The Opposite of You

  “I’d love to defect and join the resistance,” he told us seriously. “But I need dental.”

  Molly perked up. “You have insurance?”

  He leaned in conspiratorially, “And mental health days.”

  Molly stared dreamily across the street as if she were the one considering defection. I cocked my head back and glared at my delusional best friend. “Molly, you have health insurance. And mental health days. At your real job. Remember the fancy marketing firm you work at every day?”

  She picked up her book again. “Oh, right. Sorry. Sometimes I get so sucked into the drama here, I can’t remember what’s real and what’s foreplay between two insane chefs.”

  Wyatt barked a laugh, his entire body rocking with the force of it. She smirked, proud of herself. And I contemplated creating a Tinder profile for her. Because revenge.

  “Anyway. Why are you here, Wyatt?”

  He held up a folded over piece of printer paper. “Same old.”

  I snatched it from him and waved it at Molly. “This isn’t foreplay. This is motive. Which is a pity since pale people shouldn’t be forced to wear orange.”

  Molly rolled her eyes, but she set her book down again. “This is like… if I had a favorite daytime soap. Wyatt, we’re going to need popcorn and Twizzlers.”

  Ignoring them both, I opened the note. Congratulations on the least original food truck idea ever. If you’re hard up for inspiration, you can always ask me for help. Just when I thought he’d leave the salt out of it, he added a quickly scrawled, Be real, is salt holding you at gunpoint right now?

  I lifted my head, “Huh.”

  Wyatt cringed. “What does it say?”

  Molly gaped at him. “You mean you don’t read them?”

  He stared back at him. “He trusts me. At least with this.”

  “You’re a better person than me,” she told him. “I’m too nosy.”

  Wyatt turned back to me, apparently just as meddlesome as Molly after all. “Care to share?”

  “I feel weird saying this, but I think he liked it tonight.” I read the note again, waiting for the missing soul-crushing put down, but I couldn’t find it. I mean, it wasn’t like the nicest thing I’d ever read, but it lacked Killian’s flare for sending me to therapy. He’d even offered to help me.

  Wyatt snorted. “He likes everything you make.”

  I tore my eyes from the note and gave Wyatt a look that questioned his sanity. “Obviously, he loves everything I make. Which is why he’s always insulting me. I’m sure it’s just how his tiny, cold heart shows affection.”

  “Vera, seriously. Last month he fired a dishwasher because they turned the kitchen radio station to country during clean-up. He doesn’t tolerate bullshit.”

  “He didn’t really fire someone for liking country music.”

  Wyatt’s lips twitched. “Okay true. He was constantly late and had three no-shows. He might have had it coming. But the country station thing was the last straw.”

  I considered my revenge for a long time before settling with something as equally anticlimactic as Killian’s had been. Turning the paper over, I scrawled back a response. It would have been better if I could have written it in magazine cutouts, but there was no time, man!

  Salt wants me to say that I’m not being held against my will.

  I mean, I love being held against my will.

  I mean, I love salt.

  I think it’s Stockholm Syndrome.

  Send help.

  I passed the note back to Wyatt and capped my pen before sticking it somewhere in the dangerous abyss of my hair.

  He looked at the note, then at me. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “No diabolical present? No maniacal threat? No trip to the feed store?”

  “Go away, Wyatt.”

  He touched the corner of the folded note to his temple and meandered back across the street to his side of the fence.

  We watched Wyatt disappear through the side door of Lilou in silence. As soon as the door slammed shut behind him, Molly asked, “Really, what did the note say?”

  I turned around to stir my chili. “He called me unoriginal and made a lame joke about salt.”

  “Huh.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “So do you think he’ll stop by later?” she asked quietly since a few customers had stepped up to the menu board.

  “Yeah.”

  Her feet hit the ground emphatically. “You do?”

  “He’s stopped by before,” I reminded her.

  “You sound super sure tonight. Did you invite him over?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  She couldn’t let it go. “Then how do you know?”

  I shrugged. Because he offered help and I jokingly asked him for it. But I didn’t tell her that. For some reason, it felt like an inside joke between Killian and me and I was reluctant to share it with anyone else. “Gut feeling.”

  She let it go, but couldn’t help herself. “He’s so into you, Vera.”

  I started laughing because honestly that was hilarious. “He’s so into food. And I think he’s really bored with his life.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because he lives at Lilou. Seriously, he works every single day. His life consists of that square building and the troll bridge he sleeps under. I kind of feel bad for him.”

  Molly fell quiet again, probably trying to figure out the logistics of Killian’s life. She could join the club. In the time that I’d opened my food truck, he’d only been absent for dinner service a handful of times.

  He started his morning early at Lilou with deliveries, of which he was always present for. Probably to ensure the food being delivered was up to his standards. Then sometimes he disappeared during the middle of the day, and sometimes he worked straight through lunch. But even if he took a break, he was almost always back in time to prep for the night.

  Not that I was stalking him or anything.

  Besides, that was the price you paid for running a kitchen like Lilou. That was the life we lived. We were all workaholics. Even chefs who didn’t work every single night, like me, couldn’t ever let it go. It didn’t end. We never let it end.

  Just like I predicted, he showed up an hour later after my late-night rush. He walked right up to the window and said hi to Molly. I pretended not to notice him. I had chili to stir. And other stuff.

  Apparently, he couldn’t stand not having all the attention. “I didn’t realize you were getting your best ideas from concession stands.”

  Do not engage. Do not engage. Do not engage.

  I spun around, totally engaging. “The chili dogs have been a huge hit, so…”

  I had no willpower. I would have made a terrible ninja.

  “So, you’re catering to the masses now? How revolutionary.”

  Leaning forward, unable to restrain the snarky biotch he brought out in me, I said, “Hey, the masses pay the bills. I’ll leave the food revolution to you. If only you could combat climate change by taking away everyone’s table salt.”

  His lips twitched, and I could have sworn he wanted to smile. But he didn’t. “It wasn’t overly salted tonight. I’m impressed, Delane.”

  “It’s never overly salty,” I returned. “You have an overly sensitive palate.”

  He stared at me, those green eyes glittering with something he wanted to say, but for some reason, he held back. Which wasn’t fair. I wanted to know what it was. And I wanted to know why he held back. And I wanted to know a hundred other things I shouldn’t want to know.

  Another minute passed before I realized we were just standing there, staring at each other, locked in some kind of weird hate spell. People started walking up and standing in line behind him, and we were simultaneously released from the enchantment.

  “Did you come over here for another one of my underwhelming chili dogs? Or was there something else?”

  His voice dropped low, sending a tingle of
something through my belly. A single butterfly leaped inside me, flapping unwelcomed wings and sending uninvited shivers down my stiff spine. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face. “I just stopped by to see if you needed help. That’s all.”

  My breath caught. He was so sweet at that moment. Gentle. Reserved. Open.

  Fear curled inside me, fueled by his gesture of kindness and the way his hair fell in tousled waves. I wanted to run my fingers through it like he had. And that terrified me.

  I didn’t have time for him. Or this unwanted attraction. I’d sworn off men. All men. Including, no wait, especially, arrogant, pigheaded, pushy chefs like Killian Quinn.

  “I’m good.” I cleared my throat and gestured at Foodie. “We’re good.”

  He took a step back, withdrawing physically and emotionally. Not that he was emotionally involved or anything. But it was like he closed back up behind shuttered eyes, closed up and retreated from our innocuous conversation. “Of course you are.”

  “See you later, chef.”

  He bobbed his head, seeming to decide something. “Lay off the salt, Delane.”

  I watched him walk away, wondering how I could get us back to the place where I hated him. Nothing had changed tonight. Nothing significant or life-altering or obvious. And yet something had changed. Because I wanted to hate him, but I didn’t.

  I wanted him to stay away.

  But I so didn’t.

  And I didn’t know what to do with any of it.

  “He’s so into you!” Molly gloated after he’d gone.

  I wrapped my arms around my waist, annoyed by the lump in my throat. “He’s not. For real. Sorry to burst your bubble, but I’m right about this, Molls.”

  I proved it two hours later when Killian closed Lilou and left with a pretty blonde on the back of his motorcycle. They’d walked out of the kitchen together, but she was dressed in tight jeans and sky-high stilettos, obviously not one of his employees. He’d given her his helmet, and she’d wrapped her arms around his waist. They’d driven off, his engine roaring through the plaza, and not once had he looked in my direction.

  See? I was right.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Where is he?”

  “Shh!” I ducked down, flattening myself against the table.

  Molly giggled and continued to look back and forth around the restaurant. “Is he going to bring out our food?”

  I snorted. “Killian Quinn associating with commoners? Highly unlikely.”

  “Welcome to Lilou, ladies.”

  I snapped upright and flashed a tight smile at the waiter hovering over the table. He wore a serene expression despite our suspicious behavior. I caught Molly’s eye from across our small table and used every ounce of self-control to keep from laughing.

  “My name is Shane, and I’ll be serving you this evening. Have you been to Lilou before?”

  “No,” I mumbled.

  Molly sounded significantly more put together. “It’s our first time. We’ve heard such great things about the chef.”

  Shane beamed, nodding his head toward the kitchen. “Chef Quinn is truly the best. You won’t be disappointed.”

  “We’ll see about that,” I murmured under my breath.

  Shane gave me a curious look, but it was brief and replaced with the bland, professional look all the servers sported. “Chef Quinn is introducing a new menu this evening.” His hand swept gracefully toward a rectangle of creamy cardstock. The cursive letters arched across the smooth surface, freshly printed. “Please take your time perusing, and I’m happy to answer any questions you might have.”

  “I do have a question,” I blurted before he walked away. He waited patiently while I found the courage to snoop. “Does Chef Quinn change the menu regularly?”

  Shane had no reason to distrust me. Killian was well known enough that industry insiders ate here all the time. I could be another food blogger for all he knew. “Seasonally,” Shane finally admitted.

  It was the end of July. Hardly a new season. “Is this the fall or summer menu?”

  He didn’t know exactly how to take me. “I’m so sorry. Were you hoping to try something from the last menu? If you’d like I can see if he’ll accommodate you, although I can’t promise anything.”

  Oh, God, the last thing I wanted to do was draw attention to myself. “No! No, thank you. It’s just that it’s the middle of summer. How new is the menu?”

  One of his eyebrows raised, suspicious. “You’re right. Up until two weeks ago, we served a different menu, but Chef Quinn felt that a change was necessary. We trust he knows best.”

  I was like a dog with a bone. “Any particular reason?”

  Shane released a short, nervous laugh. “Inspiration.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Inspiration,” Shane emphasized. “We were told he was inspired to change it. I’m afraid I don’t know what that means, only that it’s one of his best menus to date. I’m positive you’ll be pleased with it.”

  Forcing a relaxed smile, I agreed with him. “I’m positive I will be too.” Even if I would never tell Killian that.

  “The wine list.” Shane tapped his finger on a golden, shimmery folder in the middle of the table. “Our sommelier has selected the very best bottles to accompany your meal. Or if you’d prefer, our bartender is a master craftsman with cocktails.” He took a step back and bowed his head. “I’ll give you a few minutes to look over the menus. I’ll be back soon.”

  Molly leaned forward smiling, “Waterboarding might be more effective.”

  I followed Shane, watching as he walked around the restaurant. “But how to get him to meet me in the bathroom?”

  She laughed. “You’re ridiculous. Why don’t you just ask him all these questions yourself?”

  I met her gaze. “And let all of my detective talents go to waste? It’s like you don’t even know me.”

  She pushed the wine list toward me. “At least pick out something good to drink. If I have to endure this amazing dinner while you try to steal all of Killian Quinn’s secrets at least let me get drunk.”

  I didn’t argue with her because she had a point. “What do you feel like? Cocktails or wine?”

  “What’s cheaper?” she whispered.

  Quickly scanning the menu, I whispered back, “Water.”

  “Cocktails it is.”

  Molly did well for herself, meaning she could pay all her bills and afford her cute downtown apartment and newish car payment. But she didn’t have unlimited amounts of cash sitting around. Or enough to justify tonight’s meal.

  Neither did I for that matter.

  Just one more reason I loved her—she splurged with me just for the hell of it. Some girls went shopping together. When Molly and I wanted to blow all our savings, we went to five-star restaurants and gallery openings. When we wanted new clothes, we hit our favorite thrift stores and raided each other’s closet.

  Shane reappeared to take our drink orders, two variations of the bartender’s signature Moscow Mules, one with pomegranate and the other with elderflower, and I ordered the pork belly and wagyu beef heart kabobs for an appetizer.

  He disappeared again, and with another look around, I relaxed into my seat, secure in the feeling that Killian had no idea that I was here. And there was no reason for him to know I was ever here.

  Lilou was as charming as I imagined it would be. The white brick looked just as quaint on this side as it did the outside, especially with the dimmed overhead lights and candles set on the tables. The tablescapes were elegant, classy, without being over the top. The linens were pristine. The cutlery was perfectly modern. The atmosphere engaged and whimsical.

  I loved it.

  It was the kind of restaurant I had dreamed of working in. I imagined what it would look like in the daytime with the lights fully up. The servers would hustle from table to table, setting up for supper service. The phone would ring constantly as last minute diners tried and failed to get reservations. The clat
ter from the kitchen would fill the restaurant like a theme song, the never-ending background music as Killian prepared for the evening and his army of chefs obeyed his every command.

  My heartbeat picked up speed, dancing in my chest, responding to the electricity humming in the air. Killian was probably too arrogant to realize what a gift a kitchen like this was. Entitled and spoiled, he was used to this level of success. But from where I sat on a pile of ashes that used to be dreams, I knew he held a rare and precious thing. For as many restaurants as there were in this city, he had the privilege of running one of the nicest. For as many chefs as there were in this industry, he had the honor of being one of the best.

  And still, I couldn’t find it in me to be jealous of him. Maybe at first I had been. But that had been a generic jealousy, born from the bitter taste of my mistakes. Now that I knew him a little better, I realized he deserved this kitchen. He’d earned it.

  Even if I hated admitting that.

  “What are you thinking?” Molly asked quietly when I’d been silent for several minutes.

  I shook my head, curling my shoulders forward and playing with my linen napkin. “Nothing, really. I was just taking it all in.”

  “It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Molly agreed. “Almost too pretty. From everything you’ve said about Killian, it doesn’t seem to be his kind of place.”

  Shane arrived with our drinks and first course. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  He went over the dishes, explaining the crispy pork belly over grits with basil crème and oyster mushrooms. My mouth started watering as I took in the food, inhaling the savory scents. He pointed to the beef kabobs, explaining the Mediterranean take on them and the tzatziki inspired sauce.

  My gaze narrowed on the skewers with laser focus. He wouldn’t.

  He didn’t.

  Before Shane could walk away, I’d already dragged my finger through the white sauce and tasted it. “That bastard!” I hissed.

  “What?” Molly asked, leaning forward with alarm at the same time Shane panicked. “Is something wrong?”

  I sucked my finger clean because damn it if he hadn’t made it even better than the one he’d helped me with. “No, nothing. Sorry.” My cheeks turned red with embarrassment. “It’s just so good.”