Page 64 of Banter & Blushes

When someone speaks outside the truck, I turn with a bag of frozen fruit held to my head. ItisColt.

“What’s good for breakfast?”

Without thinking, I give the most common answer to that question. “Bacon.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “What’s with the fruit?”

My eyes follow his finger pointing to my head. I remove the bag sweating on my hair. “I banged my head a minute ago.”

“Oh sorry.” He smiles. “Need some help?”

I glance around at the empty truck. Genesis said she’d either work on the set or help me with brunch, not both. I couldn’t complain since what I get from her family’s free parking and her help during lunch rushes is way more valuable than what I pay.

Before I can come up with an answer, Colt enters through the back door.

I put away the melting fruit bag and suck in a breath. Once the freezer door is shut, nothing stands between us except about a foot of empty space. I haven’t been this close to him since we parted ways after high school.

“What can I do?”

It takes me a second to process that he’s standing in my food truck in a tight-fitted T-shirt with beach-sweat hair. For some reason, I find that look very attractive.

The oven beeps, saving me from awkwardness. “Hang on.”

I retrieve the first batch of bacon and pull another pan ready to go in from the refrigerator. “Could you watch the window while I cook more bacon?”

“Sure.”

Although I may regret it later, I allow myself to suck in his manly scent as he shuffles behind me in the tight space. It’s the perfect mixture of beach salt and aftershave. I hold my breath for a few seconds to savor it before the bacon scent overpowers everything. Not that I dislike the smell of bacon. Heck, I have bacon-scented candles in my house. But it’s not every day I get to smell Colt.

I hear some people talking outside and turn around. It’s a small group debating the menu. Colt gives me a questioning look. I nod and smile to reassure him that it’s okay to help customers.

“Can I get something for y’all?” he asks.

My heart skips a beat at hearing him say “y’all.” Somehow his voice got even more Southern after leaving Alabama. Must be a side effect of the country music industry.

They want waffles with bacon. Colt reaches back and hands me a slip of paper detailing the order. His hand grazes mine like it did yesterday when I gave him some water.

I clear my throat and get to work on the order. There’s no time to get sentimental, even though it’s pretty cool that I’m following the path I wanted, and he somehow ended up on it.

Temporarily.I remind myself. When the music video is done, he will jet off to Nashville or somewhere else to sing.

“Hang on,” he says to the people outside, then turns to me. “They asked if you have mimosas.”

“No. Water, sweet tea, and orange and grape juices for the morning.”

He relays the message, even though it’s on the menu. I hear a guy answer rather loudly, “Why name something The Sandbar if it’s not a bar?”

I roll my eyes. This question comes up from time to time, often from someone who doesn’t live in the area.

Colt talks with them while I cook the waffles and plate them beside some bacon. I push the plates on the counter for him to hand out.

“They will all take orange juice.”

“Got it.” I grab the jug from the refrigerator. “Can you pour it while I get their payment?”

“Sure.”

We shuffle around one another, coming dangerously close. His scent mixes well with bacon. I exhale and sigh. I’ve yet to find anything that doesn’t go with bacon, so it makes sense Colt would too.

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