Well, James. That was fast. Maybe he really was hanging out in his mom’s dingy basement.
A sense of dread filled me. If this guy was a troll, I might have just set him off. Both Vann and Molly warned me not to engage with people just looking for attention.
Just ignore the bad reviews, Vann advised. Interacting with them makes you the douche.
I scanned my message again, assuring myself that I didn’t add any douche-ness to it. I hoped I was good. James Q already seemed to have made up his opinion of me from his first message, so this could be bad.
James Q: The other restaurants might beg to differ.
I huffed at the screen, not liking James Q’s reply at all. So what if they thought I was competition? I didn’t move to the plaza to make friends. At least, not with the other restaurants.
I was across the street from Lilou for God’s sake. Nobody would ever put my food next to Killian Quinn’s and call it equal. Any sane person would feel sorry for me.
I felt sorry for me.
I tried appealing to James’s softer side. That’s right, I was going to win him over with my upbeat attitude and indomitable spirit. Kumbaya, James Q. Namaste and all that.
Foodie the Food Truck: The goal of Foodie is to make good, late night food that people can enjoy after a fun night out!
I worried over my exclamation point. Was it too much? Was James going to assume I was a hyperactive chipmunk?
James Q: So, you’re catering to hammered club rats by serving greasy street tacos?
Oh, my God, James Q was a real asshole! Forget that his estimation was almost exactly what I was trying to do. It was rude coming from a total stranger on the internet.
And what’s wrong with greasy street tacos?
Nothing.
Not a damn thing.
Hoping to wrap this up, I replied as politely as possible.
Foodie the Food Truck: Thanks again for getting in touch with me. I hope you change your mind about Foodie and give us a try!
Are you kidding me? Did I just use another exclamation point? What was wrong with me? This guy didn’t deserve exclamation points!
Oops. I meant, this guy didn’t deserve exclamation points. Please note the angry period at the end of that sentence.
James Q’s reply was short and to the point, but at least the conversation officially ended when he typed out a terse, Not likely.
I stared at those two words for a long time, waiting for them to trample my hopes and dreams, and force me to give up. Those words eventually would. I knew they would.
I was weak these days. Maybe I had always been weak. I had never thought of myself as a pathetic person growing up… but the decisions I’d made in and after culinary school… the way I’d been taught to feel about myself and my inability to find my confidence again was disheartening.
I spent a year traveling around Europe trying to “find myself” again, and I came home dejected, whimpering and ten pounds heavier. If Dad hadn’t needed me, I’d probably still be hopping from job to job trying to find the girl I’d been before. Before I became the girl that traded in her bright future for an illusion because it had promised instant gratification.
A dirty look from a hamster could send me into a tailspin of self-hate and tears these days. My self-confidence was fragile.
Until James Q. His words lit a fire that had been dormant for way too long. I glanced at my knives wrapped up like a Christmas present on my desk, feeling something stir inside me, feeling my old ambitions come to life with the ferocity that sent me to culinary school in the first place.
I could cook. I could really cook. I had proved it by being at the top of my class in culinary school and as I worked my way through Europe last year, hopping from one great kitchen to the next. I proved it with every dish I made. I proved it with the hours I poured into perfecting my craft. I proved it by not giving up. By not letting other forces make me give up.
And Foodie wasn’t just going to serve greasy tacos and french fries. I was going to revolutionize the whole damn late night dining scene in this city.
Watch out world, or at least Durham, I’m coming for you.
Chapter Four
I spent the entire next day cooking in my truck’s tiny kitchen. I got up with the sun and made myself presentable, knowing I would have to interact with other humans. Humans that weren’t related to me or obligated to love me because they were my best friend.
I started the day by transferring equipment out of my dad’s house to the truck. Even though Vann had great security and surveillance gear guarding the bike shop inside and out, I had been nervous about moving my expensive pans and knives to the truck, but I needed to test recipes and the workspace. I realized somewhere in the middle of the night that I wouldn’t be able to execute all the dishes from my repertoire in the limited space of the truck’s kitchen. That significantly narrowed my recipe playlist.
After I left the equipment in the truck, I headed to the supermarket and spent the next couple of hours rifling through mediocre meats, and overpriced and under-ripened vegetables.
Belatedly, I realized I should have done more research on where to buy fresh ingredients. But I’d been crazy busy since I got back to town. First with Dad’s treatment, and then learning what it would take to get him healthy. Followed by opening the business and everything that entailed putting a food truck together. The cooking part was almost an afterthought.
Still, I should have found a good farmer’s market by this point.
Even though Durham was my hometown, I hadn’t been back since shortly after graduation over two years ago. I’d attended culinary school in Charlotte. For the last year, I’d polished my skills by jumping from job to job in cities all over Europe. Working in Durham was going to be a completely new experience.
Finding my place here would be difficult, but not impossible. Every decent sized city had hidden treasure troves that grew the freshest produce and butchered the best meats. It would take time to hunt them down.
But currently, I didn’t have the time or patience to search for greatness. Today and this weekend, I would work with what I could find at the supermarket. And pray it would be good enough.
By the time I got back to the truck with my grocery finds, it was after lunch, and the summer sun burned hotter than Hades. I had to crank the AC in my old Taurus on the way to the truck to feel anything but sweltering.
I parked my car behind Cycle Life, so I didn’t take up any more of Vann’s parking lot and got to work unloading the groceries. My stomach dipped at how much everything cost, not just because my funds were severely limited, but because I wasn’t going to make any immediate profit on what I cooked today. This was a test run. I needed to nail down my opening dishes and decide on a cuisine aesthetic for Foodie.
Hopefully, Vann was hungry. At least I would be paying him back for lunch from yesterday.
His shop was surprisingly busy for a late Thursday afternoon. If I were honest, I didn’t understand how he stayed in business. How many people needed bike parts on a regular basis? But Vann made it work.
He’d skipped college and went straight to owning his business. Well, not straight there. He’d worked at a bicycle shop all through high school. The store was ancient and a pillar of my childhood neighborhood. Vann had gotten the job to make extra money, but fallen in love with the sport once he started. He continued to work at the shop for a few years after high school.
When Vann started talking about opening his own business, doing the same thing except in a trendier, more hipster-cluttered part of town, dad offered him the same deal as me. Vann took dad’s startup cash, filled in the blanks with a business loan and voila, Cycle Life was born.
Things had been rocky for Vann at first, so he ended up taking a few night classes in business management. The classes had helped, plus he’d managed to grab some real estate in a downtown hot spot. He’d been slowly growing his name and reach ever since.
I knew he stressed about money all th
e time, but he was still successful. He just had the kind of personality that couldn’t relax. His apartment was trendy and close to his shop, and he’d bought an almost new car last year with cash. So maybe he wasn’t rolling in cash, but he worked hard. And he was bound and determined to make his business work.
Basically, he was my role model in everything, but especially for owning a small business. I hoped for just a small slice of the success he’d managed to grab.
I smiled at Foodie, balancing my grocery bags precariously in one hand and unlocking the door with the other. I nudged the drop-step down with the toe of my flip flop and propped it open to let the breeze in.
She—because obviously, my gorgeous truck was a girl—looked so pretty in the sunlight, all clean lines and smooth surface. I wanted to take a thousand pictures of her and post them online, but I refused to be one of those annoying new parents.
That thought stretched my grin even wider. “Hey, baby,” I cooed to her as I swung my bags ahead of me and squeezed my way through the narrow door.
I set my ingredients down on an empty counter and quickly unloaded everything that needed to be refrigerated or had the potential to wilt in the blazing heat. Grabbing the keys, I decided to keep her locked up until I could return with the second round of bags.
As I locked the door, the same grumbling engine from yesterday zoomed through the plaza. I turned to watch the sleek motorcycle weave in and out of traffic, disregarding traffic laws and angry drivers alike. A subtle feeling of disappointment gurgled in my belly.
I wasn’t necessarily a rule follower, but it was kind of annoying how Killian Quinn just ignored lanes and traffic lights and pedestrians that were in his way. His face was a mystery behind his sleek black helmet. But his lean body broadcasted relaxed disregard for everyone around him. He simply didn’t care.
Or at least that was what I assumed as I watched him like a stalker pressed against the side of Foodie.
The engine cut off abruptly when he reached Lilou. I strained my neck so I could watch him hop off and store his helmet like he had yesterday. His head whipped my direction as if he could sense my gaze on him. I didn’t think he could see me, but he stared with that laser-like focus at my truck for a long time.
What kind of chef was he? I wondered. Everything I knew about him was from a distance, food blogs and magazine write-ups. Nothing personal. Nothing that hadn’t been edited and filtered. I wanted to know what he was like as a human. His personality and work ethic. Was he outgoing? Or an introvert? How short was his fuse? How perfect was his perfectionism?
Most of the chefs I knew were arrogant and overly self-assured. You kind of had to be in our industry. If you didn’t believe in your food, nobody was going to pat you on the head and convince you that you were good. You either came out of the gate swinging, or you faded into the background.
It was a monstrously competitive industry and not only did you have to convince your peers that you were worth your salt, but you had to convince your diners as well. And the critics. And the food blogs. And the staff that had to stand behind you.
And everyone got to hand out stars. Serious industry professionals gave awards and accolades. There were critics in newspapers, blogs, magazines and every other place online. And your customers had a crack at you with Yelp and Zomato—even Google had business star ratings now, and restaurants were included. Every single person had the authority to judge you. Some were obviously more qualified than others, but all of them were given the power. And most people exercised that power. Fairly or unfairly, it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was what made it to the internet. That was the world we lived in these days.
It wasn’t that I was expecting a chef of Killian Quinn’s caliber to be humble. But I found it completely repulsive when professional confidence tipped over into grossly exaggerated arrogance. And, okay, I hadn’t met the acclaimed Mr. Quinn yet. But everything about him screamed icky conceit and aggressive superiority complex.
I realized he was still looking in my direction and that he could see me—half leaning around my truck bumper to stare back at him. We were yards apart, but I hated that I’d been caught watching him.
At least today he could tell I was a girl. My wild hair hung down to the middle of my back, angry with unruly curls and humidity-induced frizz. I’d sported another white t-shirt, but I’d tucked it into red, high-waisted shorts and zebra-print flip flops, knowing I would get hot in my food truck with the fryer running. And my figure could be described as nothing but generously curvy after a year in Europe.
I had never been skinny. I loved food too much. I loved good food. I couldn’t even stomach the idea of Vann’s diet of green plants and quinoa. So, my thighs had always touched, and my hips had never not flared and my boobs had never been anything itty bitty or manageable.
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.