Ivy's POV
Cole Harrison stole my parking spot.
I arrived at 5:30 AM—thirty minutes earlier than yesterday—and found his massive black truck already parked in the prime location I'd been eyeing all week.
The spot with the best shade, the most foot traffic, the perfect angle for Instagram photos.
He was inside his truck, and when he saw me glaring, he had the absolute nerve to wave and blow me a kiss through the window.
A kiss.
I wanted to murder him.
That's it, I muttered, yanking out my phone. Game on, barbecue boy.
I called our shared supplier—the place where most East 6th vendors bought bulk ingredients. Hey, Miguel? It's Ivy from Spice & Everything Nice. I need to place a special order.
Sure thing. What do you need?
All your hickory wood. Every piece you have in stock.
Silence. Then: All of it? That's like... two hundred pounds.
I'm experimenting with smoking techniques. Expanding my menu. The lie came easily. Can you deliver it this morning?
Yeah, but that's gonna cost
I don't care. I'll pay extra for rush delivery. Just make sure it gets here before 10 AM.
I hung up, feeling a rush of petty satisfaction.
Cole needed hickory to smoke his precious brisket. Without it, his whole operation fell apart.
Let's see him charm customers with raw meat.
By 9 AM, two hundred pounds of hickory wood sat stacked behind my truck.
I didn't need hickory. I used propane for my cooking. But Cole didn't know that.
I was prepping tacos when I heard him on the phone, his voice tight with frustration: What do you mean you're out? You always have hickory... Someone bought ALL of it? This morning?
I ducked my head, biting back a smile.
Thirty seconds later, Cole appeared at my window.
Morning, Chen. His tone was too pleasant. Too controlled. You wouldn't happen to know anything about a mysterious hickory shortage, would you?
Hickory shortage? I arranged cilantro with careful precision. That's terrible. How will you smoke your brisket?
That's a very good question. He leaned against my counter, eyes narrowed. Almost like someone planned it that way.
I'm sure it's just a coincidence.
Uh huh. His smile was sharp. You know what? Fair play. I was wondering when you'd start fighting dirty.
I have no idea what you're talking about.
Sure you don't. He tapped my counter once, then walked away whistling.
The whistling should have been my warning.
Lunch rush started at 11:30.
I had a solid line of customers, fifteen people waiting, phones out, ready to order my Korean short rib tacos and duck confit specials.
Then I heard it.
Trumpets. Guitars. The unmistakable sound of a mariachi band.
A full six-person mariachi band appeared on the sidewalk directly in front of my truck, instruments gleaming in the sun. They launched into an enthusiastic, incredibly LOUD rendition of Cielito Lindo.
My customers couldn't hear me over the music.
I couldn't hear my customers over the music.
WHAT? I shouted to a woman trying to order.
I SAID I WANT THE She gave up, pointing at the menu instead.
Across the street, Cole leaned against his truck, arms crossed, grin absolutely wicked.
He'd hired a mariachi band to sabotage my lunch service.
The band played for forty-five minutes. Every time I thought they'd finish, they launched into another song. La Bamba. Besame Mucho. El Rey.
Beautiful music. Absolutely terrible timing.
By the time they finally left—with Cole tipping them generously, I saw the money exchange—half my lunch rush had given up and wandered over to his truck instead.
You're EVIL! I yelled across the street.
You started it! he called back. But nice try with the hickory. I improvised with oak. Customers loved it.
I wanted to throw a taco at his smug face.
That boy is trouble, Jimmy said, appearing at my window around 2 PM.
You think?
I mean it, Ivy. Cole's not just some random vendor. Jimmy's expression was serious. He's got skills. Resources. The kind of connections that let him hire a mariachi band on two hours' notice.
So?
So be careful. This prank war is fun now, but you don't actually know who you're dealing with.
I thought about Cole's complete lack of online presence. His mysterious past. The way he moved with professional precision that suggested years of high-end kitchen training.
Do you know something about him? I asked.
Jimmy hesitated. Just that he showed up on this street about three years ago. Keeps to himself mostly. Runs some kind of charity thing on Thursdays—feeds homeless veterans, doesn't advertise it. He's good people, Ivy. But he's got secrets.
Everyone's got secrets.
Not everyone's got the kind that make them change their whole identity. Jimmy squeezed my shoulder. Just... watch yourself, okay? Don't let the rivalry make you forget to be smart.
He left before I could ask what he meant by change their identity.
At 4 PM, during the slower afternoon period, I caught myself watching Cole prep.
He was breaking down a brisket—a massive piece of meat that required serious skill to butcher properly. His knife work was flawless. Every cut precise, efficient, professional.
No self-taught BBQ enthusiast moved like that.
He'd had formal training. Classical training. The kind you only got in high-end culinary programs or Michelin-star kitchens.
So what was someone with that level of skill doing running a food truck in Austin?
Cole looked up suddenly, catching me staring.
Our eyes met across the street.
Heat flooded my face. I should look away. Should pretend I'd been checking something else.
But I couldn't move.
Cole's expression shifted—the cocky grin fading into something more intense. More real. He held my gaze like he was trying to tell me something without words.
The moment stretched. Five seconds. Ten.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
Then a customer called out, breaking the spell. I jerked my attention back to my truck, face burning.
What was that?
I closed up at 8 PM, exhausted from the day's chaos.
Cole had already packed up and left, unusual for him. Normally he stayed later, prepping for the next day.
I was loading supplies when I noticed something by my back door.
A cooler. Professional-grade, expensive.
I opened it cautiously.
Inside: premium beef. The good stuff, beautifully marbled, perfectly aged, restaurant-quality meat that cost at least three hundred dollars.
No note. No explanation.
Just incredible beef that I definitely couldn't afford, left at my truck like a gift.
Or a message.
My hands trembled as I touched the meat. This wasn't regular grocery store beef. This was the kind of product you only got through specialty suppliers or industry connections.
The kind of connections a Michelin-star chef would have.
I pulled out my phone and searched again: Cole Harrison chef background Austin.
Still nothing.
But this time, I tried something different: Austin food truck charity veterans.
A small local news article from a year ago popped up: Anonymous BBQ Vendor Feeds Homeless Veterans Every Thursday.
The photo was blurry, taken from a distance, but I recognized the truck. Rebel Smoke.
The article mentioned the vendor refused interviews, didn't want recognition, just quietly fed people who needed help.
I scrolled down to the comments section.
One comment, posted six months ago, made my blood freeze:
Pretty sure that's Cole Hastings from the Apex scandal. Same build, same tats. Good for him, doing something decent after what happened.
The comment had been deleted, but Google had cached it.
I searched: Cole Hastings Apex restaurant scandal.
The results loaded slowly, each one driving a spike of ice through my chest.
News articles from five years ago. A career destroyed. A chef accused of terrible things.
And a photo that showed exactly the same man who'd been playfully tormenting me for three days.
Cole Harrison was Cole Hastings.
The disgraced Michelin-star chef who'd allegedly harassed his female staff and stolen from his own restaurant. Who'd lost everything, reputation, career, future.
Who'd been hiding on East 6th Street for three years under a different name.
My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number:
You found out who he is. Good. Now ask yourself: why did he really park across from YOU? Why steal YOUR customers? Why leave YOU expensive gifts?
Cole Hastings doesn't do anything by accident. And you, Ivy Chen, are part of his plan.
Check Meridian's investor list. Check who backed Marcus Webb's promotion to head chef five years ago.
Then you'll understand why Cole's been watching you for months.
The message deleted itself.
I stared at the premium beef, at my truck, at the empty space where Cole's truck had been.
My hands were shaking.
Who was texting me? How did they know about Cole? About me?
And what did they mean, Cole had been watching me for months?
I'd only been in Austin for a week.
Unless...
Unless he'd been watching me before. In Houston. At Meridian.
Before my world fell apart.
My phone screen went black, the battery dead.
And I stood alone in the dark, holding three hundred dollars of unexplained beef, wondering if the man I'd been fighting was actually my greatest threat.
Or something far more complicated.