You’ll have to answer his questions as quickly and thoughtfully as you can. Don’t forget to pour on the charm. Be as cute as possible, but don’t look right at the camera. Got it?”

“That’s Zoe,” I corrected, but he was already gone. Hopefully Alex wouldn’t make the same mistake.

I looked into the tiny mirror I’d put up near the door. A little racy red lipstick helped with my already pink face. There wasn’t time for eye makeup. Lucky for me, my eyelashes were naturally dark.

“All right. I’m going out there. If I’m not back in five minutes, someone come and get me.”

TWO

Alex Pardini’s assistants had set up a little café table for two with an umbrella that boasted his network’s affiliation.

I usually had a few small tables and chairs with me when I went out each morning. They were for my customers when I had to park where there weren’t places to sit. I think people liked it when you gave them some extra consideration.

I’d had to leave them at home for the race. No furniture outside the food truck. There was a whole book of rules to follow. I had to keep reminding myself—fifty thousand dollars.

“Come on over and let’s get started,” Alex invited. He was a photogenic thirtyish man with thick blond hair and remarkable blue eyes. I’d noticed, watching him on TV, that he always wore blue to emphasize them.

“I’m Alex.” He shook my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Joey.”

I smiled. The names did sound a lot alike. Just think how many names he had to remember, bless his heart.

“My name is Zoe Chase. Thanks for having me here.” I sat down in the chair opposite him and crossed my legs.

“Fair enough, Zoe.” He gri

Before a word could come out of my mouth, my sponsor, Chef Art Arrington, came around the corner of the Biscuit Bowl.

His assistant, Lacie, a nervous little woman with huge glasses who wore her skirts too short, managed to make it to the table right before he did. She quickly put out a chair for him.

“All right! I love interviews, don’t you?” Chef Art was famous in Mobile. He was like Colonel Sanders and Papa John rolled into one short, round body and white linen suit. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

“I’m sorry,” Alex said. “I wasn’t expecting a sponsor.”

“That’s quite all right, my boy. No harm done.”

“I mean, this interview is supposed to be between me and the vendor.”

“Not a problem. I’ll sit back here and take it all in. Zoe, you give the man the answers he needs now, you hear?”

Chef Art had always been a larger-than-life figure in my hometown. He lived on an old estate called Woodlands outside Mobile where he entertained famous people from across the world in his mansion.