I couldn’t shake the weird feeling that crept up my spine after Wyatt disappeared. What I should have asked him was who the food was for.
The truck stayed busy enough that I was forced back into my routine. I realized I truly might have to hire permanent help to take money soon. It wasn’t fair to only rely on my brother and best friend to fill in when they were doing it pro bono.
But that was the problem. This was only day two. I hardly had enough profit to cover my operating expenses. I wasn’t exactly in the best place to start taking on employees.
Wyatt returned an hour later. There was a lull, and Molly and I had our faces an inch away from fans, trying to cool off.
“You’re not secretly serving my food to your customers, are you?” I joked. “Because you better be upcharging the shit out of it if you are.”
He laughed nervously, but it didn’t reach his apologetic eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbled, and I panicked thinking for a second that he really was serving my food to his diners. No, wait. He only took two plates. Unless he was Jesus, miraculous food multiplication was impossible.
That anxious feeling crept back over me and I felt sick again. I didn’t know him, but he was nice enough earlier. What did he possibly have to feel sorry about? “Sorry for what?”
He held out a folded piece of paper. “I didn’t think he’d have notes for you. I swear.”
“Notes? Who had notes?”
Molly was tight at my side. She’d tensed, ready for a fight. But all I could do was look between Wyatt’s downturned face and the white piece of paper he held out to me.
“He wanted to try your food, but I swear, I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known he was going to send me back here.”
My mouth dried out and my thoughts started bouncing against the impossibility of what I didn’t want to believe just happened. It was like I was a bumper car trapped in the corner. I knew what I had to do. I knew what was happening. But I couldn’t get the car turned around in the right direction.
This wasn’t happening.
“Who?” I asked, still calm, still disbelieving. “Killian?”
Wyatt shook the paper at me. “He’s my boss.”
I snatched the note out of his stupid fingers. “Yeah, well you’re not a mindless minion,” I snapped.
Wyatt took a step back and shrugged helplessly. “He’s my boss,” he repeated.
With that, he scurried back across the street and Molly and I were left to stare at the folded piece of paper. Apparently “boss” included spying on the nearby food truck and acting as a carrier pigeon.
“What just happened?” she asked.
I glared at Lilou, mentally wishing it would burst into flames. “I think I just got my first review.”
Molly glanced back and forth between the same restaurant and the paper in my hands putting the pieces together. “No,” she disagreed. “No way.”
I unfolded the paper, and sure enough, handwriting scratched across it, the quick, slanted lines of Killian’s expert opinion.
“He didn’t,” Molly continued to deny. “I mean, the nerve of someone to do that. So what, he sent that guy over to take him back food? So he could critique it? I can’t even imagine what kind of ego you’d have to have… I mean, think about it! What if I sent every other marketer my opinion of their work? It’s so ballsy!”
Molly continued her tirade while I finally scrounged the courage to read the words meant to put me in my place.
Grilled Cheese-too sweet. The pancetta, jam and brioche are way too much. It could be a dessert if not for all the goddamn salt. The tomato drizzle could have been good, but it’s ruined by the cluster fuck of everything else.
Good grief. I wanted to scream at him. What an asshole! Hadn’t I said it before? He was an asshole! And apparently, he was only getting started…
Pulled Pork-I can tell the pork is a day old. Amateur. The green beans are soggy. And the teriyaki sauce is pedestrian.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, he moved on to attack my garnishes.
Stop with the parsley. For God’s sake. What’s the point??
Try harder.
Molly’s gasp of outrage was loud in my ear when she finished reading over my shoulder. “This can’t be real.”
I saw red. Anger boiled my blood and pulsed in my temples. “Try harder? Try harder? Is he kidding me? He doesn’t even know me!” I realized that was a ridiculous thing to say. My diners didn’t know me; they judged me purely on the food I made them. And that was all I expected from them.
But Quinn was different. This felt personal.
He didn’t review my food, he attacked me personally.
“He called my teriyaki sauce pedestrian,” I hissed, surprised when I didn’t breathe fire. “He called my grilled cheese a cluster fuck!”
“He’s an asshole,” Molly conceded. “A complete and utter asshole. I see what you mean now about the whole glossy hotness thing. It’s over. That beard is gross.”
I would have smiled if I wasn’t so utterly pissed off right now.
Laughter floated over to us, and we looked up to see people wandering our direction.
“Customers,” Molly whispered as if I’d forgotten my entire purpose for being here. “Are you going to respond? What are you going to do?”
My eyes were hot inside my head, furious with tears I desperately held back and hatred for a man I once admired beating like a drum inside my throat. “I’m going to cook the shit out of my pedestrian sauces and overly sweet sandwiches.” I whipped around to the stove, game-planning as I moved. “And tomorrow I’m going to make us reservations at the top restaurant in the city. He’s not the only one with an opinion.”
Molly shot me a menacing smile and then turned to the people waiting to order. “How can I help you?” she asked, sweet and friendly once again.
Thank God she was there to deal with customers while I angry cooked my way through the rest of the night. Like so many other things in my life, I didn’t know what I would have done without her. Besides, her help gave me plenty of space to plot my revenge.
Two can play at this game, Killian Quinn.
Chapter Seven
By Tuesday afternoon I was still exhausted from the weekend. I realized sometime Sunday afternoon when I finally rolled out of bed that my entire schedule was going to have to change.
I was used to late nights from working in various kitchens for the last several years, but by the time I cleaned and closed Foodie, it was four am before I got home.
And I was exhausted. I knew how to bust my ass in a kitchen, but I didn’t expect the stress of running my own, however small, would be so taxing. Saturday night I ran out of pork. But had way too many sticky buns and green beans left over. But without the pork, I couldn’t serve them.
Good thing Dad appreciated leftovers!
When he was hungry enough to eat them.
I had until Thursday to analyze sales, expenses and goals. I learned so much over the weekend, but I had a sinking feeling that I had a ton to figure out. This was not as simple and clear-cut as I’d hoped it would be.
I also decided to change up my menu. Not because of Killian Quinn.