Tacos for Two, page 1
BOOKS BY BETSY ST. AMANT
The Key to Love
Tacos for Two
© 2021 by Betsy St. Amant
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
PO Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com
Ebook edition created 2021
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-3193-9
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
All emojis designed by OpenMoji – the open-source emoji and icon project. License: CC BY-SA 4.0
Baker Publishing Group publications use paper produced from sustainable forestry practices and post-consumer waste whenever possible.
To my husband,
who is always willing to watch You’ve Got Mail
just one more time.
Contents
Cover
Half Title Page
Books by Betsy St. Amant
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
A Sneak Peek at another Romance Novel from Betsy St. Amant
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
Prologue
Love at First Chat Direct Messenger
StrongerMan99:
We have to stop meeting like this.
ColorMeTurquoise:
You mean, anonymously through a computer?
Exactly. I actually spent a long time trying to think of something better to say than hi, but now I think that would have been better.
LOL. I applaud your effort. Am I the first one they’ve matched you with?
Second. 😬 That sounds worse than it is.
Not when I tell you that you’re my fourth.
Yikes.
Does that make me look bad?
Actually, it makes the app look bad. They’ve failed you three times. You should demand a refund.
I like the way you think.
So what was wrong with bachelors #1, #2, and #3?
A lady never tells.
Smart. Because then I could go out of my way not to repeat the same mistakes and you’d never know if I was genuine.
Ooh, I’m already worth a potential masquerade? That’s what I call a good first impression. It’s only been three minutes.
Are you going to ask me what was wrong with bachelorette #1?
I’m assuming you’re too much of a gentleman to tell me.
You stole my line.
I’m sure you’ve got more.
Care to stick around and find out?
I think I will.
StrongerMan99:
Do you like cats?
ColorMeTurquoise:
I feel like this question is loaded.
It is. No pressure.
I don’t have a cat, if that’s what you’re asking.
It’s not.
Drat.
You’re getting closer. That rhymes with cat, but it’s still not an answer.
I guess I’m really more of a dog person if anything. 🐶 Pass or fail?
Pass. Flying colors.
What if you hate the color turquoise?
I could never.
ColorMeTurquoise:
Favorite ice cream flavor? Mine’s mint chocolate chip.
StrongerMan99:
Cookies ’n cream.
I suppose I can overlook that.
That just means more for you, right? We would never have to share a pint.
The fact that you thought sharing a pint was an option in the first place makes me think perhaps Love at First Chat made another mistake.
I’m enjoying this mistake far more than the last one.
ColorMeTurquoise:
Did you ever have any doubts about this app?
StrongerMan99:
You mean, did I ever doubt that an online matchmaking program could quiz me, run a background check, slap up a profile, and immediately match me up successfully with a complete stranger who lives within a sixty-mile radius of me but who I’ve never met before on my own and cause me to fall in love and live happily ever after? Of course not.
Me neither.
StrongerMan99:
Romantic comedies are underrated.
ColorMeTurquoise:
Now you’re just trying to impress me.
I mean it. Fantastic story lines. Happily ever after. Solid actors. It’s gold. Besides, who wants to watch heavy stuff? Isn’t real life hard enough?
You had me sold at happily ever after.
It doesn’t always work out that way, though, does it?
Not in my experience.
Mine either.
Favorite novel?
Sophie’s Choice.
You joke.
Are you laughing?
Yes.
Mission accomplished.
One
If Rory Perez could find a way to wad all the cilantro in the entire world into a ball and hurl it into outer space, it still wouldn’t be far enough removed for her preference.
“That’s enough, right?” She pulled her turquoise sweatshirt up over her nose and turned pleading eyes to Grady, who stood by the food truck’s efficiency stove and sprinkled the vile weed into a bubbling quesadilla mixture.
Grady shook his head, humor dancing around the laugh lines by his eyes—wrinkles Rory was pretty sure she was responsible for. Probably responsible for the gray hair streaking his dark temple too, even though he was only in his early forties. “Calm down, hermana. He asked for extra. Besides, who’s the chef here?”
“You are.” Rory reluctantly dropped her sweatshirt from her face and reached to hand him the spatula she knew he’d need next. Grady was more than her late aunt’s longtime food truck assistant. This past year, he and his wife, Nicole, had been Rory’s sanity as she struggled to keep the inherited business booming—and other things from exploding.
She cut her eyes at him. “By the way, I’m not your sister.”
“Close enough—and good thing, or I’d have kicked you out of this food truck a long time ago. You know I wouldn’t keep up this charade for just anyone.” He wrinkled his nose at her as he adjusted the heat on the stovetop burner.
She crossed her arms. “I don’t think charade is the right word.”
“Fine. You like farce better?”
“More like assumption.”
“Right.” He clicked his tongue in mock disapproval. “Customers assume you cook like your aunt and assume I bus the dishes.”
Rory’s neck flushed as the truth of the statement lingered. “They do not.”
“Sure they do. Fortunately, Nicole keeps me man enough to take it.” He winked. “And I’m not complaining. Most of our male customer base would vanish if they realized you weren’t the chef around here, and hey, men eat a lot. Now, can you hand me the—” He stopped as Rory waved the black utensil in his face. “Gracias.”
“See? Maybe I’m not good at cooking, but I’m good for something.” If she were typing that in a DM to StrongerMan99, she’d have added #kidding #notkidding. Maybe. She hadn’t dared to be quite that vulnerable in their online chats. But they were getting to that point. There was something so appealing—so safe—about anonymity. Grady might be as close as family, but it was hard to go there with him. One, because he turned everything into a big brother compliment-fest, but also because, technically, he was her employee.
Technically, she owned the Salsa Street food truck.
And technically, she couldn’t cook to save her life.
He pressed the tortilla flat against the skillet. “You’re good at a lot of stuff, Ror. Probably more than you know, if you’d ever get out from behind your computer. What are those boards you stab?”
“It’s pin. You know—Pinterest?” She bristled. “At least I’m organizing and planning. It’s not like I’m some obsessed gamer or something.”
“Hey, now—what’s wrong with gaming? Everyone needs a break from reality now and then. Me and Nicole play online pool together. She’s getting pretty good.” Grady flipped the quesadilla.
The too-familiar aroma of spicy chicken and peppers filled the cramped space. Rory’s dark hair had smelle d like smoke for almost a year now. Just one of many things that had changed in the past twelve months.
“Exactly—a break. That’s what my Pinterest boards are for me.” Everything made much more sense on her computer screen than it did in the kitchen. There were colors on her party-planning boards. Angles. Patterns. And they all fit together like a puzzle, a dazzling palette of turquoise—always turquoise—and gold and silver and peach. She liked when things lined up and looked neat.
Too bad there weren’t any parties to plan. Not since her cousin’s event last year. Before everything changed. Pinterest was an escape. The food truck, however, served as a frequent reminder of the pressures riding Rory’s shoulders like a pageant queen on a hometown parade float. She couldn’t get lost in that. It smothered. Like the smoke from the stove.
“I’ll admit, the updated truck skin you designed for Salsa Street is legit.” Grady reached over and clicked on the vent, raising his voice over the sudden whirring. “I knew you had more in you design-wise than those online boards.”
“Whatever.” She straightened the crooked oven mitt hanging on its peg by the stove. She’d learned to hate compliments. She’d gotten good at batting away the “you’re so pretty” ones. Now, the ones she truly needed—the compliments that referenced her strength or character or other beyond-skin-deep attributes—seemed to ricochet right off while she flailed around to catch them. Her ex-boyfriend, Thomas, had done a great job helping her flick them away.
Rory paused to align the salt and pepper shakers against the straight edge of the counter. “Besides, until we have the money to actually put the skin on the truck, it doesn’t really matter what I design.”
Grady shot her a knowing look. “Don’t stress out.”
“I’m not.” She guiltily stepped away from the seasoning shakers.
He pointed with a carving knife. “You’re organizing things. Which means tomorrow I won’t be able to find them. Relax—we’ve got the food festival coming up. That always brings in extra dough.”
According to Grady—and Aunt Sophia’s sales records—that was the case every year. But could they depend on that alone? Columns of red numbers danced in Rory’s mind. It seemed foolish to put all their eggs—make that tacos—in one basket. But wasn’t that what she’d done when she quit her pay-the-bills job in insurance and took over the food truck last year when her aunt’s health declined?
It had started in increments. Rory had filled in while Aunt Sophia was too weak from chemo to work the truck. Grady kept things running, but one man couldn’t take all the orders, fill them, and keep up with the business side of things. Rory had filled the gaps, thinking it would only be temporarily, until one day they all realized it wouldn’t be. The decision was made, the will was signed, and a few months later, Aunt Sophia was gone.
“Like I said, hermana, you’re good at a lot. But for now, why don’t you be good at scooting over. You know he’ll be here any minute.” Grady nudged her out of the way of the stove with a bowl of freshly grated shredded cheese.
Rory glanced at her watch. Wednesday, June 2. “It’s the lawyers’ order again, isn’t it?” The last few Wednesdays, without fail, the Worthington Family Law Firm ordered enough food for an army and insisted on a rush job. Heaven forbid they order ten minutes sooner instead to make up the difference. The runner they sent each week—a pale, lanky college kid—always looked as harried as a third monkey trying to board the ark.
And yet every Wednesday she and Grady hurried around during the lunch rush, all at the whim of some rich society family thinking they were too good to wait in line like everyone else. What was that saying about insanity? Something about doing the same thing over and over but expecting different results?
The walls of the food truck crushed in a few inches, and Rory inhaled deeply. Speaking of insanity—a food truck owner who couldn’t cook. But she was there to carry on Aunt Sophia’s legacy. There for her cousin Hannah. For all the people depending on her. Salsa Street wasn’t only a popular restaurant on wheels. It was an heirship.
Even if it did constantly reek of cilantro.
Grady glanced up from the stove, calm and steady as always, despite their fast-paced morning. “Ready for the box.”
She was already holding it open.
His warm, big-brother smile of gratitude reminded her to take another deep breath. “She’d be proud, you know. Aunt Sophia.”
Rory cocked an eyebrow at Grady.
“Don’t do that. You look even more like Fiona when you do.”
She twisted her lips to the side. “That’s so annoying.”
“Oh, yes, poor thing. It must be tragically difficult to be constantly mistaken for a beautiful Hollywood star.” Grady rolled his eyes as he expertly transferred the quesadilla to the waiting black Styrofoam box.
“It is, actually.” That’s why Rory had signed up for Love at First Chat in the first place. Total anonymity. No pictures allowed. At least not until the app’s self-designated progression of communication declared it time.
Step One: Connect via matchmaking pairing through the app’s trusted formula.
Step Two: DMs.
Step Three: Personal texting.
Step Four: Photos shared.
Step Five: Meeting in person.
She’d memorized the steps, yet at the moment, she had no intention of sliding past number two anytime soon. It was too risky.
Rory artfully arranged slices of yellow and red peppers atop a pile of rice, then secured the lid on the box, added it to the to-go bag of other orders, and turned to the pick-up window just as the lanky law firm runner rushed up, shirt half untucked and shoelace untied.
“Laces.” She jerked the bag out of his reach.
“Not again.” He sighed as he bent to quickly whip them into knots. Then he straightened and held out his hands.
She shook her head. “Shirt.”
He rolled his eyes and shoved it haphazardly into the loose waist of his slacks.
“You know your boss would lecture you. I’m doing you a favor.” She surrendered the heavy bag to his waiting grip.
Grady joined her at the window, straight-faced. “Fly.”
The kid’s eyes widened, and he quickly lowered the bag a few inches south. Grady snorted. “I’m kidding, man. It’s a joke. They don’t do that where you work?”
He sighed. “If you count laughing at people as joking, then yes. The partners are regular comedians.”
Grady tilted his head back and roared, the contagious sound radiating from deep within. Tension melted off Rory’s shoulders. It always did when he laughed. It reminded her of Aunt Sophia. Joy, personified. She could hear her now. “Cooking brings me joy, hija.”
Rory wished it did the same for her. Maybe it would if she could do more than burn grilled cheese.
Grady leaned farther out the window. “You’re funny. What’s your name?”
The guy hefted the bag to hang on his elbow. “Alton.”
“You going to be a lawyer one day, Alton?” Grady shoved a handful of napkins at him. “Don’t forget those sample cups of jalapeños.”
Alton dumped a few lidded cups into the bag. “No way. It’s just a job. Beats minimum wage somewhere.”
“You should always do what you love,” Grady said. “Then it’s never truly work.”
She kept her eyes on Alton, bumping Grady intentionally with her shoulder. “But also remember that commitment is important.”
“So is finding joy in the everyday.” Grady pressed closer to the window, raising his voice over hers.
She ignored Grady’s elbow in her ribs. “Yes, but so is financial security and supporting the people you love.”
Alton backed away slowly, wary eyes darting between them like ping-pong balls. “So, is the life advice free, or will you add that to the company’s tab?”
“Oh, we’re adding it.” Grady straightened with a grin. “They can afford it.”
“They can also afford manners, and yet . . .” Alton’s voice trailed off as he lifted one hand in a wave and walked away.
Grady chuckled in his wake. He cupped his hands and shouted after him. “You’re gonna be fine, Alton!” He shook his head, still laughing as he began cleaning up spilled cheese. “And you too, by the way.” He raised his brows pointedly at Rory. “Even if you keep working jobs you hate.”
“You trying to get rid of me?”
“Of course not. I need you.”
The sentiment was meant to be kind, but it felt more like a noose. Salsa Street did need her—and so did her cousin, Hannah.
