Ivy's POV
The line wrapped around my food truck.
Actual people. Real customers. Waiting for my food.
I'd been cooking since 4 AM, my hands moving on autopilot—marinating short ribs in gochujang and soy, slow-braising Sichuan peppercorn carnitas, crisping duck confit until the skin shattered like glass. Every taco told a story. My Chinese grandmother's techniques mixed with my Mexican abuela's soul.
Food that screamed this is who I am to anyone willing to listen.
And at 11 AM on a Monday morning, Austin was listening.
These Korean short rib tacos are INSANE! A girl with purple hair held up her phone, filming. You guys, Spice & Everything Nice is legit. The kimchi slaw? The gochujang glaze? This is what fusion food should taste like!
My heart hammered. Six months ago, I'd lost everything. Today, strangers were choosing my food. Posting about it. Coming back for seconds.
Maybe I'd actually survive this.
Two duck confit and a carnitas! I called out, plating with hands that barely shook anymore.
The customer, a food blogger I recognized from Instagram—took one bite and literally closed her eyes. Oh my God. The hoisin with the pickled vegetables and the crispy duck? You're not just good. You're special.
Special. Not diversity hire. Not confused. Not embarrassment.
Special.
I blinked back tears and took the next order.
By 11:30, I'd served sixty-two customers. My cash box had actual money in it. Food critics were tagging my location. The line kept growing.
This was working. Against every betrayal, every person who'd said I'd fail—this was actually working.
Then I heard it.
The deep, rumbling growl of an engine. Too loud. Too close. Too aggressive.
A massive black truck rolled down East 6th Street like it owned the entire city. Flames painted across the sides in red and orange. Chrome details catching the April sun. Rebel Smoke written in bold letters that screamed for attention.
The truck parked directly across from my spot.
My perfect spot. The one with the most foot traffic, the best visibility, the shade tree that kept customers cool while they waited in line.
A man climbed out of the driver's seat.
Tall stupidly tall, maybe six-foot-two, with dark hair and arms covered in detailed tattoos. He stretched like he'd just woken from a nap, totally relaxed, completely unconcerned that he'd just stolen my parking space.
Then he caught me staring and winked.
Actually had the audacity to wink at me like this was all some fun game.
My customer noticed my expression. You okay?
Fine, I lied, shoving her tacos across the counter.
The tattooed giant opened his truck's service window and hung a menu board: Rebel Smoke BBQ - Texas Tradition, Perfectly Smoked.
Within minutes, smoke started billowing from his setup. Hickory and oak, the smell thick and rich and completely unfair.
Within ten minutes, he started calling out: Brisket! Sixteen-hour smoked perfection! Ribs that fall off the bone! Real Texas BBQ!
My line started looking over at him.
Is that BBQ? someone asked.
Smells incredible, another person said.
No. This was MY day. My customers. My resurrection.
Then a couple in my line—a couple who'd been waiting ten minutes—actually left. Crossed the street to his truck instead.
My chest tightened.
More people followed. Five customers. Eight. Twelve.
Half my beautiful line evaporated, drawn to his truck like moths to smoke.
The purple-haired girl who'd raved about my tacos waved apologetically. Sorry, but brisket is my weakness! I'll definitely come back though!
She didn't come back.
I watched my perfect opening day dissolve. My remaining customers kept glancing at Rebel Smoke, wondering if they were missing something better. The food blogger left without ordering seconds.
Fifteen minutes. That's all it took for this stranger to destroy everything I'd worked for.
Fury burned through my chest, hot and sharp.
I ripped off my apron and marched across the street.
Up close, the tattooed stranger was even more infuriating. Gray-blue eyes that sparkled with amusement. Strong jaw shadowed with stubble. Arms covered in culinary-themed ink—knives, flames, ingredients, all beautifully detailed.
He was serving a customer, grinning like life was just one big joke.
I planted myself in front of his window. Excuse me!
He finished handing over brisket, then turned that insufferable grin on me. Well hey there. Can I help you, sweetheart?
Sweetheart.
This is MY spot!
One eyebrow rose. Your spot? That's interesting, because I don't see your name painted on the street.
I've been setting up here for weeks! I have permits, I talked to the other vendors, I—
Public street. He shrugged, completely unbothered. First come, first served. Capitalism at its finest.
You can't just steal my customers!
I'm not stealing anything. I'm offering people options. He leaned against the window frame, all casual confidence. Not my fault they prefer quality BBQ over... what'd you call it? Fusion innovation?
The way he said it, like fusion was a joke, like my food was pretentious—made my blood boil.
My food is GOOD. It's creative and well-executed and
I'm sure it's very nice. His tone suggested he meant the opposite. But people come to Texas for BBQ, darlin'. Not confused tacos that can't decide if they're Chinese or Mexican.
The words hit like a slap.
Confused. The same word my father's family had always used. Confused heritage. Confused identity. Confused girl who doesn't belong anywhere.
You know what? I stepped closer, glaring up at him. You have no idea who you're messing with.
Then enlighten me. His smile didn't waver.
I'm Ivy Chen. I trained at Le Cordon Bleu. I was sous chef at Meridian
The restaurant that fired you? His head tilted. Yeah, heard about that. Rough situation.
My stomach dropped. How do you
Small industry. Word travels. He grabbed a rag and wiped down his counter like we were discussing the weather. Look, I get it. You're trying to rebuild after a career disaster. Respect. But this is business, not charity. You want customers? Earn them.
By parking across from me and stealing them with cheap tricks?
By being better. His eyes met mine, sharp and challenging. You think you can compete with me? Prove it. May the best chef win.
He extended his hand like we were making some gentleman's agreement.
I stared at his tattooed hand, at his cocky face, at everything he represented—another obstacle, another person trying to take what was mine.
You just made a huge mistake, whoever you are.
Cole Harrison. He pulled his hand back. And I really don't think I did. But hey, I'm looking forward to the competition, Ivy Chen.
The way he said my name, like he knew more than he was saying—sent a shiver down my spine.
I spun around and marched back to my truck, my mind already racing with plans.
Behind me, I heard him chuckle.
By 2 PM, we were in full war.
I created a chalkboard special: FUSION EXCELLENCE - Gochujang Tacos, Half Price Today Only!
Cole responded with his own sign: REAL FOOD FOR REAL TEXANS - Buy One Brisket Plate, Get Ribs Free!
Customers started filming us. Posting on social media. Choosing sides.
A guy with a food blog walked between both trucks, laughing. This is amazing. Food truck rivalry. I'm calling it... Spice Wars! #TeamTaco or #TeamBBQ, people!
We're not rivals, I started to say.
We're definitely rivals, Cole called from across the street, grinning.
By 4 PM, #TeamTaco and #TeamBBQ were trending locally. People made bets. Critics weighed in. Customers bought from both trucks just to compare.
My sales were good, better than I'd hoped for opening day.
But Cole's were better.
And every time I looked over, he was watching me with that knowing smile, like this was all according to some plan I didn't understand.
At 8 PM, I closed my window, exhausted and wired and confused about whether today had been a success or a disaster.
Cole was packing up across the street. He caught me looking and walked over.
Good first day, chef, he said.
Up close, I noticed things I'd missed earlier. Scars on his hands from years of kitchen work. The way he moved with professional precision, formal training, not amateur enthusiasm. And his eyes, assessing me like I was a puzzle.
Why are you really here? I demanded. Why park across from me specifically?
Something flickered in his expression. Too fast to read. Maybe I just like the view.
I'm serious.
So am I. But his smile shifted, became almost gentle. Look, competition makes us both better. It brings energy to the street. People love a good rivalry.
This isn't a game.
Never said it was. He took a step back. See you tomorrow, Ivy Chen. Sleep well.
He walked away before I could respond, leaving me standing there with a thousand questions and no answers.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I pulled out my phone and searched: Cole Harrison chef Austin.
Nothing.
Cole Harrison BBQ background.
Nothing.
Rebel Smoke food truck owner.
Still nothing. No social media. No restaurant history. No culinary credentials. The man was a complete ghost.
Who opens a food truck with zero online presence? Who has professional knife skills but no searchable background? Who knows about my firing at Meridian when it happened six months ago in a different city?
I stared at my truck ceiling, listening to Austin's night sounds, and admitted the truth:
Cole Harrison was hiding something.
And tomorrow, I was going to find out what.