Perfect Pairing Read Free

again.”
    â€œShe didn’t get in line the first time,” someone nearby said.
    â€œLine?” Quinn asked. “I see no lines here.”
    The woman in the truck laughed and pointed to the back of the crowd she’d just pushed and cajoled her way through. “That’s the line to order from the Fryboi.”
    Unacceptable.
    She’d left the office early on a business call. She’d arrived just before the starting time in order to beat the rush. She’d done her due diligence, but she would not waste all night milling around this hipster cattle herd. She wasn’t here for some grilled cheese, no matter how mind melting they may be. She had work to do, and she couldn’t do it from a distance.
    â€œWell, tell the fryboi that I’m not here to order anything. I am here to offer her something.”
    â€œJust like prom night,” the woman said, causing everyone within earshot to laugh, including someone inside the truck.
    â€œHow dare you. I don’t know what kind of a business you’re running here—”
    â€œWe’re running a food truck, sweetheart, so unless you want food from this truck, go ahead and scribble your digits on a cocktail napkin, hand it over, and stop holding up the line.”
    Heat flared beneath her cheeks. “Listen, I’m not sure who you’re used to working with, but I’m not some sort of booty call. I’m not one of your little unshaven hipster fan-girls. More importantly, I’m not leaving here until I speak to your boss.”
    â€œI’m not her boss. I’m her chef. We’re a team, like a pilot and a gunner.”
    Quinn wheeled around to see Hal Orion leaning casually against the back corner of the truck in a white chef’s coat with the sleeves cut off. Her dark brown hair sharply angled to a point just above her right eye. She was the exact mirror image of the magazine cover, sans knife, only more enthralling up close. Either her proximity or her magnetism actually made Quinn falter long enough for this Fryboi to continue. “I’m the quarterback and Sully’s my receiver. I’m a rapper and she’s my DJ. I lay the tracks, and she locks the flow. Comprende ?”
    â€œLace.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œThe lyric is ‘lace,’ not ‘lay.’” Quinn recovered. “P-Diddy laced the tracks. Biggy locked the flow. If you’re going to drop nineties hip-hop, you should do it right.”
    â€œCopyright infringement.” Hal shrugged. “The point is, talking to one of my team members like they’re your personal butler is a horrible way to go about getting anything from me.”
    Quinn took a deep breath and released it quickly. Clearly she’d misjudged this woman. No matter. She was more than capable of thinking on her feet. Actually, she preferred it. “Point taken. Moving on.”

    Moving on ? Who was this woman? Hal had watched her approach, first from the serving window, then up close. She didn’t even know what possessed her to leave the truck. She often had to deal with a rowdy or drunk customer, but Sully could easily handle a petite blond with entitlement issues. Something about this woman’s tone, or maybe her eyes of steel had pulled Hal closer. The feeling was unsettling. Challenging. And she didn’t like it. Still, this tiny ball of accountant-looking spitfire had just dropped some old-school rap lyrics like her name was on the mic.
    Paradox?
    Quandary?
    Intriguing.
    Still, she couldn’t let Sully be spoken to like a hired hand. The bonds of business and friendship demanded a firm hand here. “No moving on, ’cause I’ve yet to hear an apology.” She nodded from this woman up to Sully, who still watched them from the window.
    The woman’s face didn’t flame, and she refused to so much as frown, no matter how much it may have irked her. The little way her hands tensed quickly, as