I pointed at the dish he’d been so focused on. “What’s that?”
He frowned down at the plate. “Practice.”
“For the guy from Gourmand?”
Killian’s frown deepened. “Heath Noble.”
“Yikes,” I hissed, feeling his anxiety ratchet through the room. “That’s not just any critic.”
“No kidding,” he sighed. “Plus, he already hates me. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s showing up just to write a bad review.”
I moved closer so I could inspect his dish. Obviously, I hadn’t tasted it yet, but it looked perfect. It looked beyond perfect. It was everything good food should be. The steak was fat and juicy, sear lines making a plaid outline on the surface. The mushrooms had been sliced exactly evenly and the brown sauce coating them smelled robust and savory. The polenta was the right side dish, creamy, golden with tipped peaks and the right amount of substance without looking gluey. Despite everything on the plate, the asparagus refused to be ignored—a verdant green, pliable without being floppy, and crisp ends that would crunch in contrast to the soft polenta. It was flawless.
Immaculate.
My mouth watered just looking at it.
“It looks and smells amazing, Killian. You have nothing to worry about.”
“It’s not modern,” he countered. “It’s not interesting or pushy or anything but ordinary. I’m bored just looking at it.”
“So make something else,” I encouraged. I hadn’t seen anything but the technical precision he’d used on the dish. But now that he suggested some problems, I could see what he meant. This wasn’t a dish that was pushing the boundaries of the food industry. But not every dish had to be.
He glared at me. “This is what Ezra wants. This is what Ezra gets.”
I leaned in until our shoulders touched, linking my pinky with his. “It’s perfect. You know that it’s perfect. Stop stressing out.”
He let out a deep sigh and wrapped his arms around me, tugging me into a hug. I sucked in a breath, surprised by the intimacy in the middle of his kitchen. For a warm, delicious minute, he just held me against him, seeming to take as much pleasure in our innocent connection as I did. Finally, he dropped a kiss on the top of my head and stepped back. “Let’s go eat. I’ll worry about this later.”
“I didn’t take you for the nervous sort,” I teased him as we weaved through the kitchen and out to the dining room.
He shot me a glance over his shoulder and then stopped at a corner table set for two. “It’s not me I’m worried about. I know I serve the best. But I can’t control him. You can’t make someone enjoy good food. You can’t convince them to appreciate the skill and taste and quality you put into every element. I learned very early on that food service is an art just as much as painting or storytelling. People either like it, or they don’t. You can’t argue with personal taste.”
I sat down in the chair he pulled out for me. “Every other review of you or Lilou has been glowing. I know because I’ve read them all. You seriously have nothing to worry about.”
He sat down across from me and pulled silver domes off the two platters waiting for us. One plate was the chocolate mousse I loved here. And the other was a conglomeration of meats and cheese, mustard, jelly, bread and nuts.
Killian grinned at me. “A charcuterie board.”
“You’re so full of it.”
He nodded, waggling his eyebrows. “And you’re impressed. It’s okay if you want to tell me how much.”
I just shook my head. Unbelievable.
“How was inventory? Do you know what you’re going to serve this week?” He rearranged the plates so the charcuterie was between us and tore off a hunk of bread and meat, dipping it in the mustard before taking a bite.
I followed suit, kind of loving that he hadn’t bothered to plate individually. “I was really inspired by those strawberries at Jo’s stand. I was thinking about doing a deconstructed chicken salad sandwich with a strawberry-rhubarb compote over greens and like a Caprese salad on a skewer. I don’t know. I’m just playing with the idea right now. I don’t want the chicken salad to be too sweet.”
His expression turned thoughtful. “Would you serve bread with it?”
“Maybe toast for texture? Or lavosh? Then layer it with butter lettuce, blackened chicken, the compote and a spicy-ish aioli to give it some heat.”
“And the salad?”
“Fresh mozzarella balls and cherry tomatoes marinated in balsamic vinegar and roasted briefly with a basil pesto to dip it in.”
He leaned forward, bringing us closer together. “Is that your style then? Fancy comfort food?”
I nearly choked on a curried pistachio. “What?”
“Your signature. You’re doing upscale comfort food out of a food truck. It’s clever, Vera. You should run with it.”
I popped another pistachio in my mouth and let his words settle inside me. That was exactly my style. It wasn’t a secret, but I hadn’t had to explain it to him. He’d simply gotten to know my food and figured it out himself. There was satisfying validation in that.
My pride soared, and I settled into the style all over again. I loved to take ordinary meals that we were all used to and make them interesting, different. I wanted to take the thing that your mom made you on your sick days or the meals that reminded you most of home and spin them until they felt completely different. And then I wanted to make you love them just as much.
I smiled instead, appreciating Killian all over again. “Yes. That is my style.”
“Are you ever going to expand beyond the truck?”
Was this his version of twenty questions? Geez. “Right now I’m about fifty thousand dollars in debt. First I’m going to pay off my student and business loans.”
His eyebrows lifted at my candidness. Swiping a piece of cheese through the red pepper jelly, he said, “Yeah, but if the food truck continues to grow you’ll need to capitalize on your success. I know you want a kitchen, Vera. And I know Foodie is taking off. A restaurant of your own seems like the next, most natural step.”
“Derrek will never let me have a kitchen. I gave up on that dream the second I left him.” I had doubts that I would be in the food truck business for another week now that Derrek knew where to find me.
His expression transformed from casual to furious in less than a second. He went from relaxed and fluid to angry, rigid lines, his fists clenched at his side, his jaw so hard it pushed his cheek muscles out. “Who cares what Derrek thinks? You’re not still considering going back to him, Vera. That would be a huge fucking mistake.”
“Geez.” I felt my stomach drop to my toes. “Obviously not. I would never go back to him. I’m talking sabotage. He’s been pretty clear on what would happen to me should I choose to work somewhere else besides his kitchen.”
And just like that Killian slumped back in his chair, relaxed once again. Well mostly relaxed. The topic of Derrek still put him on edge, but at least he wasn’t three seconds from turning into the Hulk. “Derrek doesn’t get to decide where you work. Or what you do. Only you decide that, Vera. He doesn’t get to control you anymore. And if he tries we’ll take legal action.”
I ignored his use of “we’ll.” I appreciated everything Killian had done for me, but I in no way expected him to help me fight Derrek all the way to court. I could never ask that of anyone, least of all Killian. But instead of explaining that, I changed the direction of the conversation. “I doubt he would do anything illegal. All he has to do is talk to the people he knows, get them to shun me and I’ll be completely alienated. Un-hirable.” Killian shook his head, refusing to agree. So, I repeated myself in simpler terms. “All he has to do is tell his friends in the industry whatever bad rumor he wants, and I won’t be able to find a job at any good restaurant in the entire state.”
“That’s not true,” Killian countered. “His circle of friends is smaller than you think. Most people can’t stand the useless prick.”
That made me smile. “S
till, I’m a nobody. I haven’t even worked anywhere notable, and I graduated over four years ago.”
“Who cares,” Killian insisted. “You’re a hell of a chef. You can have my letter of recommendation any time you want it.”
I was speechless. Completely. Utterly. Speechless. It wasn’t like he’d offered another suggestion to my dishes, which I’d learned was both helpful and obnoxious. This was much bigger.
Killian freaking Quinn had just offered to give me a letter of recommendation. He’d called me a hell of a chef.
Obviously, I’d died last night. This couldn’t be real. This wasn’t my life.
I messed up. I always chose the wrong thing, the wrong path, the wrong boyfriend. I was the perpetual screw-up who had just learned to be okay with that.
What was happening?
“I wish you’d say something,” he coaxed. “I can’t tell if you’re pissed or happy.”
“Thank you,” I whispered. “You’re so generous. I’m just, I’m trying to process all your support. If we’re honest, I’m still trying to process our friendship. So, this is like, I don’t know, incomprehensible.”
He snorted as he switched the charcuterie for the mousse and passed me a spoon. “We’re not friends, Vera. If you haven’t figured it out by now, I like you. And not in a way that’s appropriate for friends to like each other. Whether we explore our non-friendship or not, you have my support in your career no matter what. Your talent isn’t dependent upon me. You just kick ass in the kitchen. End of story.”
“Oh.”
“But if you want my honest advice, you’d be smothered in a kitchen that wasn’t your own. You might think you’d enjoy working under someone, but we’re all assholes. And you’d be stifled, pushed into a box that you don’t belong in. Sure, you could work your way up, but you have your truck, so I don’t know why you would.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
He leaned forward, taking my hand in his and playing with the tips of my fingers. “Say yes when I ask you to go out on another date with me.”
“Another?”
He waved his hand at the table. “I cooked for you. Don’t I get credit for that?”
I pressed my lips together to keep from grinning like an idiot. “Yes.”
“Yes, I get credit? Or yes to the date.”
“Yes, to both.”
And then he smiled at me again, soft, sweet, simmering with heat and affection and I thought my heart was going to blow up and kill me. He’d literally turned me into a Billy Ray Cyrus song—but like the happy version of Achy Breaky Heart.
I’d never felt like this with Derrek. Or any of the other guys I’d dated before him. I’d never been simultaneously this happy and this hopeful and this nervous. It was like my past was black and white, and Killian Quinn had finally given me color. He’d brought me back from a dead, lonely place and given me a reason to hope and smile and laugh again.
We finished the mousse, and he walked me outside, but only so he could press me against the cool side of the building and kiss me senseless. His lips moved against mine greedy with a different kind of hunger than I was used to feeding. He gripped my hips and held me against him, letting me feel all his hard, toned lines. My hands dove into his hair, kissing him just as relentlessly as he kissed me.
When he pulled away, my lips were swollen from his kisses, and my chin itched from the beard burn he’d left me with. We said goodbye, and I walked across the street to my truck, pressing my fingers against my mouth and trying to hold in the taste of him.
Was this really me swearing off men?
Maybe Killian Quinn was worth breaking a few of my own rules.
Chapter Twenty-One
…So for all these reasons, you need to stay away from me. I’m serious, Derrek. I will get a restraining order if I have to.
-Vera.
I read it over three more times before I hit send. I had tried to muster up the courage to call him several times over the last couple days, but I’d never been able to push the button. I had all these things to say to him, to yell at him. I wanted to eviscerate him with words and scar him with truth. For more than a year, I’d been mentally preparing the speech I’d give should I ever see him face-to-face again. And then when he’d inevitably shown up, I froze, paralyzed by fear and habit.
I had hoped disemboweling him over the phone would be easier. I’d sharpened my claws and practiced phrases like, “You made me fear, truly fear for the first time in my life. You were supposed to be the place I felt the safest, but you were my nightmare instead.” In the end, it was all for nothing. I couldn’t do it. Killian suggested I text him instead.
It had taken me another two days to work up the courage just to do that.
Since I didn’t want him to have my number, I used Vann’s phone. I hoped Derrek wouldn’t go after Vann like he would me. But I knew Vann wouldn’t put up with any kind of harassment.
I couldn’t say the same thing about me. We’d already established that I was a doormat.
Setting the phone down on the counter between us, I stared at it like it was alive and dangerous, like any second it would sprout arms with talon-tipped fingers and lunge for me.
“Did he reply?” Vann asked from his stool by the order window.
I shook my head. “Not yet.”
“Maybe he won’t,” Vann suggested. “Maybe he finally clued in that you don’t want anything to do with him.”
“Maybe,” I agreed. “But not likely.”
“Why didn’t you tell me when it was happening? I would have moved your ass home the second you called.”
My stomach turned with familiar regret. I’d opened up to Vann earlier when I filled him in on Derrek’s surprise visit Saturday night. Vann had been as mad as I’d expected. He tried to convince me that he understood my silence. But I knew he didn’t. He didn’t understand why I’d never told anybody. And he didn’t understand why I’d stayed with Derrek for as long as I did.
That made two of us.
He turned his face back to the window, stewing with useless fury and frustration. There wasn’t anything he could do now, and that drove him crazy.
The weather had cooled significantly tonight, threatening a storm with heavy clouds blotting out the starry sky and the smell of rain perfuming the air. An occasional rumble of thunder and flash of lightning punctuated the building anticipation of a summer storm.
The promise of rain had emptied the plaza, making it a slow night even for a Thursday. I should have sent Vann home two hours ago, but I was too afraid to be alone again.
I couldn’t help scanning the plaza every time I turned around. I half-expected Derrek to show up again now that he knew where to find me. I had big doubts that a stern text message would be enough to keep him away. He wasn’t easily dissuaded.
“How was your date the other night?” I asked Vann, attempting to change the subject.
He shrugged, not changing his facial expression. “I don’t think I’ll see her again.”
“Did she call you on your bullshit?”
Looking down at his crossed ankles, he suppressed a smile. “You might have been right about nice girls.” At my huge grin, he amended, “Not in the traditional sense of being right. That’s not what I meant. I just mean, maybe you were on to something.”
I cupped my ear. “What’s that? What did you say? Did you want to tell me how I’m right all the time? And emotionally intuitive? And awesome?”
He laughed at my theatrics. “Yeah, sure. You’re all those things. And yet you have terrible taste in men. What’s that about?”
I let out a heavy sigh and checked my phone for the umpteenth time tonight. Speaking of men… Killian hadn’t texted all day. After enjoying a non-stop texting conversation since Sunday, I hadn’t heard from him at all today. He’d been radio-silent, and rationally I knew he was probably busy working. But irrationally, I compared today with the previous few days and how he’d found time to text me then but not now.
<
br /> I’d only analyzed what I could have said to piss him off two hundred times today, but I’d concluded that it wasn’t me. He’d stopped by the truck yesterday afternoon, like he did every time I worked, and walked me to my car. There had even been some fantastic kisses against the driver’s side door and a promise for a date just as soon as we could figure out our dumb work schedules.
Then this morning? Nothing.
I’d texted him a question about spices just to get a reaction from him, but he’d been radio silent.
The floodlights outside Lilou flicked off, and staff started to pour out the side door. Closing time for them. Usually, I stayed open for another two hours, but there wasn’t any point tonight.
I watched the staff from Lilou walk to the parking lot, stripping out of their coats and bandanas as they went.
Nerves abruptly pricked at the back of my neck and forearms. I realized I’d been staying open, hoping to catch a glimpse of Killian. I’d been addicted to my phone today, hoping he’d text. I was becoming the girl that I hated. The girl I never wanted to be again.
“Let’s go,” I told Vann. “This isn’t worth staying open for.”
“You sure?”
I appreciated what a good sport he was, but now I was suddenly very anxious to get going. “Yeah, I’m sure. I just have to clean up a bit.”
He nodded and started going through the money.
It wouldn’t take long since we’d only had a minimum of customers tonight. A strong wind blew through the windows, rustling the papers and money, sending Vann scrambling after bills and order tickets. The menu sign hanging on the outside of the truck smacked against the siding and then lifted with the wind and slapped it again.
“Oh, geez.” I left Vann to deal with the money while I rushed outside to grab the sign before it damaged the siding.
A fat raindrop landed on my forehead just as soon as I stepped outside. Sliding the menu off its hook, I turned around and nearly ran into Wyatt.
He squinted against the wind whipping him in the face. “Hey.”
The Opposite of You Page 24