I pat Penelope on the shoulder, thankful that she’s more than just a customer now. We regularly meet up at each other’s places for drinks and chats. I vent to her about the Callum situation and random life stresses. I learned her relationship with her ex-boyfriend ended the month after she moved to Maui for him when she caught him cheating. She almost booked a ticket back to her home in Cincinnati, but she decided to try making things work here on her own. So she put her Instagram hobby to professional use and started a social media consulting company, which explains her killer Instagram following and how she’s free most days to take her lunch all the way out at my food truck in Makena. Right now, she’s the greatest friend I could ask for.

I wink at her, then turn back to the offending vlogger, who opens his mouth to speak, but then starts coughing up leftover soda.

“I’d love to see you cited for your shitty behavior,” I say. “Call the police. I dare you.”

Instead of dialing the police or saying anything, he stomps past us and down the road, muttering curses along the way.

I hug Mrs. Tokushige and Penelope. “Thank you both. Seriously. He’s been driving me insane. They all have actually.”

Penelope pulls me into another hug. “I’ve got your back. And nothing will keep me from your delicious cooking, not even some douchebag paparazzi wannabe.”

I turn to address the remaining vloggers. “Anyone else have anything to say?”

They all stand quietly while shaking their heads “no.”

“Good. I have customers to feed. If you want to eat something, line up just like everyone else. If not, please get the hell out of here.”

The remaining vloggers take their place in line.

Penelope walks back to the truck with me. “That’s probably not going to be the last time they’ll try to bother you.”

“I know. But the prospect of being attacked with soda bombs should scare them off for a few days, though, right?”

Penelope chuckles and I hop back into the truck, where I’m greeted with Mom’s disapproving frown. I can hear the words before she speaks them, about how unladylike it was for me to react that way, that she didn’t raise her daughter to act like a barbarian just because someone was rude.

I sigh. “Okay. Let me have it.”

A soft hand lands on my arm. She flashes a smile. “You gave that jerk exactly what he deserved.”

She pulls me into a hug. My phone buzzing in my back pocket interrupts our embrace. Another unfamiliar number.

I muster my newfound boldness, endorsed by my mom, and pick up the phone. “I swear to God, if you call me one more time—”