He crowded the window. I could smell him again. He smelled how I imagined his kitchen smelled—a blend of unique spices, grease from the fires and that purely masculine scent that had to be his soap underneath it all. “What are Greek fries anyway?”
I glared at him. I was proud of my food tonight. Despite his assholery, I had put a lot of effort into making sure my flavors were on point. The plating was as pretty as to-go plating could be. And my Greek fries were both creative and delicious.
I had nothing to fear from him.
I ignored his question. “Where’s Wyatt?”
A muscle near his eye ticked. “Working. Like he’s supposed to be.”
“Did you fire him?”
“I just told you he was working.”
“Are you going to fire him?”
“Why? Because he abandoned his post so he could flirt with the food truck girl for a half hour? I should fire him. We’re booked the entire night.” I opened my mouth, but I didn’t know where to start. So many of the things he’d said were… annoying. He didn’t give me a chance, though. “Would you fire him?”
“Excuse me?”
“Not him. Not Wyatt. But if you had a sous chef, someone you counted on to get you through each service, someone you trusted above all other people in your kitchen, and they left you for thirty minutes in the middle of an important night, would you fire him?”
Killian was trying to trap me. He knew my answer—it was obvious. Yes. Wyatt had made a big mistake. “I don’t know,” I said instead, choosing my words carefully. “I’ve never had a sous chef. Or run a kitchen. I don’t know what I would do.”
“I do,” Killian was quick with his response. “You’d fire him.”
My cheeks heated with emotion, I just couldn’t tell which emotion. Killian brought out so many-anger, frustration, embarrassment, insecurity, irritation, lust. Stupid, stupid lust. “You don’t know that.”
He ran a hand through his beard, messing it up and then tugging it back to its shape. “You’re a hard-ass, Vera Delane. Of course you’d fire him.”
My guilty heart thumped hard for Wyatt, despite my earlier claims that I didn’t want anything to do with him. “Is that what you’re going to do?”
“Didn’t you hear me? I trust him. It’s too hard to find a sous as good as him. He’s safe for today. As long as he can give up taking his breaks locked away with you.”
I slammed my eyes shut in frustration, hating his implication. “He wasn’t locked away with me. I just didn’t want him sneaking his food back to you so you could rip it apart.”
He stared at me so hard that I felt it all over my skin. I opened my eyes and shivered beneath the heat of his glare. “Then let me rip it apart now.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
He tapped the boxes again. “It’s a fair trade. I’ll even keep my opinion to myself.”
“Did Lilou run out of food? Can’t you get your sous chef to make you a snack? God, you’re aggravating.”
“Come on, Delane,” he persuaded with a lilting voice. “The lemon lavender shortbreads are insane. You know you want them.”
Curiosity didn’t just kill the cat. It killed the stupid chef that was willing to sell her soul just to get a tiny taste of one of the greatest chefs in the city.
He held up a hand as if he could read the denial swirling in my head. “And before you go claiming that these are already bought and paid for, let’s just consider that Wyatt really would have gotten fired for smuggling these out of the restaurant. The only way you’re going to get to try these is if you make a deal with me.”
A deal with the devil.
“I could always make a reservation. I’m sure it’s not that hard.” That was a lie. I’d already made a reservation after he’d written me that scathing note, but the earliest they could get me in was still six weeks away.
“Delane, by the time you can manage to sneak inside my restaurant, we’ll have changed the entire menu.”
I shifted my shoulders, hating the way I felt every time he used my last name. And not because it made me feel bad. Because it made me feel the opposite. “I don’t even like lemon.”
He leaned closer, erasing the space between us. “You’re such a liar,” he murmured on a dark chuckle. “Just make me the goddamn slider.”
He was right. I was a liar. And where the hell had Molly gone? Why wasn’t she coming to my rescue? I was about to make a very stupid mistake, and she had promised that she’d intervene the next time I tried to ruin my entire life.
“Fine,” I relented. Letting out a slow, measured breath so he didn’t see how nervous I was, I said, “One meatball.”
“And fries.” He smiled victoriously. “Greek fries.”
Stepping over to the counter I started putting together his box. “What is your fascination with Greek fries?”
He poked his head through the window so he could watch me. “I’m intrigued.”
“You’re obnoxious.” I jerked my head to the other side of the truck. “You can wait down there.”
“You’re not going to make me come in and eat it in front of you?”
Snapping my head up, I glared at him. “Sorry, friends and employees only. It’s off limits to you.” I held back an evil laugh and asked, “Unless you’re looking for a job? I need someone part time to help with prep and orders. Interested?”
His eyes narrowed at the insult to everything he’d worked for and accomplished. “I’ll wait down here.”
“Good idea.” The thrill of victory bubbled in my chest, but I also hated that his smile disappeared. It was a silly thing to miss since I couldn’t stand this man. But he was always so serious. I barely knew the guy, and I could tell that his smiles were rare and hard-earned.
Focusing on perfecting his order, I threw myself into the very thing I loved, the thing that had saved me—cooking. I heated his pita on the grill top then added the house tzatziki sauce, and pickled red onions, carrots and cucumbers. Next, I plated the fries fresh from the fryer and topped them with generous portions of all that I put on the slider. I scooped out a simmering meatball and set it very carefully in the middle of the pita, careful not to rip the flatbread, finalizing everything with a sprinkle of feta cheese everywhere.
My hands shook as I carried the box to the pickup window. I tried to convince myself that I already had his worst, that he couldn’t say anything else to me that would be meaner than his note or make me feel less than. Still, my traitor of a heart soared with anticipation and hopeful optimism.
He might have been right about my grilled cheese and pulled pork, but I’d stepped up my game. He had to acknowledge that.
That’s when I realized I wanted this. I wanted him to try my food again. It was foolish and masochistic. But Wyatt was right, Killian Quinn’s opinion mattered.
When I leaned out the window, he had his phone in his hand. The bright light lit up his mouth and that beard, highlighting the contrast of his dark, trimmed facial hair to the red fullness of his lips.
“Order’s ready.” My voice came out breathier than I intended, weak and afraid. I cleared my throat and waited for him to acknowledge me.