I twist around to see a truck pulling into the lot. Levi's truck, I recognize it from the last two weeks of watching him arrive before me and leave after me every single day.
Great. Perfect. Now he's going to see me stranded here like the mess I apparently am, unable to even maintain a functional vehicle.
His truck pulls up beside my car and the engine cuts. Through my passenger window, I watch him climb out, all broad shoulders and perpetual stubble and that permanent scowl that shouldn't be attractive but absolutely is.
He taps on my window.
I roll it down manually, because of course the battery's too dead for power windows, and try to arrange my face into something that isn't "furious and humiliated."
"Car trouble?" His voice is rough.
"What gave it away?" The words come out sharper than intended, but I'm too frustrated to care. "The fact that I'm still here, or the dead engine?"
His jaw tightens. "Pop the hood."
"You don't have to—"
"Pop the hood, Maya."
The way he says my name sends an involuntary shiver down my spine, which is infuriating because he's being bossy and presumptuous and I should tell him I can handle this myself.
Except I can't handle it myself. So, I pull the hood release and listen to him walk around to the front of the car.
I should get out. I should stand there while he looks at the engine and pretend I understand what he's checking. Instead, I sit in the driver's seat, staring at the steering wheel, feeling the frustration of the entire evening pressing down on my chest.
The chicken and dumplings idea was good. I know it was. Seasonal, local, elevated comfort food, literally everything Juniper's is supposed to be about. But he wouldn't even listen to the full pitch, just shut me down like I was wasting his time by having thoughts about the menu.
The hood slams shut and I jump. A second later, Levi's at my window again, wiping his hands on a rag he must have pulled from his truck.
"Battery's dead. Corrosion on the terminals, probably needs to be replaced entirely." He pauses. "When's the last time you had this thing serviced?"
"I... don't know. A while."
"A while." He's giving me that look, the one that makes me feel like I'm a disappointing prep cook who forgot to date the containers. "You're driving around in a death trap."
"It's been fine." Defensive. I sound defensive, which makes me even more annoyed. "It gets me where I need to go."
"Except tonight."
I glare at him through the open window. "Was there something else you needed, Chef, or did you just stop by to criticize my vehicle maintenance?"
Something flickers in his eyes: surprise, maybe, that I'm pushing back. Good. Let him be surprised. I'm tired of swallowing my words, tired of pretending his dismissiveness doesn't sting.
"I'm giving you a ride home," he says, like it's already decided.
"I can walk."
"It's three miles and it's dark."
"I have legs."
"Maya." There it is again, my name in that voice, and this time there's a note of something almost like frustration. "Get in the truck. Please."
The "please" does it. I've never heard him say please, never heard anything but commands and corrections and the occasional terse acknowledgment that I've done something right. The word sounds weird in his mouth, like it costs him something.
I grab my bag, roll up the window, and climb out of the car. He's already walking back to his truck, assuming I'll follow. The presumption should annoy me, but I'm too tired to care anymore.
His truck is clean inside, surprisingly clean for someone who works in kitchens all day. No fast food wrappers, no coffee cups, just the faint smell of something woodsy and the lingering scent of whatever soap he uses. I slide into the passenger seat and buckle up, and can’t help but notice the enclosed space, the way his presence seems to fill the cab.