Ivy's POV
War it was.
I woke up at 3 AM, two hours earlier than usual, and claimed the best parking spot on the entire street. The primo location with maximum visibility and foot traffic.
Let's see Cole Harrison steal customers when I had the strategic advantage.
By 6 AM, my truck was prepped, my specials were ready, and I was caffeinated enough to take on whatever cocky BBQ nonsense he threw at me.
By 6:15, his massive black truck rumbled up and parked in the spot directly next to mine.
Not across the street. Right. Next. To. Me.
Cole climbed out, saw my furious expression, and had the audacity to grin. Morning, neighbor! You're up early.
I got here first.
And I got here second. Look at us, both being punctual professionals. He started setting up his smoker like this was totally normal. Sleep well?
No.
Me either. Kept thinking about your tacos. That gochujang glaze was actually pretty impressive.
I blinked. You tried my food?
Ordered from your truck yesterday around closing. You were in the back prepping, didn't see me. He adjusted his smoker temperature with expert precision. You've got serious skills, Chen. The fusion thing isn't just a gimmick. You actually know what you're doing.
The compliment threw me completely off balance. I... thank you?
You're welcome. Doesn't mean I'm going easy on you. His smile sharpened. Just means the competition will be more fun.
A couple of early morning joggers stopped, noticed both trucks, and pulled out their phones.
It's them! one said excitedly. The food truck war people!
Are you guys dating? the other asked.
NO, we said simultaneously.
Enemy sexual tension, the first jogger whispered loudly to her friend. I'm Team Romance.
They jogged away laughing.
Cole looked at me. I looked at him.
That's not a thing, I said.
Definitely not a thing, he agreed.
But something in his expression made my stomach flip.
By noon, we were both slammed.
The rivalry had gone viral overnight. Food bloggers showed up filming. Local news mentioned us. People came specifically to watch the Spice Wars and pick sides.
A guy ordered from my truck: Team Taco all the way! Fusion is the future!
Two girls ordered from Cole's: Team BBQ! Texas tradition forever!
It was insane. Entertaining. Surprisingly profitable.
And I hated how much I kept noticing Cole.
The way he talked to customers, warm but professional, making everyone feel special. How he gave free samples to kids. The precision of his knife work when he prepped brisket, each slice perfect.
He'd had formal training. Serious training. But where?
At 2 PM, a food blogger with 50,000 followers showed up. I need the story behind this rivalry. Can I interview you both?
We gathered between our trucks, maintaining careful distance.
So, the blogger started, how did this feud begin?
He invaded my territory, I said.
Public street, Cole countered. I simply offered customers better options.
Better? Your BBQ is good, but it's one-dimensional. My fusion tacos have complexity, innovation
Complexity is just another word for overthinking. Cole's eyes sparkled with challenge. Good BBQ doesn't need to prove anything. The smoke speaks for itself.
That's the most pretentious thing I've ever heard.
Says the chef who puts duck confit in tacos.
Duck confit is DELICIOUS!
Never said it wasn't. He leaned closer, voice dropping. Just said it's trying too hard.
We were inches apart now, both breathing hard, the air between us crackling with something that definitely wasn't just anger.
The blogger was recording everything, practically vibrating with excitement.
This is amazing, she breathed. The chemistry. The tension. My followers are going to DIE.
There's no chemistry, I said quickly.
None whatsoever, Cole agreed, but his eyes hadn't left mine.
A customer called out: Just kiss already!
I stepped back fast. I have customers to serve.
Same. Cole retreated to his truck.
But as I walked away, I felt his gaze on my back, warm and confusing and absolutely infuriating.
The afternoon rush was chaos.
Our customers started staging debates between the trucks. Someone created a poll: Team Taco or Team BBQ?
I was losing by four percent.
Four. Percent.
This is ridiculous, I muttered, plating another order.
Jimmy—the Korean BBQ truck owner who'd welcomed me my first night—appeared at my window. You doing okay?
Define okay.
You look stressed.
There's a tattooed barbecue menace ruining my life.
Jimmy glanced over at Cole, then back at me, a knowing smile on his face. Uh huh. That's definitely what's happening.
What's that supposed to mean?
Nothing. But his smile widened. Just that sometimes the best things start as competition.
We're not starting anything. We're rivals. Enemies. Competitors.
Keep telling yourself that, kid. Jimmy patted my counter. By the way, Cole asked about you this morning.
My heart jumped. What did he ask?
How long you'd been here. If you were doing okay. If you needed any help getting established. Jimmy's expression was gentle. He's not what you think, Ivy.
What is he, then?
Someone who understands what it's like to lose everything. Jimmy left before I could ask what he meant.
At 6 PM, the crowd finally thinned.
I was cleaning my grill when Cole appeared at my window.
Hey.
I jumped, nearly dropping my spatula. Don't sneak up on people!
I walked normally. You were distracted. He held up two bottles of water. Peace offering?
I eyed them suspiciously. Are they poisoned?
Only with regular Austin tap water. He set one on my counter. Truce for five minutes? I want to talk.
Against my better judgment, I took the water. Talk about what?
Why you're really here. On this street. Starting over. His expression was serious now, the playful charm stripped away. You don't end up in a beat-up food truck cooking sixteen hours a day because life went according to plan.
You stalking me now?
I pay attention. There's a difference. He leaned against my truck. You were at Meridian six months ago. Sous chef. Engaged to the head chef. Then suddenly you're fired, the engagement ends, and you disappear. Now you're here, running yourself into the ground trying to prove something.
My chest tightened. How do you know all that?
I told you. Small industry. But something in his tone suggested it was more than that.
What's your story then? I challenged. You just magically appeared with a BBQ truck and professional skills? No history, no background, nothing searchable online?
Cole's jaw tightened. Everyone's got a past, Chen. Some of us just don't advertise it.
That's not an answer.
Neither is getting defensive every time someone asks how you're doing. He met my eyes. You don't have to tell me what happened at Meridian. But I recognize the look of someone who got destroyed by people they trusted. I see it because I've been there.
The raw honesty in his voice made my breath catch.
What happened to you? I asked quietly.
Long story. Complicated ending. Not ready to share it with someone who's convinced I'm the enemy. He pushed off my truck. But for what it's worth? You're a hell of a chef, Ivy Chen. Don't let whatever happened before make you forget that.
He walked back to his truck before I could respond.
I stood there, water bottle in hand, completely off-balance.
Cole Harrison was infuriating. Cocky. Mysterious.
And somehow, he'd just made me feel seen for the first time in six months.
That was dangerous.
That night, after we'd both closed up, I watched Cole load his truck.
His movements were efficient, practiced, someone who'd done this routine a thousand times. But there was a heaviness to him too. Shoulders tight. Expression guarded when he thought no one was watching.
Jimmy's words echoed: He's not what you think.
My phone buzzed with notifications. The food blogger had posted her video: Spice Wars Episode 1: When Tacos Meet Brisket and Sparks Fly!
It had 15,000 views already. Comments poured in:
Team Taco! But also they should definitely date.
The TENSION. I ship it so hard.
Cole's BBQ is art but Ivy's fusion is revolutionary. This rivalry is everything.
I scrolled through, my face burning, until I saw one comment that made me freeze:
Wait, is that Cole HASTINGS from the Apex scandal?? Same tattoos, same build. Holy shit, I think it is.
My heart stopped.
I searched: Cole Hastings Apex scandal chef.
The results loaded.
A news article from five years ago: Michelin-Star Chef Cole Hastings Fired Amid Harassment and Theft Allegations.
A photo accompanied the story.
Same gray-blue eyes. Same strong jaw. Same man—just younger, less tattooed, wearing an expensive chef's coat instead of worn jeans.
Cole Harrison was Cole Hastings.
The disgraced Michelin-star chef who'd been accused of sexually harassing his staff and stealing from his restaurant. Who'd lost everything—career, reputation, future—in one terrible scandal.
The man who'd spent five years hiding under a different name, running a BBQ truck, pretending to be someone else.
And he'd parked across from me. Started this rivalry. Gotten close to me.
Why?
My phone buzzed. Text from an unknown number:
Now you know his secret. Question is—what are you going to do about it?
The message disappeared before I could screenshot it.
I stared at Cole's truck in the darkness, my mind racing.
Who was texting me? How did they know Cole's identity? And why did they want me to find out?
More importantly: what did Cole Hastings want with me?
Tomorrow, I was getting answers.
Whether he wanted to give them or not.