Crossing his arms, he shrugs. “Let me explain something. I’m Callum James, and I don’t care. I’m staying right here.”

Those arresting hazel-green eyes peer down at me. Funny, I used to think of green as a cheerful, enlivening color before this stranger turned hostile. Now green will forever be associated with “obnoxious” and “jerkoff.”

“I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but what you’re doing isn’t cool. At all,” I say.

He smirks. The nerve of this jackass.

“Is something funny?” I say through gritted teeth.

He shrugs, letting his hands fall to his hips. Even through the loose-fitting T-shirt he’s wearing, I can tell this prick is cut. It’s obvious from his thickly muscled arms that are covered with ropelike veins, from the broad spread of his shoulders.

It’s a quick second before that smirk widens to a smug smile. “‘Isn’t cool at all?’ Did you honestly say that?”

The rough, guttural register of his voice sends a sheet of goose bumps across my skin. Soft yet lethal. Like a bad guy in an action movie whispering threats to the main character who’s tied to a chair.

He chuckles before letting his gaze fall along the length of my body. Is he seriously checking me out right now? A deep, seconds-long inhale and exhale is the only way I can cope.

I will not punch this douchebag in the face.

I will not punch this douchebag in the face.

I chant the silent mantra in my head while gritting my teeth.

“Hey,” I bark. “Are you kidding me? Eyes up here.”

His shoulders jolt slightly at my demand. At least he has the decency to look embarrassed. But a beat later it melts from his face, leaving behind a steely frown. He takes a single step forward, leaning his head down toward me. “Listen, petal. I don’t care one bit if you think this is ‘uncool.’”

When he makes air quotes with both hands as he says “uncool,” I swallow back fire. The bastard called me “petal.” Where the hell is this guy from, Downton Abbey? Who the hell calls anyone petal anymore?

I open my mouth to unleash a tirade of expletives and “how dare you,” but he cuts me off.

“I have just as much right to park here as you do. I’m not doing anything illegal, and I’m not moving. Get over it.”

He spins around and saunters behind his food truck, leaving me standing there with my jaw on the ground, my fists clenched, and nothing to say.

How the hell did this happen? How was this guy able to shift from charming stranger one minute to insufferable bastard the next? How did he just destroy years of island food truck etiquette in minutes? How did a complete stranger leave me a mess of frustration and outrage?