Page 34 of The Nanny and the Hothead
The muscles in his chest tightened as he took in the scene. A cluster of people stood waiting to order as groups sat on the edge of a nearby fountain, chatting and laughing, sharing a simple meal in good company. That’s what a food truck could do—pull up to an empty corner, and like magic, it sparked conversation and camaraderie in a once desolate location.
“Mitch,” Charlotte whisper-shouted with absolute terror in her eyes.
He startled. Was she having another mermaid emergency, or was she feeling the effect of the copious amount of liquor she’d consumed? “What is it? Do you feel sick?”
“I can’t buy you pizza. I just remembered—a latte broke me,” she confessed with tears in her eyes.
Note to self—if he ever saw this woman in a bar again, he’d make sure to cut her off after one drink.
“A latte hurt you?” he questioned.
She shook her head. “No, I bought a latte this morning that cost a small fortune because the shop donates part of their proceeds to the Helping Hands Shelter.”
A lump formed in his throat. “What did you say?”
“Handy Helper Shelter,” she repeated, then scratched her chin. “I think that’s what it’s called.”
“What about it?” he pressed as the memories flooded back.
“I spent most of my money at a coffee shop that donates to them. And now I have five dollars to my name.”
That couldn’t be everything she had.
“What do you have in savings?”
She waved him down, then leaned in. Her lips brushed against the shell of his ear. “Nothing,” she whispered, then giggled. He doubted she’d be laughing about being broke as hell when she sobered up.
“I’ll buy the pizza. It’s not a big deal.”
“Thank you, hothead,” she beamed as the people in line in front of them got their slices, and he and Charlotte stepped up to the counter.
“I’ll have a slice of cheese. I adore cheese,” she chimed.
This woman and cheese!
“We’ll take two slices of cheese,” he said, removing a twenty from his wallet. “And keep the change,” he added, handing over the cash as he peered in the window to get a peek at the inner workings of the mobile operation. They’d rigged the truck with a wood-fired pizza oven. But that wasn’t the only modification. He observed a man in a wheelchair, sweat on his brow as he slid pies into the fire, and a woman working furiously to prep the pizza toppings.
Two guys and one gal busting their asses in a sweltering metal box to put out delicious food.
A knot twisted in his gut.
“Hold on a second!” the guy who took his order exclaimed wide-eyed. He turned to the pair in the back. “It’s Mitch Elliott!”
He should have known this would happen.
The man grinned ear to ear as he handed over the two slices. “You’re the reason we went to culinary school—the reason we refurbished this old delivery truck,” the guy explained.
“That’s nice of you to say. Good luck,” he mumbled, ushering Charlotte away from the truck.
“I forgot, you’re a big-time celebrity chef,” Charlotte said, tapping his chin.
“Here, eat,” he grouched, handing her a slice.
She held it up, went in for a bite, and fucking missed.
“Oops!” she cried, turning the slice around in her hands like she was an alien from a pizza-less planet. “I never realized how tricky it was to walk and eat.”
“Those four super-charged margaritas might have something to do with it,” he said under his breath.
