The Grilled Cheese Queen's Billion-Dollar Secret

§01

The first time I saw him, I was wrestling with a faulty Wi-Fi hotspot and a mountain of shredded cheddar that smelled faintly of desperation.

It was my third day as the proud, and slightly terrified, owner of The Melted Crown, a brightly painted, second-hand Grumman-Olson Kurbmaster van that was currently my entire universe.

My summer project.

My grand escape.

My brother Spencer, ever the pragmatist, had called it "a quarter-life crisis financed by a trust fund."

I preferred to think of it as market research.

The market in question being the hungry, sleep-deprived, and hopefully undiscerning student population of Sovereign's Peak University.

My future alma mater.

But for now, I was just the new girl slinging gourmet grilled cheese sandwiches, trying to figure out why my Square reader kept losing connection.

"Problem?" a low voice cut through my muttered curses.

I looked up, and the world tilted slightly on its axis.

He was tall.

That was the first thing I noticed.

The kind of tall that made my 5'6" feel Hobbit-sized.

He had dark hair that fell over his brow in a way that looked effortlessly perfect, and a jawline sharp enough to slice the sourdough I was currently hoarding.

But it was his eyes that really did me in.

A deep, startling grey, like a storm brewing over the ocean.

And they were looking at me with a calm, unnerving intensity.

"Just some technical difficulties," I said, trying to sound breezy and competent, instead of like a girl who had spent the last hour Googling "how to boost mobile hotspot signal."

"The eternal struggle of the modern entrepreneur."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips.

"What's the special today?"

"The Royal Meltdown," I announced with a flourish, grateful to be back on familiar ground.

"A triple-cheese blend of aged cheddar, Gruyère, and Provolone with caramelized onions and a hint of fig jam on toasted sourdough. It will change your life."

He raised an eyebrow, a gesture that was somehow both skeptical and incredibly attractive.

"That's a bold claim for a sandwich."

"It's a bold sandwich," I retorted, my confidence returning.

I was on a mission to prove that comfort food could be an art form.

And that I, Farrah Townsend, could actually do something real, something tangible, something that didn't involve a spreadsheet or a board meeting.

"Fine," he said, pulling a worn leather wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. "I'll take one. To go."

My heart did a little celebratory flip. A customer! A ridiculously handsome customer!

And then, my Square reader blinked a pathetic red light at me.

Connection lost.

Again.

"Right," I sighed, the triumphant feeling deflating like a sad balloon.

"About that. My digital empire is currently experiencing a coup. It's cash only for the next... eternity, probably."

I expected him to walk away.

Most people would have.

Instead, he simply opened his wallet and pulled out a crisp ten-dollar bill.

"Keep the change," he said, his grey eyes meeting mine.

And for a second, I forgot all about the cheese, the van, and the terrible Wi-Fi.

He took the sandwich, wrapped in its checkered paper, and gave me a slight nod.

"Good luck with the coup."

And then he was gone, disappearing into the river of students flowing towards the campus quad.

I leaned against the stainless-steel counter, the ten-dollar bill clutched in my hand.

It was official.

I had a new favorite customer.

And a desperate need to fix my internet.

§02

The next day, it rained.

Not a gentle summer shower, but a full-blown, sky-opening-up, biblical deluge.

I was in the middle of a lunch rush—a phrase I used generously, it was more of a lunch... trickle—when the heavens decided to unleash fury.

Students scattered, books and laptops held over their heads like flimsy shields.

My little yellow truck, The Melted Crown, suddenly felt like the only dry spot in Havenwood.

I was frantically trying to get the awning retracted before it turned into a sail and carried me off to Oz when a large shadow fell over me.

It was him.

The handsome stranger from yesterday. Mr. Keep-the-Change.

He didn't say anything.

He just took a step forward, his broad shoulders shielding me from the worst of the downpour, and held his large black umbrella over my head while I wrestled with the stubborn crank.

The scent of rain and clean cedarwood filled the small space between us.

I could feel the warmth radiating from him, a stark contrast to the cold rain soaking through the back of my t-shirt.

Once the awning was safely tucked away, I turned to thank him, my hair dripping into my eyes.

"You're a lifesaver," I said, my voice a little breathless.

"You were getting soaked," he replied, his voice as calm and steady as ever.

He was looking at me, his grey eyes tracking a droplet of rain as it traced a path down my cheek.

My heart did a stupid little flutter.

"Well, uh, the least I can do is offer you a sandwich. On the house. For services to damsels in distress."

He actually smiled then. A real, genuine smile that lit up his entire face.

It was like watching the sun break through storm clouds.

"I was going to buy one anyway," he said. "The Royal Meltdown. It was... surprisingly life-changing."

I beamed, a warmth spreading through my chest that had nothing to do with the grill. "I told you."

"So, no charge for the heroics," he continued, already pulling out his wallet. "And I have cash."

For the next ten minutes, we existed in our own little world, cocooned by the sound of rain drumming on the truck's roof.

I worked, my movements practiced and sure, and he watched, leaning against the counter under the shelter of the service window.

We didn't talk much, but the silence wasn't awkward.

It was comfortable.

When I handed him the steaming sandwich, our fingers brushed.

A jolt, small but definite, shot up my arm.

"So," I said, trying to act casual, "do you have a name, or should I just keep calling you 'My Hero' in my head?"

He chuckled, a low, pleasant sound.

"Cormac," he said. "Cormac Armstrong."

"Farrah Townsend," I replied, offering him a cheesy, slightly damp handshake. "It's nice to officially meet you, Cormac."

"You too, Farrah."

He held my gaze for a moment longer than necessary before turning to leave.

"See you tomorrow," he said over his shoulder.

It wasn't a question.

It was a statement.

And as I watched him walk away, his large umbrella a black beacon in the grey rain, I knew he was right.

I had a feeling my summer was about to get a lot more interesting.

§03

The rainstorm, it turned out, was a blessing in disguise.

Apparently, a handful of students trapped under a nearby archway had filmed Cormac's "umbrella rescue" on their phones.

That evening, my friend Hazel, who would be my roommate at SPU in the fall, sent me a frantic string of texts.

**Hazel:** FARRAH. HAVE YOU SEEN WHISPERVINE?

**Me:** The campus gossip app? I'm not a student yet. Why?

**Hazel:** You're ON it. Or, your truck is. And your mystery handsome hero. The internet has questions!

She sent me a screenshot.

It was a post on the Whispervine app, a blurry photo of Cormac holding the umbrella over me.

The caption read: "Anyone know the story behind the cute new grilled cheese truck and this real-life Prince Charming? The sandwich is legit 10/10, btw. We need to protect The Grilled Cheese Queen at all costs."

The Grilled Cheese Queen.

I kind of liked the sound of that.

The post had hundreds of likes and a long thread of comments.

*Who IS he? I've seen him around campus. Total god-tier.*

*Forget him, who is SHE? That yellow truck is my new happy place.*

*Confirmed. The Royal Meltdown is a religious experience.*

*Shipping them so hard. #GrilledCheeseRomance*

The next day, there was a line.

A real, actual line of people waiting for my sandwiches.

My little "summer project" had gone viral.

I was slinging cheese and bread like a seasoned pro, my Square reader finally behaving, the "cha-ching" of sales a constant, beautiful symphony in my ears.

I felt a surge of pride so fierce it almost knocked me over.

I was doing it.

I was really doing it.

Cormac showed up at his usual time, taking in the crowd with a look of amused surprise.

"Looks like the coup was successful," he said, finally reaching the front.

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