He hugged me back, squeezing me affectionately. “Has it been like this all night?”
I blinked back happy tears and pulled away with a huge grin plastered on my face. “It was slow at first, but once it got dark, things really started to pick up.”
“You’re going to have to hire someone,” he murmured practically. “I can’t moonlight as your cashier every night.”
I narrowed my eyes, playfully negotiating with him. “How about just the weekends?”
“I’m already giving you the space for free, Vera! Good God.”
I laughed at how affronted he was. “I’m just kidding. I know you can’t, but I appreciate your help tonight. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t shown up.”
“No kidding,” he grunted.
I glanced out at the plaza. It was getting close to midnight, and only the late night venues were still open at this point. The shops and businesses closed hours ago, and the restaurants were dark now, with only their staff remaining.
Seeing no one wandering our direction, I turned back to Vann. “Are you hungry? I can at least pay you in food.”
“That is why I came over here.”
I smiled at him and his sarcasm. I couldn’t help it. Not even Vann’s surliness could put me in a bad mood tonight. I was high on endorphins, unexpected success and the feeling I got every time I stepped into a kitchen. “Pulled pork or grilled cheese?”
“You pick for me,” Vann said, letting go of a small, amused smile. “Grilled cheese, though? You really know your clientele.”
“If you mean drunk people, I told you. It’s all about catering to their need for greasy comfort food to soak up all that alcohol.”
He snickered at my honest answer. Granted, there would never be enough drunk people to keep me in business forever, but it was a start.
I finished making him a plate of one of everything and set it down on the counter next to him while he prepared to take another order. Glancing out the window, I saw there was a group of people staring at the menu, all dressed in white or black t-shirts and black pants. Some of them were wearing bandanas to hold their hair back. All of them look tired. And hungry.
They were clearly the kitchen staff from one of the nearby restaurants, but I didn’t recognize any of them nor did I know the area well enough to guess which one.
My gaze flickered to Lilou, but I highly doubted anyone from that kitchen would deign to grace me with their superior presence.
Stepping away from the window so Vann could take their orders I moved to the back of the truck and slipped my plastic gloves off for a second. My hair was in desperate need of a redo, and I wanted a second to take a deep breath.
In the back of the truck, I stepped up to the small mirror over the sink, and I fixed my hair in a knot on the top of my head. Using a few paper towels to pat my face, I felt refreshed and ready for more. I could hear Vann still talking at the window, so I let myself assess my face with a critical eye.
I’d definitely been working hard tonight. My cheeks were red, blotchy from excitement and effort. And yet the blush stain did nothing to cover up my freckles, in fact, it only enhanced them. My chocolate brown hair was darker near the roots where I’d been sweating. I grabbed a fresh bandana and folded it quickly so I could tie it like a headband and cover the evidence of my hard work.
Universal fact—nobody wanted to look at a sweaty chef.
Second fact—all kitchens were hotter than hell.
The only makeup I fussed with tonight was waterproof mascara, and that was holding strong, even if the rest of my face looked like I’d been running a marathon in the Sahara desert without sunscreen.
For one painful moment, I saw myself through his eyes and my stomach dropped to my feet. His voice whispered up my spine and wrapped around my new sense of confidence. I was too heavy these days. I had at least fifteen pounds to lose. My hair looked crazy on top of my head in a fat messy bun that was truly messy. I should have worn eyeliner to hide how tired I was, how haunted my eyes still looked. My chef’s coat was unflattering. My ears were too small. My lips too big.
On and on, the criticisms swirled around in my head, poisoning my good mood and flaring the insecurities that plagued me constantly.
“Vera?” Vann called from the other side of the truck.
My brother’s questioning voice broke the evil spell, and I shook myself out of that negative head space. Those were his thoughts. Not mine. Those were his words.
Never mine.
I was stronger than that.
I was confident.
Secure.
Not the doormat any longer.
I loved my hair, despite it being a pain in the ass. I was happy with the weight I’d gained, with the progress I’d made.
“Coming,” I hollered back at Vann. Turning the cold water on, I splashed water on my face and then spent a significant amount of time washing my hands.
I turned back to the kitchen and experienced a renewed sense of peace, a sense of being home, the thrill of anticipation and bite of nerves. I let those mixed feelings wash over me, mingling into a healing balm that I would never get enough of.
Cooking was the thing that saved me before, and this kitchen was going to be what saved me now.
Ignoring the orders Vann was still taking, I grabbed at the first ticket, glanced at it and got to work. I had filled three orders before I started handing them out the window.
The people waiting stood in friendly comradery, laughing at inside jokes and commiserating over their brutal night.
“He’s a beast,” a tiny woman with a lip ring growled. Her dark blue hair was cut in a hip pixie style, with shaved lines etched into the sides. I was instantly intimidated. She was way too cool for me.
A tall, lanky guy with full sleeve tattoos that reached all the way to his ears countered with, “He’s the best.”
“And he knows it,” the woman argued. “He’s a nightmare to work for.”
“Nobody’s making you stay,” another guy laughed. He was thick, built like a linebacker. His hair was hidden behind a black bandana, and huge gauges stretch his earlobes big enough to make me wince. “I hear Applebees is hiring.”
The woman glared at him, and I dangled their food out the window before they noticed I was eavesdropping. “Grilled cheese?”
The huge guy stepped up with a tight smile. “That’s me.”
I reached back for the two pulled pork orders. “These must be yours.” The tall guy and the short girl stepped up next.
“You know I’m not going anywhere,” the girl continued their conversation. “I just like to bitch.”
Both of the guys mumbled, “We know,” at the same time.
I got back to work, filling the next three orders. When I turned back to the window to hand them off, the tall guy was standing close by, waiting for me. His food was only half gone, and he held it close to his face, inspecting it thoroughly.
I called out the orders, handed them off and then turned to him. “Is there something wrong?”
His gaze bounced up to mine and I saw surprise written all over his features. “It’s good.”
My mouth dropped open at the tone in his voice. He was really surprised. Genuinely shocked.
“I mean, it’s really good,” he repeated.
“Thanks?” What was this guy’s problem? It sounded like a compliment, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t even close.
He must have seen the sneer on my face because he laughed a little and stepped closer to me. “I didn’t mean to offend you, I just wasn’t sure what to think.”
I started to say something about how the food I made wasn’t anything especially difficult, but, “You were expecting garbage?” came out instead.
“I was expecting grease and cooking one oh one.” I wanted to stay pissed at him, but his expression was so open and honest that I couldn’t hate him after all. “You know what you’re doing.”
Not wanting to get his expectations up, I said, “Fo
r a food truck maybe.”
He smiled at me. “He’s going to hate you even more now.”
“Who?” I asked, even while dread curdled my insides and my gaze jumped to Lilou involuntarily.
He smiled wider and held up his basket. “Thanks for the meal.” Turning his back on me, he joined the rest of his friends or peers or whatever. They all talked animatedly and laughed loudly, but no one else came back to compliment my food.
A few minutes later, they left, and I went back to filling orders for the people filtering out of clubs and bars, people I was much more comfortable serving. I heard Killian’s motorcycle roar through the plaza, but I was too busy making progress on my new life to care.
By the end of the night, I couldn’t stop smiling. I was utterly exhausted but in the very best way.
I did it. I moved on. I started over. And I got to do something I loved more than anything else.
There was no better feeling in the entire world. And nobody was going to take that away from me.
Or distract me.
Or ruin it for me.
Chapter Six
Saturday night, I recruited Molly to take orders instead of Vann because I thought it was cruel to force him to volunteer two nights in a row. Part of me wondered if I would even need Molly, though. Maybe Friday had been a fluke?
The night even started slowly, but I blamed the weather. For early June, the heat was nearly unbearable. And locked away in the closed space of the food truck with the stove and fryer working hard to overheat us to death, Molly and I could barely breathe.
Since it wasn’t much cooler outside, I hoped people were staying close to the air-conditioning for now.
“I quit,” Molly groaned. “These conditions are unacceptable. I’m calling my union representative.”
I snorted a laugh, too weak from the heat to work up real humor. “You can’t quit! You’re fired.”
“You can’t fire me. I’ll see you in court!”
I gave her my meanest glare. “You can burn in hell.”
She grinned at me, then immediately started fanning her face with both hands. “I think I’m already there. How do you work like this, Vere? I’m dying.”
“You know what they say? If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.” I winked at her to be obnoxious.
She patted the back of her fingers over her flushed cheeks and breathed out slowly—as if that would help cool her down. “Seriously, this heat is an abomination. How are you going to cook in it night after night?”
“It won’t always be this hot. There are other seasons.” She mumbled brat under her breath. “But it’s just something you adjust to. I’ve cooked in some crazy conditions over the last year. Hot, cold, tiny, ancient, makeshift. You name it. At this point, I’m pretty sure I could make you a five-course meal on a broken Bunsen burner.”
Molly propped her head in her hand and tilted her face toward the small fan above her. “I have full faith in you, my friend.”
I adjusted the clip-on fan so that it pointed directly at her head. Hey, what were friends for if not to save each other from heat stroke?
She sighed in relief. Wisps of black hair danced around her forehead from where they’d escaped her high ponytail, mixing in with her heavy bangs. For all her complaining, she didn’t look uncomfortable. But that was so quintessentially Molly. Always unruffled. Forever cool, calm and collected.
Where my pale skin turned splotchy and red when I was hot or frustrated or angry or embarrassed or feeling any emotion of any kind, Molly was all even-keeled and perfectly tanned skin. Her hair remained unfrizzed, sleek and straight like she’d intended. I already felt the natural disaster mine had become in the few hours we’d been here. Even hidden beneath a bandana, it exploded out the back like live wires.
But usually, I could count on Molly to be together where I was perpetually falling apart. She was the kind of person I wanted to grow up to be someday. Smart and talented and without baggage. Responsible, driven, wholly comfortable with who she was. Except when it came to her art, but other than that she was basically my adulting hero.
“So, has he who shall not be named been over to check out the competition?” Her eyes popped open, glittering with interest.
I made a sound in the back of my throat. “He knows I’m not competition.”
“Apparently not,” she singsonged evilly. “From what you told me the other day, it sounds like he’s shaking in his little chef booties afraid you’ll put him out of business.”
A self-deprecating laugh burst out of me. “Which is so ridiculous. He’s just not used to other people playing in his sandbox. Killian Quinn might as well walk around with a giant Does Not Play Well With Others sticker plastered to his forehead. He’s an asshole. They’re all assholes.”
“Chefs?” she clarified.
“Men,” I muttered.
She hummed a sound of agreement but worry furrowed across her forehead, and I looked away before she turned this conversation into a heart to heart.
“Anyway,” I continued offhandedly. “He’s already forgotten about me. And I plan to do the same. If I start worrying about him and Lilou, I’ll forget why I’m here and what I’m trying to do.”
“And what is that, Vere?”
I hated the concern in her voice. She was being lovely and a good friend, but the only thing I heard was my resounding failure. Her worry reminded me of where I was, where I’d put myself and why this converted Airstream was now the closest thing I had to redemption.
“Comfort food.” I chose to be obtuse even though I knew what she was asking. “I’m trying to make fancy comfort food.”
I felt Molly’s eyes on the back of my head, but I refused to turn around, opting to do more prepping even though we hadn’t had a customer in twenty minutes.
“Not every guy is him,” she whispered.
I immediately knew she was not talking about Killian Quinn. I turned around, unable to back down from this fight, but stubbornly steering it in a different direction. “The big ones are. Every top chef I’ve met is just like him. Arrogant. Pretentious. Snobby. They’re all intolerable.”
“Him who?” Molly asked gently. “Killian Quinn? Or Derrek?”
Bitter fear coated my tongue and slid down my throat, making me feel queasy and unstable. I hated his name, hated the memories that imprisoned me and the threat I felt behind them. Still, I answered, “Both.”
Her tone became scolding, and her face pinched with equal parts concern and reproach. “Don’t lump them together. No one is like Derrek.”
“That’s true.” Hot tears pricked the backs of my eyes and my nose stung as I forced them back, down into the deep pit of my repressed emotions and fears that were too scary to face. “He’s definitely one of a kind.” I glanced back at Molly, not even trying to hide the raw feeling scraping through me. “Or at least according to Gastronomica.”
She rolled her eyes. “Hacks! They’re all hacks. Which is why your transition to a food truck is so genius. You’ll show them.”
And by them she meant him.
God, I hoped she was right.
“He’s cute, though.”
I whipped around, knife still clutched in my hand. “What?”
“Killian Quinn,” she said quickly, carefully.
My knuckles were stretched, bleached white with the tightness of my grip. Realizing my reaction was more than over the top, I tried to shrug casually. I was jittery from our conversation, exposed and itchy in my own skin. I said the first insult that popped into my head. “That beard is gross.”
She turned to look at Lilou across the plaza. “That beard is not gross. You’re a bad liar.”
“I’ll introduce you two,” I teased. “I think he really respects my opinion.”
Her laugh eased me back into normal head space, and I sucked in a deep, steadying breath.
“Not for me, silly. He’s not my type.”
“You have a type?”
She ignored me. “You
don’t think he’s hot?”
I stared down at the potatoes I’d started to dice into itty bitty pieces that couldn’t be used for anything. I decided to tell her that he’s too obnoxious to be hot, but that was just another lie. And when I moved back home, I promised Molly I would always be honest with her. No more secrets between us.
No more dangerous half-truths.
No more lies. Period.
“Sure, he’s hot,” I reluctantly confessed. “In a purely obvious way. He’s like the kind of glossy hot that looks good in magazines. Except when you meet him in real life, and he starts talking, he loses all of that necessary airbrushing.”
“So, you’re saying you wouldn’t date him?”
“Date him?” I laughed. “Hardly. And not just because I’ve sworn off men for the rest of all eternity. He’s too… He’s too familiar. I don’t want a guy like Killian Quinn. I want the exact opposite of him.”
Molly didn’t respond, and I realized she’d turned her attention to a customer. We had little time to talk after that. It was late enough that restaurants were starting to close and the bar crowd had begun hopping to different destinations around the plaza.
The night picked up and was even busier than Friday. I busted my ass to make orders as perfectly as humanly possible. There were a few complaints, but usually about the kind of food I served, not the quality.
I couldn’t make someone enjoy strawberry-jalapeno jam. But it was enough that they tried it. Right?
Or at least that was how I consoled myself.
Vann stopped by again, and I realized he planned on eating all his meals here. For free. Which I supposed was his right. My dad had planned to swing by too, but halfway through the night, he sent a text saying he was too tired. I promised to bring him home something good.
Around ten, a familiar face popped into the window. The tall, lanky guy from last night—the one that complimented my dish in a backward way. I heard him order two grilled cheese meals and a pulled pork.
Not thinking anything of it, I got to work on his order, taking extra care to get everything right. He obviously worked at a restaurant around here, and I had a sneaking suspicion it was Lilou. I told myself I wasn’t trying to impress him. But if he hailed from that good of a kitchen, he would obviously have high expectations. And he would naturally be critical of all food he paid for.