“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 wa
sn’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.
Chapter 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 conversation 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.”
His mouth pressed into a hard frown. Apparently, that wasn’t enough to erase his fears. “The food truck was never what you wanted, kiddo. What happened to working in a restaurant? You spent all your money in Europe and came back with funny ideas.”
My gladiator sandals were suddenly the most interesting thing in the room. I’d come back from Europe to be with him. If Dad hadn’t gotten sick, I didn’t know that I would have ever returned. I would have cooked my life away with cash under the table in ancient, greasy kitchens where nobody recognized my ex-boyfriend’s name.
“I came back from Europe to settle down.”
“You were settled down,” he reminded me. “Isn’t that what you were doing with that stuck-up boyfriend?”
I shivered at the memory of Derrek, a sickly feeling rolling over my spine and curdling in my stomach. “Derrek was a mistake.”
“And what was Europe?”
My salvation. But I didn’t say that out loud.
Dad had never given me a hard time about Europe before. He’d barely said anything about Derrek, even though I knew he didn’t like him. So, what was this all about?
I held onto my patience, but barely. “Europe was an effort to expand my craft.”
“So you could open a food truck? I love you, Vera, but I’m not going to be around forever. I just...” His expression changed, twisting with grief and regret and something that hurt to look at. When my heart squeezed, and it became hard to swallow, I realized it was fear. My dad was afraid for me. “I just want to know that you’re going to be okay.”
“I’m fine.” And I tried to sound fine. I thought I might have even pulled it off.
But dad’s pained expression only darkened and the pang in my chest only sharpened. “No, you’re not, baby girl. I don’t know what you’re keeping to yourself, but those demons must be pretty evil for you to have run all the way across an ocean to get away from them. I’m sorry I made you come back.”
“You didn’t make me,” I whispered, but neither of us was convinced. “I wouldn’t give up this time with you for anything.”
That didn’t appease him. Before we could continue our conversation, though, Leanne stopped by to check on him. When she asked how he was doing, he asked for a blanket. “And one for my daughter too. She’s bound and determined to see this through with me, but she shouldn’t have to turn into a popsicle.”
Leanne smiled at me, kindness shining through for my commitment to my dad. “I’ll be right back.”
When she’d walked away again, I surprised myself by admitting, “I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time.” Dad focused on me, searching my face for the truth. “And when Derrek and I ended… or even before we ended, I wasn’t sure that I would ever be happy again. Europe helped. I won’t ever regret going. I can’t regret it, not when it did so much to help me move on. But I’m glad that I’m back. I’m glad I get to spend so much time with you and Vann. I’m glad that Molly and I are in the same city again. And I love my food truck. Honestly, Dad. I’m not as much of a tragedy as you think I am.”
My confession helped him relax. His shoulders lost their rigid lines, and his barrel of a chest breathed easier. “I love you, Vera. More than anything in this world. I’m fighting this damn disease the best I can, but if I can’t win, I just need you to know that you deserve all the great things in this life. You don’t ever need to settle, baby girl. Not ever.”
Hot tears pricked at my eyes, quickly spilling over my lashes to my cheeks.
I tried discretely to brush them away, but they just kept falling. “I love you too, Daddy,” I sniffled. “You’ve already given me great things. You should never worry about that. I have them. And because of you, I have my truck too. If you’re worried about me being prepared to be on my own, I am. You made sure of that.”
And as I said the words, I realized they were true. I had been stupid with Derrek, but not because my dad hadn’t taught me better. He had. He’d made sure I knew how to be a successful adult.
I just hadn’t listened.
Dad finally dozed off, filling the quiet space with light snuffling. Leanne stopped back over when dad had reached REM and I was getting bored with my phone. Derrek’s message still lit up my message box, but I refused to open it… refused to acknowledge its existence. There were more messages now. I’d lost count how many time a new notification popped up on my phone. Apparently, he’d decided that I was the Vera he was looking for. But I wouldn’t read them.
I couldn’t read them.
“Is he still doing okay?” she asked, checking him out.
I inclined my head toward him. “He’s basically Rip Van Winkle.”
She smiled fondly at him. “I’m always impressed with how quickly he can fall asleep. It always takes me forever to wind down.”
“He’s always been like this. My brother is the same way. They just pass out.”
“Men,” she murmured with a tilt of her head. “They don’t worry about things like we do.” I laughed politely, but she wasn’t exactly right. My dad worried better than anyone I knew. And maybe sometimes he was justified in it. She turned to me. “Can I get you a paper or magazine?”
“Sure. I’d love a paper. Thank you.”