A year ago, I hated the way I looked. A year ago, I would avoid mirrors and reflections and anything that reminded me that I couldn’t change me.
Insecurity, my old friend, had convinced me that I was fat instead of curvy. My demons were embarrassed of my weight, jeans size and diet instead of comfortable in my own skin. And the voices I’d let into my life only fanned the flames of self-hate and shame.
I’d shed some of the debilitating emotions once I reached Europe, but that lack of confidence hadn’t yet disappeared. Although it was quieter now.
Maybe it was because I was as independent as I’d ever been, or maybe it was because I’d spent a year trekking through France and Italy and Spain with their never-ending glasses of wine and constant supply of carbs. One thing I realized—this was how I was built. I was thicker than most, built more like my dad than my mom. And no matter how much exercise I forced my body to submit to, my ass hung onto carbs like it would shrivel up and die without them.
And I wasn’t about to give up carbs.
I mean… that was obviously an insane expectation.
So, curvy it was. And since I only had myself to please and planned to keep it that way for a very long time, I decided to be happy just the way I was.
Still, Killian’s glare from across the street made me self-conscious. I turned away, stepping away from the truck. I hurried back to my car and out of his sight. I should ignore him anyway. Watching Killian Quinn and comparing myself to him was only going to get me into trouble anyway.
I hated how nervous he made me. I knew what I was getting into before when I asked Vann to let me park here. I wasn’t his competition. We ran opposite kinds of kitchens. There was no reason at all to let him intimidate me.
None.
Not one.
Okay, there were probably a hundred reasons to be intimidated by him. But it wasn’t like I was going to meet him. Ever. He was a food god.
Or at least a legend.
At least in my circle.
Not even in my circle! In restaurant circles. Fine dining restaurant circles that I was not included in because I ran a food truck. A food truck that hadn’t even opened yet. And he ran a world-class five-star restaurant. They were two totally different things. Plus, I had zero interest in other chefs. Dating them or befriending them or hell, even meeting them.
Like I said—opposites.
I needed to start ignoring him and the monster of a shadow Lilou cast, and worry about my own thing.
I nodded to myself, mentally patting my resolve on the head, and grabbed the last of my heavy crates from my shopping excursion. I stacked them on top of each other, so I only had to make one last trip. I was practically crushed under the weight of everything I carried, and my left hand kept slipping because I’d held onto my keys to make unlocking the door as easy as possible.
By the time I staggered back to the truck, beads of sweat had speckled my forehead and trickled down my spine. I cursed creatively as I shuffled to a stop in front of the door, but before I could open it, I noticed the legend himself leaning against the silver siding.
My mouth dried up and I nearly dropped everything. “Son of a bitch!” I hissed against plastic.
I didn’t know whether to run back to my car or keep walking and pretend like I didn’t own this truck and these weren’t my crates overflowing with ingredients. He probably wouldn’t notice if I made a fast U-turn. Or threw myself in front of the oncoming traffic.
What could he possibly want?
Be brave, Vera, I chanted to myself. Be confident. You’re not spineless. You’re not insecure. You’re not a pushover.
I waited by the door, not knowing what to do or say. I should have been normal and said hi or something, but I was starstruck and obnoxiously jittery instead. I realized it was stupid to be nervous because it wasn’t like he knew I knew him. I could totally play it cool right now. Pretend like he was just a normal nobody, and I wasn’t melting in a pile of awe and jealousy.
Except I’d lost the ability to use my mouth or motor functions. My arms had started shaking from the weight I was carrying, and I was sweating and hyperventilating because Killian Quinn was two feet away from me and hadn’t said a freaking word and I didn’t know what he wanted and—
I set the crates on the ground before I dropped them. Or puked inside them. Well, mostly I set them on the ground. I managed to get my foot trapped beneath one. “Ow!” I yipped reflexively. I slipped my foot out, but my flip-flop slipped off and stayed stuck under the box. I tried to casually hook my toe around the back and slide it out from under, but the boxes were too heavy, and it wouldn’t budge.
Panicking and refusing to look at Killian until I had both shoes firmly in place, I balanced on one foot, swooped down and snatched the damn thing free. I plastered on my best smile, while I hopped around trying to grapple with the same feisty shoe.
“Hi,” I finally said.
Killian’s gaze flickered to my stack of crates before he dragged it back to me.
I nearly blurted, “Thanks for the help,” but managed to bite my tongue. I didn’t need his help.
Mostly.
I was an independent woman, running a new small business, about to take names and kick some ass.
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 hear
d 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.
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 waitin
g 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.
Opposites Attract: The complete box set Page 5