“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.
I would try to meet his standards at a professional level.
“Do you want me to bag these up for you?” I asked him at the pick-up window.
He stepped forward so that we were face to face. “It’s okay. I’m going to eat this one.” He reached for the grilled cheese. “I can handle the other two without a sack.”
Unease unfurled in my gut, warning me to snatch his order back. I’d even refund him out of sheer, unfiltered paranoia. “You’re from Lilou?”
He nodded around a big bite of sandwich.
“And they don’t feed you there?”
He chuckled with a mouth full of food and shook his head. “Sure. But I’m on break. And I wanted something different.”
“Don’t tell your boss what you had,” I warned him, wagging a finger back and forth between us. “Pretty sure this is grounds for termination.”
He gave me a funny look. “What do you mean?”
I ducked my head as if I was sharing a secret with him. “I’m the enemy. And you’re currently fraternizing with me.”
His gaze narrowed and that thoughtful look didn’t leave his face. “What makes you think that?”
I glanced over at the two people waiting for me to make their food. I needed to wrap this up, but I couldn’t help saying, “Because he stopped over here the other day to tell me that. I’m an eyesore. And an abomination to the food industry as a whole.”
“He said that?”
I shrugged. “More or less.”
His lips quirked up in a smirk. “I’m not surprised. I once heard him call Marco Tempest, the head chef at Bleu, a microwave-loving fraud.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Why?”
“I’m not sure,” the kid laughed too. “Something about carrots.” He shifted his food to his left hand and stretched out his right to shake mine. “I’m Wyatt Shaw by the way.”
“Vera.” But apparently, he’d already been briefed.
“Vera Delane.” He grinned at me. When I lifted one eyebrow in confusion, he shrugged and took another bite of the grilled cheese. “What? I did my research.”
“Checking out the competition?”
“Something like that.”
“Let me guess—this was a homework assignment from your boss? He wants you all to familiarize yourself with the rival food truck. Steal my secret recipes and smuggle them back to your kitchen?”
He tossed his now empty basket in the nearby trashcan and reached for the other two plates he’d set down on the ledge near the napkin dispenser. “You have no idea how close you are to the truth.” He lifted the baskets in a kind of wave and started walking backward, scurrying away to his kitchen of the damned. “Thanks for these,” he called out. “Don’t hate me.”
“Don’t hate you?” I was truly confused. “Why would I hate you?” But he had already turned around and started jogging back to Lilou. I stared after him for a second longer before I got back to work as well.