The Opposite of You

by Rachel Higginson

  Mostly.

  He didn’t greet me in return. Instead, his mouth pinched into an unhappy frown, and he huffed an impatient breath. “This is your truck?”

  I licked dry lips and patted my forehead with the back of my hand, discreetly trying to wipe away droplets of sweat. My styled hair was sticking to my slick neck, and I cursed myself for not putting it up like I usually did. I resisted the urge to glance down at my white t-shirt and inspect it for sweat spots or coffee stains or alien blood.

  Obviously, not a likely scenario. But working in a kitchen in white attracted all kinds of unidentifiable stains.

  God, I was such a hot mess.

  Literally and figuratively.

  Killian Quinn, on the other hand, was perfect and smooth and so cool it hurt to look at him. He also wore a white t-shirt, but his clung to toned muscles and a hard chest. His black pants that were industry standard ended at stylish black shoes and looked way out of place for a greasy kitchen.

  Maybe his kitchen wasn’t greasy?

  Because that could be possible for someone like him. Someone that seemed to defy all other laws and rules and universal continuums out of sheer will and smoldering looks.

  Tattoos snaked up his forearms and over hard biceps, disappearing beneath the sleeves of his t-shirt. I wanted to inspect them, gawk at them until I could describe each one in detail. But I was too self-conscious to stare.

  His hair was a little tousled after removing his helmet. His eyes were green and sharp and so intense I could only hold his gaze for a few seconds before mine dropped away. Straight to his beard.

  I licked my lips again and tried to swallow but my mouth was suddenly very dry, and my throat had a fist-sized lump in it.

  That beard. It was shocking. Longer than I expected even though it was neatly trimmed.

  I got the strongest urge to touch it. I wanted to know what it felt like against my fingertips, feel it scratch my palm and test the texture. I sucked in a quick breath and met his ferocious gaze again, just to stop myself from fixating on that ridiculous beard.

  He cleared his throat as if he could sense my inappropriate thoughts and I schooled my expression just in case it gave anything away—like me holding back fangirl screaming and desperate pleas to have his baby. “Yep. My truck. I’m Vera,” I answered, pasting a smile on after the fact, hoping that I sounded friendly and not spastic.

  Killian stared at me. Or maybe glared at me was a more appropriate description. “Vera,” he repeated, my name spitting out of his mouth like a curse word. “Vera what?”

  I tried to swallow again. I barely managed. “Delane.”

  Killian’s eyes narrowed, and this time when he said my name it was more of a growl than a curse. “Vera Delane. I’ve never heard of you.”

  Fire zinged through me, setting the remaining shreds of my backbone ablaze. “That doesn’t surprise me. We’ve never met before.”

  His eyebrows rose in surprise but not in kindness. “Do you know who I am?”

  I barely restrained an eye roll. I was not over my awe. I mean, this was Killian Quinn. But it irritated me that he was turning out to be every cliché I’d expected him to be. Cocky, self-absorbed and rude. Seconds ago, I was practically drooling over this man, and now I could barely force a polite response. “Killian Quinn?”

  He jerked his chin down in a nod and sliced his gaze to Lilou, then back to mine. “Yeah, and that’s Lilou. You’ve heard of Lilou?”

  I swallowed my rising frustration. “I’ve heard of Lilou,” I confirmed. “I’ve even seen it before. We’re practically neighbors.”

  His mouth pressed into a frown and his lips got lost in his full beard. “Well, then, neighbor, let me give you some friendly advice. Your eyesore is out of its league. A food truck doesn’t belong in this neighborhood. Or anywhere near Lilou. Who told you this was a good idea?”

  Something happened to me. I couldn’t explain it. I’d taken a lot of shit over the past couple of years, and I’d always reacted in the worst possible way—meaning I laid down and took it. I didn’t stand up for myself. Recently, I’d concluded that I just wasn’t capable of standing up for myself. Some people were fighters. Some were doormats.

  I was a doormat.

  Until now.

  Until this moment.

  Until Killian Quinn opened his big mouth and made me see red.

  My hip popped out, and I slammed my hand on it, cocking my elbow with every bit of attitude I didn’t know I had. “First of all, nobody told me this was a good idea. I came up with it all by myself. And do you know why?” I didn’t wait for his response. It wasn’t a question I wanted to hear the answer to. “Because I’m perfectly capable of coming up with my very own ideas all by myself. I’m sorry that your fragile ego feels threatened by a chef you’ve never even heard of before, but the reality is that I open tomorrow, so you better get used to the idea of some competition. If you can’t hack it, then maybe you should find a different profession.” He slid his bottom jaw back and forth, forcing a frustrated muscle to pop. His green eyes became lasers intent on smoking me on the spot. I just told one of the hottest chefs in the country to quit and do something else. Oh, my God. But before I could rein in my temper or leash my tongue, I finished my angry monologue with a barely contained threat. “And this food truck isn’t an eyesore, it’s my life. So, I don’t welcome your insults or your prejudice. You stick to your side of the street, and I’ll stick to mine, and we’ll manage to go on with our lives without any problems.”

  It took a moment for him to recover. He couldn’t seem to figure me out, and I was so proud of finally, finally sticking up for myself that I nearly ruined everything by smiling.

  But even that died when his angry glare began to move over me. His eyes were hot and dangerous, and as he swept them from my head to my toes, I felt him take me in, weighing and measuring and deciding my worth in one scathing glance.

  My skin prickled and my insides turned to mush. Whatever fight I had, died under his crushing intensity and couldn’t do anything but quiver as he prepared his retort.

  His mouth finally broke from his hard frown, kicking up into a cruel, mocking smile. “Do you really think you stand a chance? You can’t out cook me. You can’t compete with Lilou. What are you trying to do?”

  “I’m not trying to compete with Lilou,” I answered honestly, proud of myself for not losing my edge after all. “And I’m really not competing with you. But I do have a lot to do today, and I’m sure you have… things to prepare or whatever.” I glanced over at Lilou, hoping he got the hint. My chest clenched at the sight of Lilou in all its glory, and my heart kicked against my breastbone, just like every other time I’d looked at it.

  “Yeah, I’ve got a restaurant to run,” he bit out. He took a step back without turning around, without removing his glower.

  The way he said “restaurant” was the final insult. If he wanted to get to me, he finally landed the right punch.

  Because I’d never be a restaurant. Because nobody would ever confuse my food truck with his five-star kitchen. Because he was a chef and I was a glorified line cook.

  “Thanks for welcoming me to the neighborhood, Killian Quinn.” My smile was overly sweet and subtly vicious. My nose stung and I knew I was just seconds away from crying. I needed him to leave before that happened—before he saw how much his words wounded me.

  His steps paused, and I was forced to look at him again. He shook his head, a bitter expression of disbelief twisting his handsome features. “I don’t know what to think about you, Vera Delane.”

  “Then don’t,” I bit back.

  “What?”

  “Don’t think about me. Pretend like I don’t exist, and I’ll do the same to you.”

  He stared at me for a few moments longer, probably trying to decide if I was serious. Which I was. I didn’t even feel like crying anymore. That was how serious I was. Whatever pedestal I’d placed him on had disintegrated beneath the weight of his ego. He was no longer the
revered chef I hoped to be some day. He was just your common asshole that thought too highly of himself.

  Making a sound in the back of his throat, he didn’t say another word. He finally turned his back to me and marched across the street, back to Lilou, back to the fame and glory he was used to. His shoulders didn’t sag in defeat, and his long legs never lost the swagger of a man completely confident with himself and his talent. Just because I got the last word didn’t mean I won anything.

  In fact, snapping at Killian was far less satisfying than I thought it would be. A gritty, sickly feeling settled in my stomach as guilt pressed down on me. Killian deserved all of that. I knew he did. He was mean and a bully and completely out of line.

  But that didn’t mean I had to stoop to his level.

  I pressed my palms to my temples, hoping to clear the sticky residue of our first and hopefully last interaction. I was serious when I told him to ignore me. I hadn’t expected him to ever do anything but ignore me.

  With extra care, I opened the door to Foodie gently, as if she was as wounded by that exchange as I was. “It doesn’t matter,” I whispered to her. “He doesn’t matter.”

  And I meant that.

  Lilou would always be one of the best restaurants in Durham, maybe even in the nation. And Killian would always be a phenomenal chef. But those weren’t the things I wanted anymore.

  Those weren’t my dreams or my goals.

  They were only memories.

  And Killian Quinn finally pounded the last nail in the coffin of my former life. I’d moved on. I’d worked really, really hard to move on.

  Now I was going to do the two things I was great at—hide, and make damn good food.

  Chapter Five

  Friday night opened with more fanfare than I expected- especially since I didn’t finalize my menu until well after midnight the night before. I’d cooked all day. My tiny counter space was covered in potential dishes, some epic failures, and some surprising winners. And yet I still couldn’t pull the trigger and decide on my final weekend menu.

  Insecurity and legitimate fear clouded my judgment and twisted my insight. I’d done my research. I knew my expertise. The opening night menu should have been obvious. Or at least manageable. And yet I couldn’t make myself commit to side dishes, let alone the main fare.

  I had been a sweaty, exhausted mess when I decided to give up and forget this entire thing. A cool breeze had finally breached the small kitchen space. I was about to throw in the towel, not only for the night but on this stupid dream completely, when Killian Quinn had zipped by on his motorcycle, leather jacket tight around his lean torso, black helmet obscuring his pretentious face.

  Lilou had shut down over an hour earlier, and I had been telling myself I wasn’t waiting to catch a glimpse of the rat bastard, even though I couldn’t stop throwing hateful glances his way all day. His staff had filtered out a half hour before, but Killian was the last one that left the building.

  He didn’t stop by the truck again. And I expected hell would freeze over before he ever spoke to me after our earlier altercation. Which was more than fine with me.

  But something about the way he flew through the plaza without once turning his helmeted head my direction lit a fire in me once again. He was a jerk. An arrogant jerk! So caught up in his sycophantic world that he couldn’t see a good chef if she punched him in the face…

  Before I knew it, I had a decent menu picked and mentally prepared.

  My whole philosophy was modern Americana comfort food with a twist. I’d played with burgers and mini meatloaves, chicken fried steak and ribs all day, but inspiration hit like a lightning strike, and I knew exactly what I wanted.

  Grilled cheese and tomato soup. Only my grilled cheese would come with fresh mozzarella, pancetta and strawberry-jalapeno jam on brioche. And my tomato soup would be served as a cooled drizzle over the sandwich. Hand cut fries for the side with the same tomato soup served for dipping instead of ketchup. Messy, but not overly so. Familiar, but interesting enough to feel different.

  Pulled pork sandwiches. Only instead of traditional American BBQ, the sandwiches would be Korean BBQ with an Asian slaw and sticky buns. With fried green beans and a teriyaki glaze for the side dish.

  Done.

  I’d smiled down at my list, knowing both dishes could be made quickly and easily enough. I’d start my pork early in the morning so it would be done ahead of time and the rest was easy enough to handle by myself.

  The menu would have to stay small for now, but I could change it when things didn’t work or weren’t selling. Or hell, whenever I felt like it.

  I’d gotten used to cooking quickly over the past year as I moved from kitchen to kitchen wherever I could find work. I had never been in charge before, but Friday night was as good a time as any to take the lead.

  Fast forward twenty-ish hours or so and my pride-fueled optimism had evolved into full-fledged panic.

  The line in front of my window stretched six people deep while three other couples waited for their food.

  I scrambled around my tiny kitchen like a mad woman, carefully balancing taking orders and filling orders. If I ignored the window for too long, the people waiting would leave. If I ignored the orders waiting, those people would leave too and drop scathing reviews all over the internet.

  Or shout their complaints straight to my face.

  I wiped my hand across my damp forehead and ignored the hard pounding of my heart. Adrenaline coursed through me. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to dance in triumph or puke in early defeat.

  “Hey, anybody home?” A voice called through the window sounding cartoonish in its dramatic impatience. “I’ve been waiting forever out here!”

  I finished slapping together a grilled cheese and set it on the stove before I hurried over to the window. Vann grinned at me through the open window.

  “Look at you.” His smile stretched across his face, and his eyebrows danced on his forehead. “I’m impressed, sis. Opening night and you’re killing it.”

  “Oh, thank God,” I panted, ignoring his compliment. “I need your help.”

  His eyebrows stopped waggling and drew down in concern. “Do you need me to get something from the store? I’m not sure what’s still open, but I can-”

  I cut him off, desperate to get him inside. “I need you to take orders. Inside. Now.” I turned back to the stove to flip the grilled cheese. Glancing back at Vann, I tacked on a quick and panicked, “Please.”

  He shook his head, fear reflecting in his eyes. “I can’t go in there. You’ve seen me in a kitchen! I’m a disaster.”

  “I don’t need you to cook anything!” I reached overhead for a disposable cardboard basket and a butcher paper square to line it. “I just need you to take orders and money.”

  My brother’s voice trailed after me. “Are you serious?”

  I threw a desperate smile over my shoulder. “I’ll owe you one!”

  “You already owe me!”

  Gently placing the toasted grilled cheese on one side of the basket and dumping a handful of fries on the other, I gracefully added the tomato soup drizzle as well as a plastic ramekin of the sauce for the fries. With a small sprinkle of parsley for garnish, I stepped to the other window and handed it to the man waiting.

  “Here you go.” I smiled again, hoping he didn’t notice the lines of sweat coating my face or the way my hands shook as I passed him his late night meal. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  Thankfully his bleary eyes were fixed on his food. “This looks amazing.”

  I had a line of people and more plates to make, but I couldn’t help soaking in his compliment. “Thank you.”

  With his mouth already full of a bite of sandwich he shook his finger at the truck and crooned, “This was such a good idea. This area needs more late night food.”

  My grin stretched across my face. “That’s exactly what I thought.”

  “Okay, what do I do?”

  I glanced to my left to see V
ann tying on one of the extra aprons I had hanging near the door. He didn’t need to wear one since he wouldn’t be handling food, but I didn’t waste time telling him that.

  “Thanks again,” I hollered to the customer and then spun around to make the next meal. To Vann, I said, “Just take orders. Write them down here.” I pointed to a pad of paper. “Put them up here.” I pointed to the order line over my head. “And don’t get them out of order.”

  He leaned out the window. “Just a second.” To me, he asked, “And payment?”

  “Use the pouch for cash and my PayPal thingy for cards.” I slid my phone to him with the card reader attached to it. “Everything’s five dollars tonight,” I explained while my hands flew with superhuman speed to make two pulled pork meals.

  The cunning businessman in my brother perked up, and he couldn’t help but ask, “I thought you wanted to make money?”

  I smiled at the sandwich in my gloved hand. “Opening weekend special. I’m hooking them on good, cheap food. I need them to come back. Even when the prices double.”

  “Huh,” Vann grunted. He didn’t say anything more so I couldn’t tell if he thought that was a good idea or a bad one. Regardless he started taking orders and payment, and I stopped freaking out.

  I exhaled a slow breath and finally let myself settle into making good food. For the past three hours, it was nothing short of a relentless scramble. I hadn’t been able to breathe, let alone enjoy the thing I loved most in this world.

  Now I could finally find my stride. I was used to full menus to cook from, so limiting myself to two dishes became an easy routine I glided through effortlessly.

  I was happier with my dishes too. Even though I knew they tasted fine, they weren’t always the prettiest things to look at in my haste to shove them at the customers. With Vann’s help, I could take the time to make each order look as good as it tasted.

  Which made me immensely happy.

  I finished up the orders practically twirling around in the kitchen, and when we finally got a second for a break twenty minutes later, I threw my arms around Vann and squealed against his t-shirt.