Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

DANI

K nock, knock.

The banging on the door isn't a surprise. I've been listening for it for at least thirty-two and a half minutes, because Nessa is never late. I've run down the emotional spectrum from ‘she'll be here any minute' to ‘where is she?' to ‘getchur ass here now' to ‘what if she's dead in a ditch somewhere?', never mind the fact that there aren't ditches anywhere near this part of town.

"Where the hell've you been?" I ask as I throw a towel over my shoulder and rip the door open with a smile. She's here, and that's all that matters now.

Nessa busts in, intentionally shouldering me out of the way like a linebacker with her armfuls of paper bags as if the delay were my fault. "Don't you dare start with me. Take these so I can get the rest," she clips out as she shoves my daily grocery delivery toward me.

Reflexively, I wrap my arms around the bags, and she spins on one tennis-shoed toe to return to her car for more bags. Too shocked at her unusual snappiness to really shoot back a quick reply, I decide to give her grace and instead huff out my own frustration as I haul the bags to the kitchen, where I plop them on the table in the middle of the room that serves double duty as my island and prep station.

A moment later, Nessa follows, barging in behind me with another load of bags, which she drops onto the table next to the others with a clang and a grunt. The clang is the bag. The grunt is Nessa. "Two trips' worth of groceries? Are you for real, girl?" I don't have to look her way to see the side eye she's shooting me because it's entirely audible in her tone.

"Needed what I needed," I answer, unpacking my much-considered—and again, late—groceries as quickly as I can. I need to start chopping, pronto, because I should've been doing that… I peek at the clock… thirty-eight minutes ago.

Nessa doesn't want my answer anyway because after barely catching her breath, she continues to complain, throwing her now-empty hands this way and that. "First, the store was a freaking madhouse. For why? Who the hell knows because no one should be shopping at seven in the morning. The sun's barely up! Not like they're giving away free samples of the good stuff or having a two-for-one deal on toilet paper." She points toward my neighbor's house. "Second, that shit over there is ridonkulous . What in the hell is that lady—and I'm using the word loosely—up to now? And of equal importance, how can we get back at her for it? I've got my petty confetti ready to throw, just say the word."

It's not funny, like at all, but a small laugh escapes at Nessa's neck-rolling, finger-snapping, lip-curling indignation on my behalf. She's a good friend, and everyone knows the number-one rule of friendship is, the enemy of my bestie is my enemy too. Also known as, I hate who you hate and will back your play on cutting a bitch at the knees and keeping that shit on lockdown if asked about it later.

Well, maybe that's just us? But either way, Nessa hates my neighbor almost as much as I do. To be fair, it's absolutely, one hundred percent warranted.

Kathy Wilson—aka The Bitch Next Door, or TBND—moved into my neighborhood about eighteen months ago. Okay, maybe it isn't ‘my' neighborhood, but I've been here long enough and keep things real enough that the old timers respect me as one of their own. Unlike TBND. When she moved in, she was well aware that it's what's politely called a ‘transitional' area. We're a few streets outside of the downtown square, with narrow and uneven streets, and every property is at least seventy-five years old, which makes for some odd neighbors. One lot will have a tiny, rundown house like mine, and right next door will be a two-story, historical home that's been fully renovated in recent years, like Kathy's.

To be fair, the real estate agent definitely didn't bring her around during my rush hours of lunch service, but she knew the neighborhood, and despite knowing exactly what she was getting into when she bought her house, she hasn't stopped TBND from trying to make my life a living hell.

First, she tried to start a homeowners' association, claiming it would beautify the area. People saw through that real quick and shut it down in a hurry when she mentioned yard mowing schedules, holiday light permissions, and hiding unsightly eyesores like children's backyard playsets. I have no doubt she would've also included backyard grills in her eyesore category because she definitely seems to hate mine.

Second, while we don't have ordinances against home businesses, she spent an ungodly amount of time bitching about mine at the monthly city council meetings. They finally told her that there was nothing they could do under the existing guidelines, and for a bit, I was afraid she'd decide to run for office and make the rules herself, as a board member. Thankfully, that hasn't happened, though I'm sure it's still a possibility in her mind.

Third, there are no laws about commercial trucks driving down the road, despite her pleas (and likely contributions) to our representative in the State House. Besides, the vehicles that come down our street aren't technically commercial. They're big trucks for sure, even some long-bed dually trucks, and lots with trailers, but ‘commercial' is a DMV classification that even Kathy can't change.

She's been thwarted at every turn, except one… loudly bitching at me and my customers to the point of daily uncomfortable confrontations.

But I won't let her stop me.

I didn't grow up with the goal of opening a home-based, to-go lunch business. No, my plan was to work in my family's restaurant, helping my father with the daily flood of blue-collar workers who rushed in, slammed down food, and scurried out to continue the afternoon's work. Our food and our recipes were honest, tasty, filling, and most importantly to our customers, inexpensive.

All that changed when Papa got sick, and rather than letting me run the restaurant the way I suggested, he decided to close it instead, putting us all out of a job.

Customers mourned, of course, but people always need to eat, so they moved on. Especially since hard-working guys require a lot of food. Every day. They especially need it at prices they can afford, from people they trust.

So, while I was pissed as a wet chicken at Papa, I quickly decided that I was the perfect person to fill that void. And I've done it in my own way.

By getting my home kitchen licensed as a cottage operation, I can cook for the masses each day, providing hearty, delicious, homemade meals that keep them working on full stomachs while bringing in enough income for me to pay my bills.

Although it seems to have pissed my neighbor off. But since she's not the one paying my mortgage, I try to ignore her as best I can. Including today, when she's part two of the reason Nessa is so late with my delivery.

I glare at the clock again, cursing how fast the minutes are slipping away.

I started cooking over an hour ago because my first pickup is usually at nine a.m. Thankfully, there are only a few crews that swing by that early, though. Most of the guys come closer to noon, lining up down the street from eleven until one for their daily lunches. The lineup is the problem, annoying Kathy on a good day or making her stomping, hollering livid on a bad one.

Because of course it does. Everything irritates her. She even complains about the squirrels and birds, for fuck's sake. Not their noise, but that they supposedly chew on the wood trim of her house. I've seen birds and squirrels do all sorts of weird behaviors around the neighborhood, including playing chicken with the cars that speed down the street when it's not blocked by my customers, but I've yet to see them chewing on someone's trim. There's more than enough other things to eat around here.

"You're not gonna believe this," I tell Nessa, loading an onion into my chopper and slamming the lever down to start making fresh pico de gallo. I glance up to make sure she's listening before I share the information I got from spying into Kathy's back yard, first from my kitchen window and then from my back patio where I didn't even pretend to not be watching with eagle eyes. "She's getting a pool!"

"Huh?" Nessa asks.

I nod, loading another onion from the pile Nessa brought. "A whole crew showed up this morning, unloaded an excavator, and started digging up piles of dirt. If she'd lived there longer, I'd be worried they'd find the dead bodies."

Is Kathy a serial killer? No, probably not. But she is a widow whose adult children unsurprisingly don't seem to come around very often. She's not even nice enough to have cats, that's how nasty she is.

Nessa looks aghast, her hands on her cheeks and eyes squeezed shut. "Oh, God! You know what that means, right?" She cracks one eye open the tiniest sliver. "You're gonna have a direct view of Kathy in a swimsuit. The horror!"

Ugh! I hadn't thought that far ahead, but she's right. "I'll add eye bleach to my daily shopping list from May till August."

Nessa scribbles in the air like she's making a note. Since she does my shopping for me every morning, it'd be valid… if eye bleach were an actual thing.

I'll consider other options to save my eyesight later. Right now, I need to focus on the two big pots cooking on the stovetop, one with rice and one with black beans, which is the one I move to stir now. I've also got huge foil packets of seasoned chicken, peppers and onions, and pineapple on the Blackstone griddle out back. "You want to hang out a bit and take a plate?" I offer, never stopping my constant motion of stir-season-stir. "I've got pineapple on the menu," I sing playfully, knowing it's one of her favorites.

Nessa and I met when I was doing my own grocery shopping and she was completing a list for an online service. After a bit of talking while we walked the aisles together, we made arrangements for her to work off-app and do my daily shopping and delivery for a flat fee. Since then, we've become close friends, talking every morning, and she occasionally lets me feed her lunch. More rarely, she lets me send a plate with her for her mom, who she takes care of in the evening when her sundowning gets to be too much for her daytime aide to handle.

"Thanks, but I've gotta run. Kathy already made me late, I need to be home by three, and my goal for the day is three-fifty. Minimum." Her eyes are jumping around almost as much as her hands, telegraphing that she's nervous about that goal.

"Let me help get you on your way, then." I pull my phone from my back pocket, stirring the rice now with my other hand. A few clicks, and I pay Nessa's invoice, plus tack on a little something extra. Her phone dings, and she glances at it.

"Girl, W-T-F? You don't have to do that. I wasn't begging for handouts," she argues. She's a hardworking hustler, but she's proud and doesn't want charity. To be honest, I can't afford to be charitable. But in this case…

"Call it an annoyance fee for Kathy's shit. I can't do it every day, so if we need to figure something else out for deliveries while she's getting the pool done, let me know."

She shakes her head, grabbing an end piece of leftover pineapple off the cutting board. "Nah, now that I know, I'll plan accordingly. Might move you up on the schedule, though, so that I'm out of here before the swarm descends."

It's not a question, but I nod, anyway. "Yeah, of course. I'm always up, so whenever you want to come by. Anytime, day or night." I'm not only talking about when she makes deliveries now, but when she needs a friend.

Nessa and I both have complicated families, hers more so than mine in some ways. While my mother takes care of my father for the most part, Nessa doesn't have that luxury. Her mom has early onset dementia and requires constant supervision, so while the aide is there, Nessa works her ass off to support them. And when the aide leaves, Nessa works her ass off to keep her mom safe. She takes zero time for herself, something I understand because I'm the same way. I'm up before dawn to prep beans, rice, and whatever long, slow cooks I've got for the day. As soon as Nessa arrives, I move on to veggies. Then, I'm cooking and serving lunches. After the rush, I clean up and plan for the next day, crashing early because I've got to do it all again tomorrow.

I think we're besties partly because anyone else would give up on us as a friend. But we understand each other. We get that hard work is the only way forward sometimes, especially for people like us who are struggling every day to make ends meet and keep the proverbial fires from getting so big they burn us to ash.

"Thanks," Nessa says, pressing her lips together as she fights the emotions she doesn't have time to deal with right now. Is she touched about the extra money? Or the offer of emotional support? Probably a mix of both. "Last night was better. I think the new meds and music therapy are helping."

Nessa's usually pretty matter-of-fact about her mom's health, which isn't something that can be cured, but rather, has to be managed as best as she can. Still, I hope her assessment of the meds and therapy is true and not wishful thinking.

"Good, I'm glad!" I inject excitement into my voice, even though I'm still worried about both Nessa and her mom. She's walking toward the door, so I drop the lid back on the rice and follow her. "Get that money today, girl. And watch out for the guys next door."

Now that we're by the open door, I can hear machinery running and men yelling out to each other. Maybe new customers, at least temporarily?

"Maybe before the pool is done, you'll find a man worth coming out of the kitchen for," she teases, bouncing her eyebrows salaciously. "Or better yet, coming in the kitchen for."

We have a running joke that the only way I'll find someone is if they walk into my kitchen because it's where I spend the bulk of my time. And Nessa? She'd only meet a man if he ran his buggy into hers in the produce section of the grocery store. We're too busy surviving to date.

"Sweaty, dirty dude bro? Fuck no," I answer, meaning it with every fiber of my being. Those guys might make the best customers, but I'm not looking to start anything, and if I were, it wouldn't be with a guy like that. "And I wouldn't risk my food license on some kitchen nookie, no matter what."

I mean, suit-and-tie guys aren't my type either, but maybe somewhere in between? A guy who understands hard work, cleans up nice, and treats me like a lady, while also realizing that I could kick his ass at any given time if I wanted to. Is that too much to ask? Apparently so, because he hasn't walked into my kitchen yet.

"It'd irk Kathy," Nessa adds with a sly glance toward the neighbor's house.

I'd do almost anything to piss Kathy off, and honestly, I have. One of my favorites is playing music loud enough to annoy but not warrant a disturbing the peace ticket. I've also made it a habit to throw bird seed over the fence to attract the hated squirrels and birds. But my most effective tactic is simply running my business and existing.

One line I won't cross? Trespassing on her property to flirt with the pool crew. Not even to piss off Kathy, because I'm sure I'd end up talking to the police about neighborly behavior. Again.

Even though I've already discounted the idea, both Nessa and I glance out the front door at the same time, seeing a group of three guys hauling gear from the trucks parked along the curb out front.

One is short, has a round beer belly, and is easily fifty years old. Nope. Too old.

The second is tall and lean muscled and looks like he might've turned eighteen yesterday. Nope. Too young.

The third is pretty average in height, weight, and looks, with a curly mullet peeking out below his ball cap.

"Fuck boy," we say in unison, dismissing the only possibly viable candidate. I know the type from years of working at my family's restaurant—the guys who fuck to get themselves off and never call afterward. Nessa knows because I bitch about them.

We laugh simultaneously, and Nessa throws me a wave as she hustles to her car, off to continue her day's work. I throw a glance next door, roll my eyes, and head back to the kitchen to get back to work myself. I've got pico de gallo to finish, and my first customers will be here in… I check the clock… "Shit, eighteen minutes!"