“You should make meatballs again. Your lamb ones were the best meatballs I’ve ever had.”
The professional side of me exploded in a surprise orgasm. Just kidding. But I was almost too shocked to reply. I mean, what?!?! He didn’t wait around for me to reply anyway. He crossed the street without another word.
“Is that why you stole the recipe from me?” I shouted after him, but he was already to the side door of Lilou. He didn’t even bother to turn around and defend himself. He just disappeared inside with that impish grin mostly hidden behind his thick beard.
It wasn’t until my cheeks started hurting that I realized I had been grinning too. For like a solid half hour. Especially after I double checked my phone and saw that Killian’s name appeared under the title James Q.
Which explained a lot about my nosy internet friend.
It also made me extremely, irrationally happy for some unexplainable reason.
I pulled the Living Section out of my purse and stared at Derrek’s smug face. My dad’s words echoed through the narrow galley of my truck. You’ll have your picture in the paper someday.
But not if I got distracted.
Perspective, Vera.
I went home an hour later. And six hours later when Killian texted to see if I’d decided to go out or not, I told him I had a headache.
He didn’t text back.
I was safe from losing myself again.
I was back in neutral territory with Killian.
I was a coward.
Chapter Fifteen
The next morning, I felt like shit. It might have been because I stress ate my way through a half pan of double fudge brownies. The box kind. I’d sold out for two-dollars-worth of anxiety-induced desperation.
But just so we’re clear, no matter how many good meals I’d had, or how high my standards for food were, boxed brownie mix was the best kind of guilty pleasure.
Or, my exhaustion and icky feeling of disappointment could have stemmed from the lack of sleep. I hadn’t been able to fall asleep until close to three.
I blamed my weekend hours. Thursday through Sunday I stayed up until ungodly hours and by the time I got home, showered and decompressed it was always after four before I finally closed my eyes.
The important thing to note was that this had nothing to do with the lame ass text I’d sent to Killian the night before.
Despite my sleepless night, I still dragged myself from bed early enough to get to the Morning Market by the opening. I’d had to Google it for the exact address and found pictures of what to expect. Killian had definite rights to my first born. This market was everything I was looking for.
The market sat nestled in the corner of an industrial area, neighbored by a tool and die designer on one side and a lighting palace on the other. It spread out in an abandoned parking lot, covered by mix-matched tents and just as diverse vendors.
In one section, fragrant flowers in every color burst from buckets with hand drawn price tags hanging off them. In another, eggs and farm-fresh milk in coolers spread out between artisan cheeses and all manner of jerkies.
But the majority of the market? Fresh produce. Fresh produce everywhere. Fruits, vegetables. More fruits. More vegetables.
It was glorious.
And Killian hadn’t lied about the kolache stand. I stopped there first, picking up an egg and spicy bacon pastry and a cup of hazelnut coffee with the perfect amount of creamer.
My weird mood faded in light of the possibilities in front of me. And the coffee.
The coffee definitely helped.
I’d just stepped up to a pepper stand with bins of every single pepper I could think of. Colored bells, spicy habaneros, shishitos and jalapenos, and my favorite—hatch. Plus so many more. The vendor even had hybrids he’d been breeding himself.
My eyes got a little misty, but I blamed it on the pollen in the air.
“Let me guess…” I nearly dropped my coffee when Killian stepped up next to me. “Anchos. You’re all about the anchos.”
Embarrassment for my awkward text from the night before burst to life inside me, flushing my cheeks a nice, dark, strawberry red. But at the same time, the achy feeling in my chest faded. I stopped feeling mildly queasy. I stopped hating myself for not going out the night before. I stopped missing Killian and hating myself for being such a coward. Most of all, I stopped analyzing every single thing I did, said or thought.
He was here! And I was determined not to be a giant weirdo.
“Really? We’ve been friends for three weeks now, and you pick anchos? Do you not know me at all?”
We turned to face each other. His expression remained cautious, thoughtful. I didn’t know if it was part of our game or if he had taken my blow-off text to heart. “Three weeks? We’ve been friends longer than that.”
I hid my smile behind a drink of coffee. “No, I’ve been friends with James Q for longer than that. You’ve only just recently decided to be nice.”
He gave me the side eye. “James Q was kind of an asshole. I’ve been nice to you for at least three months.” His hand moved up to tug at the side of his beard. His other hand held a cup of coffee just like mine. Except without creamer. Because apparently, he hated himself.
I wrinkled my nose in thought. “Then you should know better than ancho. And you should have told me you had a secret internet identity.”
“It’s only secret from the general public. I thought it would be better not to give angry diners a platform to hunt me down.” I could actually understand that since I also went by a variation of my name.
“So, it’s Killian James Quinn?”
He nodded. “And you’re Vera Foodie the Food Truck Delane?”
“May,” I confessed. “Vera May Delane.”
We acknowledged each other’s full names with a shared look of satisfaction. Turning back to the table, he tilted his head, examining the table of peppers once again. “Hatch?”
“Ding, ding, ding.” A warm feeling fizzed through me, like my insides were suddenly carbonated. “They are my favorite. But I’m actually interested in the shishitos.”
His gaze found mine again, so green, like freshly mowed grass or Christmas-worthy evergreens. “What are you thinking?”
“Skirt steak tacos with roasted shishitos, crumbled cotija cheese and braised lettuce.”
His eyebrows shot up at the same time his eyes flashed with something like surprise. “You should squeeze fresh lemon over the top instead of lime.”
It was my turn to be surprised. That was a great idea. Different enough to be interesting. Acidic enough to bring the dish together. “Good idea, Quinn. You should be a chef or something.”
He chuckled at my lame joke. “Are you telling me there won’t be any meatballs for me?”
I shrugged and tossed a casual, “Sorry, you’re in charge of your own balls this weekend,” before I turned to the vendor and talked pepper quantities and prices.
Killian laughed outright but let me haggle in peace. As soon as I finished and paid, agreeing to pick up my purchase at the end of my shopping, he jumped in with his own questions.
Where I’d been mostly interested in being able to afford the peppers I wanted, Killian had a long list of questions to ask. He didn’t care about price—and he wouldn’t have to since he wasn’t paying for these peppers out of his pocket. He was more interested in soil quality and sunlight exposure. He wanted to know spice variants and hybrid procedures. He spent the next twenty minutes tasting them raw, deliberating over each bite.
I watched him with unfiltered awe. He let me without calling me on it. Instead, he generously offered to give me bites as well, asking my opinion, discussing the crispness or heat or sweetness of each one. He asked question after question about the future of each breed. What would the hatch taste like in the fall? The serrano?
Then he turned to me and hinted at dish ideas he was mulling over for the autumn menu. He wanted to know my thoughts on pepper-protein combinations. What did I thi
nk would go best with flank steak? With frog legs? With tofu?
I blinked at him. “Tofu?”
“Ezra’s idea,” he explained. “He wants a more vegetarian/vegan-friendly menu. He says we’re ignoring a huge consumer base.”
“Is that true?”
He lifted one shoulder. “People do not come to Lilou for their diversity-friendly menu. They want the best meal of their life. Not tofu.”
His frustrated resignation laced each word, broadcasting his feelings on the topic. “Ezra won’t listen to you?” I guessed.
“Ezra is a businessman. A damn good one. But he doesn’t know the first thing about food.” He picked up a jalapeno by the stem and examined one side of it, the cracked, brownish lines that snaked over it like veins. You could tell just by looking at those dried out vines that it would be a spicy one. “That won’t stop him from getting involved, though.”
“Does he always give you input on your menus?”
Killian reached out to shake the vendor’s hand, then inclined his head, indicating I should follow him. We threw our empty coffee cups away and wandered through the clustered aisles of the market, stepping over the larger puddles on the wet asphalt.
It took a minute before he answered my question. “Always. I don’t think I can even call them my menus. They’re his. They follow his vision for his restaurant. I work for him.”
We stepped up to a stand with different variants of greens and root vegetables. “It almost sounds like you don’t like working at one of the best restaurants in the city, Killian Quinn. Good thing I know better.”
“Do you? Know better I mean.”
“Ezra might needlessly put his hands on everything you do, but he can’t cook for you. You’re the one that makes the food. You’re the one that’s responsible for the restaurant’s reputation. That has nothing to do with Ezra.”
He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “But it does. It’s not really my food. It’s not really my restaurant. As far as reputations go, I’m just good at cooking other people’s ideas.”
Frustration boiled in my chest. “You could put a thousand other chefs in your position, and they wouldn’t accomplish what you’re doing over there. You’ve forgotten I’ve eaten there. I had ‘Ezra’s’ food. And it changed my life on like a spiritual level.”
His mouth quirked up in a reluctant smile. “Spiritual level, huh?”
“I had an existential experience with the braised lamb. I think I actually left my body and went to some other plane of existence.”
“You’re such a liar.”
His humility was so out of place with everything about him that I wanted to call him the liar. Everything I knew about this man screamed confidence to the point of arrogance. But he was so damn good at what he did that I couldn’t even fault him for it.
But now he wanted to play shy?
What a weirdo.
An adorable, sexy, gorgeous weirdo.
I kind of hated him for being so irresistible.
Turning back to a bushel of iridescent rhubarb, I pushed those thoughts out of my head and dropped some knowledge on him. “The point is most chefs would kill to be in your position. I bet you don’t even have to worry about a budget. Yeah, maybe Ezra gets final approval, but you pretty much have complete freedom and notoriety to create whatever you want.”
“You get to create whatever you want,” he pointed out.
I made a sound in the back of my throat. “It’s not even close to the same thing, and you know it. I’m cooking out of a tin can. You run one of the best kitchens in the state, possibly the entire country. We couldn’t be more opposite.” Realizing something shocking, I turned around to face him, dropping my hand on my hip. He was already looking at me, all masculine strength and hard body. The sun exposed his twining tattoos and tanned skin. He was perfect—not just at what he did, but how he looked too. “You know that, by the way. I have no idea why I’m padding your ego. It’s not in any danger of being squashed.”
His head dipped toward mine, and a sly smile lifted his mouth. “This isn’t about ego, although I don’t mind your compliments. Feel free to keep them coming.”
“You’re impossible.”
His grin widened.
I turned back to the produce.
When he spoke again, he sounded more serious. “I thought your food truck was your dream come true? Didn’t you say something about it being everything to you?”
I nibbled on my bottom lip for a minute while I compared prices of carrots and turnips without really seeing anything. I vaguely remembered stepping over here to look at lettuce, but my thoughts were a jumbled mess at this point, and Killian prying into my life didn’t help.
Finally, I braved some truth. “I said it was everything I have left. Not all of us get handed our dream kitchens because our childhood friend hands it to us.”
“Friendship had nothing to do with it. The only reason Ezra hired me was because I deserved that kitchen. Neither of us wants to be reminded of our childhood. Neither of us can stand looking at the other,” he shot back immediately.
It was defensive enough that I couldn’t help but be curious.
“And he didn’t hand it to me,” Killian added. “I worked my ass off to earn a kitchen like Lilou. And I continue to work my ass off to keep it.”
“I thought you said—”
He cut me off by reminding me that he’d said they grew up together. That apparently didn’t imply friendship. “Honestly, I’m not sure if you could even call us friends yet. He’s someone I owe a lot to, someone I would probably die for. But I don’t know if that makes us friends or not.”
Men. “It makes you friends,” I told him, hoping it would help him in some way. “If you’re willing to die for him, then you’re friends.”
“Ezra’s complicated,” Killian explained without explaining anything.
“You’re complicated,” I countered.
“That’s adorable coming from you, Delane.”
I glared at him with narrowed eyes. “I’m not complicated. I’m easy. As long as you don’t get in my way.”
He shook his head, not sparing me a glance. He was too focused on the turnips in his hands. “Then stop changing the subject on me and tell me why you’re running a food truck when you clearly want a kitchen.”
The will to speak dried up in my throat. I wasn’t ready to say those words to anyone yet. Let alone Killian Quinn. He wouldn’t understand throwing away my career like I did. He wouldn’t understand turning my back on my dream for someone else. And he really wouldn’t understand being trampled for years because I lacked the backbone to escape.
“It’s complicated,” I admitted, the word tasting like dirt in my mouth. Maybe I wasn’t as simple and straightforward as I had hoped.
His warm hand wrapped around my wrist. His fingers circled my smaller bones completely, touching his palm and making me feel so small, so fragile next to him. He made me feel sheltered, protected. He made me feel valued in a way that took me off guard every single time he treated me so kindly.
And yet I couldn’t shake the worry, the old fear that stayed with me no matter what.
I was the exact opposite of him. He was sure and stable, where I was fickle and shaky. He was confident when I was only insecure. Strong where I was only ever weak.
I kept my gaze trained on where his hand touched me, using him to steady the wild beating of my heart. When I first left Derrek, leaving the country had felt like my only option. I had been skittish around all people, jumpy and paranoid. My hands shook regularly, and my expectations for human decency were lower than low. But during my year in Europe, I’d worked on some coping mechanisms to help me heal.
I hated them. And I hated being weak. But I refused to give this part of me to Derrek. He’d taken so much. He didn’t get to take my sense of peace either, my ability to be normal and interact with other people. But it was easy with Killian, easier than I expected. He made me feel normal again. Safe.
> Killian stepped closer, demanding my attention. His body heat swept over me like a tidal wave, covering me completely, all at once. I swallowed so loudly he had to have heard it. “You’re all mystery, Vera. Half-truths and bold statements, but you hide everything about you.” His grip around my wrist tightened, demanding my attention. I looked into his eyes, but it turned out to be a mistake. He was too intense. Too overwhelming. He was everything hot and exciting, interesting and new. I wanted to get to know him. And I wanted to be known by him. “Tell me something real,” he demanded.
I should have walked away. I should have turned around and ignored him for the rest of the day. For the rest of forever. But instead, I told him the truth. The stupid, ugly truth. “The food truck wasn’t ever something I wanted. I pictured myself like you. I wanted the big kitchen. The acclaimed restaurant. I wanted a staff and name recognition and all of it. I wanted everything. Instead, I got a five-foot galley and twelve hundred Facebook likes. I don’t have any clue what I’m doing. And I moved back home with my dad. I’m twenty-six years old, and I live at home.” The words left my mouth in a rush of confession and connection. I felt him absorb them, take them in and get to know me. I felt this tug between us grow tauter.
I wanted to take them all back, erase the closeness between us. I wanted to remember that I was done with men. That falling for Killian would only hurt me.
Hurt my career.
But I couldn’t. The damage was done. I saw it in his expression, the way his eyes warmed and softened and saw me—really, truly saw me. “If you want a restaurant, Vera, you could have one. You have more talent in your pinky than most chefs have their entire career. Why did you give up?”
“Can I help you guys find anything?”
The vendor’s voice broke the spell over both of us. We took an instinctive step back, neither of us realizing how close we stood.
I tugged my arm from Killian’s grasp and took another three steps away, thankful I didn’t have to answer his question.
“Lettuce,” I sounded breathless, shaken up.
And I was.
The vendor went over his different variations and their quality. I half listened. No, that was a lie. I tried to look like I was half listening while my brain tumbled in my head like it had been put on a dryer setting.