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, “For 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.”