I fold my arms across my chest, waiting for the engine to fire up. But nothing happens. Just more clanking sounds from the inside of his truck. I check my watch and see that a full minute has passed since he walked away from me. The longer I stand out there alone, the clearer it becomes. That midsentence exit wasn’t embarrassment; it was a dismissal—of me. He’s not going anywhere.

Heat makes its way from my cheeks all the way down to my chest. The whole time I was standing here, trying to be nice, he was disregarding me. I march up to the truck and pound on the cloudy glass window.

“Can you please move your truck?” I ask.

I catch his silhouette walking back and forth inside the truck, blatantly ignoring me. Steam levels my insides. What the ever-loving hell is this guy’s problem?

I pound on the window with both hands. Politeness isn’t working. It seems this newbie is in need of a harsher welcome. “Hey! Listen, you’re in my spot.”

This time when he walks out of the truck to meet me, he plants himself a foot away, resuming that killer glare from minutes ago.

“Maybe you couldn’t tell by the way I’ve been ignoring you, but I don’t care what you have to say,” he says.

His irritated tone combined with the melodic English accent throw me off-kilter. I didn’t expect to be arguing with a hot James Bond soundalike today, and it’s messing with my head.

“Um, what?” I stammer.

“Oh, bloody hell. Do you really need me to explain? I’m not moving.”

“Excuse me?” My voice hits that shrill register whenever I’m shocked and pissed at once.

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters, glancing up at the sky. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Well, make time.” My hard tone verges on a bark. “You’re new here, right? I’ll explain. I’m Nikki DiMarco. I run this food truck, Tiva’s Filipina Kusina, with my mom, Tiva.”

I almost mention that it’s her day off, but I catch myself. Impossibly hot dickhead probably doesn’t care about the details. Pursing my lips, I let the momentary embarrassment wash over me.

He deepens his scowl, and I’m jolted back to our confrontation. I point behind me to the rusty white food truck bearing Mom’s name in bold red letters. Underneath the text is an artist’s rendering of a plate of noodles and lumpia. He glances briefly at my truck, then back at me.

“Like I was trying to say before, you’re not supposed to park right next to a competing food truck,” I say. “It’s kind of an unspoken rule here.”

It’s a struggle to keep my voice steady, but I want to be the calm, rational counter to this guy’s angry petulance.