He ignored me. “You don’t have to worry about doing this, Delane. You are doing it. We’ll rework the menu and tomorrow will be a better day.”
“Does that always work?”
“What?”
“Naming it like that, calling yourself on your own crap. Is that all it takes to move on?”
The hint of something played over his features. Regret maybe? Disappointment? It was hard to say, but whatever it was made me feel cold all over again inside. I knew the answer before he vocalized it.
“No, it doesn’t. But when this therapeutic bullshit fails, we do what we do best.”
“And that is?”
“We cook, Delane. Come on, we’re chefs. So, we cook. Not for them, not for the people judging us. We cook for us. We make whatever reminds us of how fucking amazing we are.”
I laughed, and it was the first time all night I finally felt like myself again. Hell, maybe it was the first time in years I felt like myself again. Not the shadowed, broken version I’d been since Derrek, but the real me. The one that had been rescued by cooking and empowered by the kitchen. “I thought you were going to say drinking,” I told him. “That when all else fails, we drink.”
He chuckled, reaching for a bowl of spices. “Well, we do that too.”
“Hey, Vere?” Molly called from behind me.
Oh, my God, I’d completely forgotten she was here. I whipped around to her, hoping she didn’t comment on how red my cheeks flamed or how absorbed in Killian I’d been for the last ten minutes. “Hi, sorry. Gosh, Molly, sorry.”
She gave me a pointed look, silently calling me out on everything I hadn’t wanted her to see. Her eyebrows danced over her eyes, and she made a silent gesture toward Killian—kissing and then something more vulgar. “Do you care if I take off? I have an early morning tomorrow, and I’d like to get home.”
She was a liar. She had brunch with me tomorrow morning because we’d made plans less than an hour ago.
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Are you sure?”
Smiling innocently, she nodded. “Super sure.”
“You don’t want to wait around just another hour or so?”
She started walking toward the door, collecting her things as she went. “Nope, I’m good. I’ll uh, see you tomorrow, Vera. Bye, Killian.”
“Bye, Molly,” Killian called over his shoulder, fully absorbed in his new and improved spice blend.
I didn’t say anything to her. I was pretty sure I was never going to speak to her again.
Or at least not until tomorrow morning when I met her at brunch.
The door shut behind her and Killian and I were left alone. Suddenly feeling awkward, I moved away from him and focused very intently on anything else. Like my cleaning rag and the greased-over fryer.
“Where did you train?” he asked when I found more surfaces to scrub.
“CAI, Charlotte,” I told him.
He whistled between his teeth. “That’s a good program. You finished?”
I nodded. “Yeah, with a Bachelors. Geez, that was almost five years ago.”
His face scrunched up while he worked through my answer. “So, I met your dad, and your brother owns the bike shop, right?” I nodded, not liking where this was going. “And your mom?”
I rubbed my hand over my heart, feeling that same hollow ache I always got when the subject of my mom was brought up. “She, uh, died when I was little. My dad raised us.”
His silence was a tangible thing that filled up every single space in the truck. It sucked up the remaining oxygen and reached across the galley to touch me, wrap around me… hold me. “I’m sorry,” he said so very tenderly my heart skipped.
I tilted my head, avoiding eye contact with him. “Thank you.” We were silent for a minute while he let me step out of the sharp but also distant grief that came with losing a mother I could barely remember. I only had a handful of faded memories of her. Watching her put on perfume. Laughing while she pushed me on a swing. A family vacation at the beach. There weren’t many of them, but I treasured each one.
People never knew what to say when I told them my mom died when I was young. They usually tried to fill in the emptiness with useless clichés or words of encouragement. I appreciated Killian’s silence. There honestly wasn’t anything to say. Nothing made it better or okay. Nothing said could change what happened. It just was. This was part of my story, the reality I lived with. Killian seemed to get that better than anyone else.
I wanted to ask about his family, but he changed the subject before I got a chance. “Durham is home for you?”
“Born and raised.”
“And the truck is a new venture, right?”
“Right.”
“Where have you been since CAI? Not in a kitchen around here. I would have heard about you.”
I shook my head. As flattering as that statement was, I also knew it wasn’t true. I’d worked for plenty of chefs happy to give me busy work without any real responsibility. “I stayed in Charlotte for a while. Last year, I worked my way across Europe.”
Interest sparked in his bright eyes, darkening them, deepening them. “Worked, as in cooked?”
“Yeah, you know I just hopped from kitchen to kitchen. Nothing fancy or famous. Just your average bistro or café. I wanted some perspective. Some flavor for my resume.”
“You couldn’t get that in Charlotte?”
“Not like that.” Charlotte had a great food scene. There were plenty of notable kitchens to work out of. Theoretically, I could have built a great resume there. Except that hadn’t been in the cards for me. I skipped over the sordid details of my past and told him the truth. “Charlotte was a great place to start. But come on, Europe? Last June I was in Barcelona. Then Paris. Then Rome. Then Tuscany. Vienna. Berlin. All the little towns in between. So, no, I couldn’t get that in Charlotte.”
“That explains your flavors.”
“You hate my flavors.”
He held my gaze, unflinching, showing me something I hadn’t seen before. “You don’t get it. Or maybe you don’t see it. Your flavors are going to be legend, Vera. They’re going to make you a legend.”
“If I can remember to get the salt right.”
His lips twitched again. “Ideally, yeah. If you can be careful with the salt.”
“So what about you then? How did you find your footing?”
He shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. We were as far apart as we could be in the small space. He leaned against one counter, and I leaned against the other.
He was such a man. Not in the sexist sense, but like the anatomical sense. His long, lean body was all muscled frame and virile strength. His tattoos only added to his hard edges, feeding that masculine presence and making me feel very, very female.
Delicately feminine compared to his intoxicating male-ness.
I yanked the bandana off and retied my hair in a messy bun on the top of my head. Killian watched me, fascinated.
He waited until my hair was situated before he spoke. “Chicago,” he explained, although I already knew that from my prior years of light cyberstalking. “I cut my teeth at Americana under Toby Manier.” He crossed his feet at the ankles, leaning back against the counter, a nostalgic smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “God, those years were hell.”
“I’ve heard horror stories about his kitchens,” I empathized.
He looked up at me from beneath those long lashes, and I felt my heart jump in my chest, surprised by the boyish expression and warmth waiting there. “Whatever you’ve heard, they can’t compare to the truth. He was psychotic. And paranoid like you would not believe. Before he died, I would get regular cease and desist letters from him. Ezra had to keep a lawyer on retainer just to fight my legal battles with him.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I wish.” He laughed again, the sound all melty chocolate and cozy firesides. “But I learned how to clean a kitchen working for him. And I learned how to bust my ass for every single thing. In his
kitchen, there was no small task. Every single thing meant something bigger, greater. He was a slave driver for sure, but I don’t regret those days.”
I felt some of my awe for him return. Not many people could live through Toby Manier and thank him for his strident obsessiveness. But it was clear, despite legal issues and slave labor, Killian still respected the man. “What made you leave Americana?”
He rubbed at his beard again, shaping it with two hands until it made a point. “It was clear very early on in my career that I needed to run my own kitchen. I’ve always struggled to follow the rules and listen to authority. Once I got my feet under me, I decided what I wanted to do, and there was little to stop me after that. I moved to New York and tried working in a few other kitchens. Etienne Immanuel, Sasha Goering and Christopher Perry to name a few. It was the same song and dance in every kitchen, though. I learned, I studied, I grew and then I needed to move on.”
“Do they all hate you for it?”
He laughed and looked at his shoes. “They should. But other than Toby, I somehow convinced them all to stay friends.”
“What brought you to Durham?”
“Ezra,” he said easily. “We’re from here. When he told me his plan for Lilou, I couldn’t resist.”
“We’re? You and Ezra?”
“Born and raised. We grew up together.”
“So what, one day you were on the playground at recess and just decided that he would open restaurants and you would become a world-renowned chef?”
The look in his eyes turned wicked. “That’s exactly how it happened.”
“Nu-uh!”
“Okay, no it didn’t really happen that way. Ezra and I hated each other as kids. He can sometimes be a bit of an asshole.”
I couldn’t help myself. “Unlike you, who’s always an asshole?”
“Ha! The girl has bite.”
I blushed, avoiding his gaze. Because the truth was I didn’t have bite. Not even sometimes. I was always a pushover except when it came to Killian.
For whatever reason, my rubbery spine decided to stand up straight whenever he was around.
“Anyway, Ezra and I couldn’t be more different. I always knew I was going into food. He fell into it by accident.”
“How does one come to own three restaurants by accident?”
“Four,” Killian corrected. “He’s a silent partner in his first restaurant thanks to his first wife.” A sly smile lifted one half of his mouth. “And by marrying the owner. That’s how you accidentally get involved with your first restaurant. When she leaves you for another man, that’s when you open three other restaurants as revenge.”
I gaped at Killian, unsure how to respond. “So you’re part of the plot?”
“When he opened Lilou, I was the only chef he trusted not to break up another one of his marriages.”
“She left him for a chef?”
“Their chef. The chef at Quince.”
“He owns Quince!” My voice just kept getting louder, but in my defense, Killian’s story kept escalating.
He chuckled at my theatrics. “Silently. And out of spite. He won’t let her buy him out just to torture her. Lilou, Bianca and Sarita are the projects he’s truly passionate about.”
“And now it makes sense why he names the restaurants after his ex-girlfriends. Wow.”
“Anyway.” Killian stood to his full height, making a show of looking around the kitchen. “How are we going to rescue tomorrow’s menu?”
“I thought we’d already decided I was going to quit?”
“Enough of that,” he demanded with steel. “You’re not quitting. You’re too fucking good to even joke about it.” He glared at me until I held up my hands in surrender. His eyes softened, but just barely when he said, “I’ll give you the advice the late, great, Toby Manier gave me all those years ago. Are you ready for it?”
I felt the urge to smile, but repressed it. “Yes. I’m ready. Give it to me.”
“Stop being a loser and make something better.”
“Are you serious?”
“I swear. He said that to me at least three times a night.” He lifted one of his shoulders casually. “It worked.”
I nodded, feeling the motivation in my joints, spreading to my bones… bleeding into my veins. Stop being a loser. I could do that. Make something better. I could at least try.
I moved to stand beside him at the prep counter. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “I’m not being nice. I’m afraid if you start making shit food, you’ll drive all my business away.”
I restrained the urge to elbow him in the ribs. He was flirting with me, and all I wanted to do was flirt back. The need swelled up inside me, bursting through my fingers and toes, spiraling straight to my core. This was dangerous. He was dangerous.
He threatened everything. My business. My sanity. My vow of celibacy. The carefully constructed walls I’d built around my heart. My fragile courage I’d only just regained. He’d bulldozed into my life and shaken up everything I’d thought was true about men and chefs and people. And I didn’t know what to do with him.
Plus, I didn’t think he understood the baggage I carried. I wasn’t emotionally available anymore. I wasn’t an attractive offer. I was used. Broken. Scared.
He had a weird obsession with my food truck, but that was it. He liked the attention I gave him.
Things for me weren’t so simple. I couldn’t flirt carelessly or without consequence. Despite everything I’d been through, everything I’d pulled myself out of, I wasn’t the kind of girl that didn’t get attached.
I got very attached. And then when everything inevitably went wrong? I stayed attached.
So, Killian Quinn needed to stop or move on or do anything but flirt with me.
I wasn’t going to fall for this guy—this man that was everything I didn’t want. I’d sworn to let my heart heal, to give myself a break from toxic relationships and bad decisions.
But beyond that, even when I put myself back on the market or whatever, Killian still wouldn’t be my type. I’d already dated the egomaniac. I’d already had a relationship with the famous executive chef. I’d already given up my dreams so someone else could pursue theirs.
And I’d lost everything in the process.
I didn’t want a guy like Killian Quinn.
I wanted the exact opposite.
Fourteen
“Are you comfortable, Mr. Delane?”
Dad eyed the young nurse with one eye open and one sleepily shut. “Fine for now. Thanks, Leanne.”
She smiled at him, patted his shoulder and left the private chemotherapy room.
“You could have been a nurse,” he said to me once we were alone again and his eyes were both firmly closed.
I stared at him, taking in the smooth recliner Leanne had set him up in. He was attached to an IV pumping him full of drugs, both toxic and necessary to his survival. He’d lost weight over the last couple of months, but not his hair. He’d lost that a long time ago. And somehow he was holding onto his eyebrows and lashes.
He looked fragile in his chair, sicker than he should be. I wanted to drag him back to the car and drive away from here as fast as I could. He didn’t belong here. This place was for dying people. Sick people. And even though I knew my dad was both of those things, I refused to come to terms with them.
“Why?” I responded to his last comment. “Because I’m so nurturing?” I tapped my fingers on the back of his arm to prove my point. Dad hadn’t wanted me to come today. He didn’t want me to remember him like this, “strapped to a chair with tubes sticking out of me every which way.” But I’d insisted. I was a coward in a lot of ways, but this wasn’t one of them.
Not when it came to my dad.
He peeled one eye open again. “Well, yes. You’ve always been so quick to help others. Heal those that needed to be healed. Save those that needed saving.” He smiled softly, finally giving into the conve
rsation and opening both eyes. “Remember when Vann got mono? I would have accidentally killed the boy had it not been for you.”
I smiled too. He wasn’t lying. Vann had been sick for over a week before my dad had taken him to the doctor. And it was only after I’d logged his symptoms and convinced them both that Vann wasn’t getting better. Then I’d missed three days of school to take care of my older brother so Dad could work.
I’d been fourteen at the time. Even then I knew that Dad hadn’t been neglecting Vann. He couldn’t stand the sickness, watching someone else suffer. Vann was just like him.
That left me. I wasn’t nurturing because I wanted to be. I learned to be nurturing because I had to be.
“Well, I’m amazing, what can I say?”
His mouth quirked up in a tired smile. “That you are, baby girl.”
I rubbed my hands over my thighs, then tucked my feet into my gray maxi skirt. The chemo center was freezing compared to the brutal heat outside. I’d dressed to spend the morning with Dad and the afternoon in my truck, prepping for tonight, but my scoop neck black tee wasn’t cutting it. “So, other than being nurturing, why else should I have been?”
He settled back in his chair, adjusting until he was comfortable. For a minute, I didn’t think he was going to answer me. And when he did, it was not the answer I expected. “It’s a stable job, Vera. You wouldn’t have to stress like you do.”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I leaned back in my chair, mimicking his position, but not on purpose. I tried to smile, but it was wobbly and weak. “I’m pretty sure nurses get stressed out too. Especially dealing with difficult patients like you.” I took a deep breath, sensing he needed reassurance over sass. Gentling my tone, but adding steel, I promised, “I love what I do, Dad. I love cooking.”
He made a sound in the back of his throat that made me feel like he didn’t believe me. “I worry about you. I worry about what will happen to you when I’m gone.”
“So don’t go anywhere,” I dared him stubbornly.
He shook his head and looked at me once again. “I’m doing my best here.”
Breath whooshed out of me, emptying my chest with a defeated sigh. “I know.” I cleared my throat and tried to take away some of the heaviness of the conversation. “The food truck is doing fine, old man. I’m figuring it out.”
Opposites Attract: The complete box set Page 16