Until Killian Quinn opened his big mouth and made me see red.
My hip popped out, and I slammed my hand on it, cocking my elbow with every bit of attitude I didn’t know I had. “First of all, nobody told me this was a good idea. I came up with it all by myself. And do you know why?” I didn’t wait for his response. It wasn’t a question I wanted to hear the answer to. “Because I’m perfectly capable of coming up with my very own ideas all by myself. I’m sorry that your fragile ego feels threatened by a chef you’ve never even heard of before, but the reality is that I open tomorrow, so you better get used to the idea of some competition. If you can’t hack it, then maybe you should find a different profession.” He slid his bottom jaw back and forth, forcing a frustrated muscle to pop. His green eyes became lasers intent on smoking me on the spot. I just told one of the hottest chefs in the country to quit and do something else. Oh, my God. But before I could rein in my temper or leash my tongue, I finished my angry monologue with a barely contained threat. “And this food truck isn’t an eyesore, it’s my life. So, I don’t welcome your insults or your prejudice. You stick to your side of the street, and I’ll stick to mine, and we’ll manage to go on with our lives without any problems.”
It took a moment for him to recover. He couldn’t seem to figure me out, and I was so proud of finally, finally sticking up for myself that I nearly ruined everything by smiling.
But even that died when his angry glare began to move over me. His eyes were hot and dangerous, and as he swept them from my head to my toes, I felt him take me in, weighing and measuring and deciding my worth in one scathing glance.
My skin prickled and my insides turned to mush. Whatever fight I had, died under his crushing intensity and couldn’t do anything but quiver as he prepared his retort.
His mouth finally broke from his hard frown, kicking up into a cruel, mocking smile. “Do you really think you stand a chance? You can’t out cook me. You can’t compete with Lilou. What are you trying to do?”
“I’m not trying to compete with Lilou,” I answered honestly, proud of myself for not losing my edge after all. “And I’m really not competing with you. But I do have a lot to do today, and I’m sure you have… things to prepare or whatever.” I glanced over at Lilou, hoping he got the hint. My chest clenched at the sight of Lilou in all its glory, and my heart kicked against my breastbone, just like every other time I’d looked at it.
“Yeah, I’ve got a restaurant to run,” he bit out. He took a step back without turning around, without removing his glower.
The way he said “restaurant” was the final insult. If he wanted to get to me, he finally landed the right punch.
Because I’d never be a restaurant. Because nobody would ever confuse my food truck with his five-star kitchen. Because he was a chef and I was a glorified line cook.
“Thanks for welcoming me to the neighborhood, Killian Quinn.” My smile was overly sweet and subtly vicious. My nose stung and I knew I was just seconds away from crying. I needed him to leave before that happened—before he saw how much his words wounded me.
His steps paused, and I was forced to look at him again. He shook his head, a bitter expression of disbelief twisting his handsome features. “I don’t know what to think about you, Vera Delane.”
“Then don’t,” I bit back.
“What?”
“Don’t think about me. Pretend like I don’t exist, and I’ll do the same to you.”
He stared at me for a few moments longer, probably trying to decide if I was serious. Which I was. I didn’t even feel like crying anymore. That was how serious I was. Whatever pedestal I’d placed him on had disintegrated beneath the weight of his ego. He was no longer the revered chef I hoped to be some day. He was just your common asshole that thought too highly of himself.
Making a sound in the back of his throat, he didn’t say another word. He finally turned his back to me and marched across the street, back to Lilou, back to the fame and glory he was used to. His shoulders didn’t sag in defeat, and his long legs never lost the swagger of a man completely confident with himself and his talent. Just because I got the last word didn’t mean I won anything.
In fact, snapping at Killian was far less satisfying than I thought it would be. A gritty, sickly feeling settled in my stomach as guilt pressed down on me. Killian deserved all of that. I knew he did. He was mean and a bully and completely out of line.
But that didn’t mean I had to stoop to his level.
I pressed my palms to my temples, hoping to clear the sticky residue of our first and hopefully last interaction. I was serious when I told him to ignore me. I hadn’t expected him to ever do anything but ignore me.
With extra care, I opened the door to Foodie gently, as if she was as wounded by that exchange as I was. “It doesn’t matter,” I whispered to her. “He doesn’t matter.”
And I meant that.
Lilou would always be one of the best restaurants in Durham, maybe even in the nation. And Killian would always be a phenomenal chef. But those weren’t the things I wanted anymore.
Those weren’t my dreams or my goals.
They were only memories.
And Killian Quinn finally pounded the last nail in the coffin of my former life. I’d moved on. I’d worked really, really hard to move on.
Now I was going to do the two things I was great at—hide, and make damn good food.
Chapter Five
Friday night opened with more fanfare than I expected-especially since I didn’t finalize my menu until well after midnight the night before. I’d cooked all day. My tiny counter space was covered in potential dishes, some epic failures, and some surprising winners. And yet I still couldn’t pull the trigger and decide on my final weekend menu.
Insecurity and legitimate fear clouded my judgment and twisted my insight. I’d done my research. I knew my expertise. The opening night menu should have been obvious. Or at least manageable. And yet I couldn’t make myself commit to side dishes, let alone the main fare.
I had been a sweaty, exhausted mess when I decided to give up and forget this entire thing. A cool breeze had finally breached the small kitchen space. I was about to throw in the towel, not only for the night but on this stupid dream completely, when Killian Quinn had zipped by on his motorcycle, leather jacket tight around his lean torso, black helmet obscuring his pretentious face.
Lilou had shut down over an hour earlier, and I had been telling myself I wasn’t waiting to catch a glimpse of the rat bastard, even though I couldn’t stop throwing hateful glances his way all day. His staff had filtered out a half hour before, but Killian was the last one that left the building.