“I’ll get used to it. Eventually.” He jumps down from the back of the truck and shuts the door. “You two are so cute and happy all the time. It’s bloody disgusting.”

I beam. Cute and happy are an understatement. I twist my head to catch a look at the brick exterior that makes up the back of the restaurant—our restaurant. Six months ago, Callum and I took the plunge: we opened a British-Filipino fusion restaurant in Kihei featuring mash-ups of our customers’ favorite dishes from each of our food trucks. He manages the finances, Mom does most of the cooking, and I run the front of the house and help with cooking whenever it’s slammed. We settled on calling it Lulu’s, after one of Lemon’s kittens. It’s been a hit with customers and tourists who heard about our unconventional love story online before vacationing on the island.

I look back at Finn. “I appreciate that. Almost as much as I appreciate how well you’ve been managing the food trucks.”

You’d never guess Finn ever had any trouble running a food truck by the way he operates now. He still runs Hungry Chaps at the spot by the airport with an old restaurant coworker of his, but he’s taken on managing Tiva’s Filipina Kusina too. His girlfriend, Grace, cooks the food while Kyle Tokushige takes the orders. When it’s busy, Penelope alternates helping at both trucks.

As an added bonus, Finn and Callum’s parents have finally come around to supporting their sons’ choice of career. They visited Maui this winter and saw firsthand how well business is doing and how content their boys are. I’d never seen Finn so happy as when his mom and dad told them how proud they were of them.

Finn flashes a bashful smile before running a hand through his shaggy blond locks. “Well, I just appreciate that your mum was willing to trust Grace to take over cooking duties at Tiva’s when she started working at the restaurant.”

I shake my head, remembering the panicked look on Mom’s face when I suggested she join us at the restaurant and let Grace take her place at the truck. But then I assured her that Grace had spent her whole life cooking with her Filipino lola and would do the recipes justice.

“Once she tasted Grace’s pansit, she was sold,” I say. “And it helps that she still cooks at the truck once a week.”

That once-a-week shift at the food truck was a nonnegotiable for Mom.

“My name is on the truck, anak,” she said when we hammered out a schedule for Lulu’s. “I have to cook there at least once a week. Otherwise it won’t technically be Tiva’s anymore.”

I couldn’t argue with her on that.