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.
Mostly.
He didn’t greet me in return. Instead, his mouth pinched into an unhappy frown, and he huffed an impatient breath. “This is your truck?”
I licked dry lips and patted my forehead with the back of my hand, discreetly trying to wipe away droplets of sweat. My styled hair was sticking to my slick neck, and I cursed myself for not putting it up like I usually did. I resisted the urge to glance down at my white t-shirt and inspect it for sweat spots or coffee stains or alien blood.
Obviously, not a likely scenario. But working in a kitchen in white attracted all kinds of unidentifiable stains.
God, I was such a hot mess.
Literally and figuratively.
Killian Quinn, on the other hand, was perfect and smooth and so cool it hurt to look at him. He also wore a white t-shirt, but his clung to toned muscles and a hard chest. His black pants that were industry standard ended at stylish black shoes and looked way out of place for a greasy kitchen.
Maybe his kitchen wasn’t greasy?
Because that could be possible for someone like him. Someone that seemed to defy all other laws and rules and universal continuums out of sheer will and smoldering looks.
Tattoos snaked up his forearms and over hard biceps, disappearing beneath the sleeves of his t-shirt. I wanted to inspect them, gawk at them until I could describe each one in detail. But I was too self-conscious to stare.
His hair was a little tousled after removing his helmet. His eyes were green and sharp and so intense I could only hold his gaze for a few seconds before mine dropped away. Straight to his beard.
I licked my lips again and tried to swallow but my mouth was suddenly very dry, and my throat had a fist-sized lump in it.
That beard. It was shocking. Longer than I expected even though it was neatly trimmed.
I got the strongest urge to touch it. I wanted to know what it felt like against my fingertips, feel it scratch my palm and test the texture. I sucked in a quick breath and met his ferocious gaze again, just to stop myself from fixating on that ridiculous beard.
He cleared his throat as if he could sense my inappropriate thoughts and I schooled my expression just in case it gave anything away—like me holding back fangirl screaming and desperate pleas to have his baby. “Yep. My truck. I’m Vera,” I answered, pasting a smile on after the fact, hoping that I sounded friendly and not spastic.
Killian stared at me. Or maybe glared at me was a more appropriate description. “Vera,” he repeated, my name spitting out of his mouth like a curse word. “Vera what?”
I tried to swallow again. I barely managed. “Delane.”
Killian’s eyes narrowed, and this time when he said my name it was more of a growl than a curse. “Vera Delane. I’ve never heard of you.”
Fire zinged through me, setting the remaining shreds of my backbone ablaze. “That doesn’t surprise me. We’ve never met before.”
His eyebrows rose in surprise but not in kindness. “Do you know who I am?”
I barely restrained an eye roll. I was not over my awe. I mean, this was Killian Quinn. But it irritated me that he was turning out to be every cliché I’d expected him to be. Cocky, self-absorbed and rude. Seconds ago, I was practically drooling over this man, and now I could barely force a polite response. “Killian Quinn?”
He jerked his chin down in a nod and sliced his gaze to Lilou, then back to mine. “Yeah, and that’s Lilou. You’ve heard of Lilou?”
I swallowed my rising frustration. “I’ve heard of Lilou,” I confirmed. “I’ve even seen it before. We’re practically neighbors.”
His mouth pressed into a frown and his lips got lost in his full beard. “Well, then, neighbor, let me give you some friendly advice. Your eyesore is out of its league. A food truck doesn’t belong in this neighborhood. Or anywhere near Lilou. Who told you this was a good idea?”
Something happened to me. I couldn’t explain it. I’d taken a lot of shit over the past couple of years, and I’d always reacted in the worst possible way—meaning I laid down and took it. I didn’t stand up for myself. Recently, I’d concluded that I just wasn’t capable of standing up for myself. Some people were fighters. Some were doormats.
I was a doormat.
Until now.
Until this moment.