He tucked the phone into his pocket and traded cartons with me. Without saying anything else, he grabbed a fork and napkin from the cutlery container I had next to the window and dug in.
I stepped back into the truck, unable to stop myself from obsessing over his reaction. I convinced myself I would move just as soon as he took his first bite. I couldn’t stand there all night watching him chew. That would be weird.
Right?
Yes. Obviously. Yes, that was weird.
He dug in, wrapping his mouth around the pita and I stared at him, determined to read his expression instead of listening to his words. Only it gave nothing away. He was as mysterious as always, and neither looked at me with approval or verbalized his thoughts.
Spinning away from him, I decided I’d tortured myself enough. The desserts went into the cooler because I could not even begin to enjoy those with him outside, eating and judging my food.
Judging me.
“What are you doing?” I whisper yelled at Molly, making an expression that showed her just how furious I was that she’d abandoned me.
“I, uh, had to text my friend,” she answered.
I raised an eyebrow. “Your friend?”
She nodded once, barely restraining her smile. “I meant my mom.”
“You’re a terrible person,” I told her.
Her grin broke free, and she looked so ridiculously happy I wanted to punch her. She bounced on her toes and pointed toward the window mouthing, “He’s so hot!”
“Stop!” I mouthed back. I took a step towards her, keeping my voice low. “He’s the worst!”
“Delane!”
I whirled around at my barked name. It only took three steps until I reached the window. He stood there with my meatball completely dissected.
My stomach dropped to my toes. He hated it. I instantly knew he hated it. “You promised to keep your opinion to yourself.”
He mashed his lips together, glaring at the meatball and clearly frustrated that he’d done that. His eyes flicked up to mine. “Do you hate salt?”
“Excuse me?”
“Salt? Do you hate it?”
Fire and anger and pride seared beneath my skin, setting my bones ablaze and my blood to boil. “No, I don’t hate salt.”
He jabbed his hand at my food. “Then why do you abuse it like you do? It’s a supporting actor, not the star of the show. It should enhance flavor, not slap you in the face with it.”
My gasp cut through the plaza, high and shrill. “Stop! Stop it right there! I don’t want to hear your opinion or your thoughts or your criticism. No more, Killian! I mean it.”
His attention moved so quickly from the meatball to my face that I stumbled back a step. There was so much intensity to him. So much aggression and focus and emotion. He wasn’t someone you could forget. He left an impression in seconds. Or an imprint. He was a force like the wind, or a tornado. He blew over you with destructive intent, annihilating everything you thought you knew about the world with his brutal opinions and cocky confidence.
When he just stared at me, I began to shrivel. My hands and knees started trembling, and I felt the immediate urge to bolt, to just run away.
Finally, he stepped forward, scooping up a bite of pita and meatball with this fork. He held it toward my face. “Try it.”
My voice was nothing more than a breathless gasp. “What?”
He jerked the fork toward me again. “Try it. Try the meatball.”
“I did—”
“Humor me.”
Unwilling to give this difficult man everything he wanted, I crossed my arms over my chest and said, “Don’t you have a kitchen to run?”
“Yes, I do. So take the bite.”
“No.”
He stepped closer, losing some of his hard edge. “Humor me.” After a beat of silence, he added, “Please?”
It was his please that did it. My body reacted to the softly spoken plea before my brain could intervene. I closed my mouth around the fork, his fork, and took the bite. A shiver rolled down my spine when I realized how strange the gesture was, how intimate.
I didn’t make a habit of eating off other people’s forks.
“See?” His question brought me back to reality, and I remembered to taste the food that was in my mouth.
I had spent hours over this recipe. Hours and hours. I’d put every last bit of my talent into creating the perfect lamb meatball. I had made sure it was well spiced, a good, solid texture with just the right notes of earthiness and comfort. The gravy was my own recipe, and it was thick and creamy but not too rich. I’d pickled the vegetables myself and made sure each dice was exactly even and consistent. They were tangy and just barely still crisp—just the way I wanted them. And the pita was a trick I’d learned from a Greek grandmother in Italy. I’d worked with her son at a small bistro, and I’d convinced him to let her teach me how. The pitas were perfection.
And yet now that he brought up the salt…
“Goddamn you,” I hissed at him after I swallowed.
He poked at the fries. “The fries are clever and would have been the highlight if not for everything else. The flatbread is fine. But the vegetables are bland, and the meatball is too salty. Your tzatziki is stringy.”
“I hate you.”
He shook his head, ignoring me. “You hate that I’m right.”
If I didn’t before, I did now. “Go away, Quinn.”
By now a line had formed again, and Molly had filled the ticket line with orders. I needed to get back to work and serve people that didn’t care that I’d slightly over-salted the meat. They wouldn’t even be able to tell.
Yes, fine, Killian was right. But only a professional would be able to tell.
At least that’s what I told myself. The sweet tasting lie would give me the courage to finish out the night at least.
Killian opened his mouth like he wanted to argue with me some more, but Wyatt appeared in the side door of Lilou. “We need you, Chef!”
I seized the opportunity to get rid of him. “Your kitchen needs you, Chef. So get out of mine.”
He grinned at me, as if enjoying my hatred. “Enjoy the desserts, Vera. It was worth the trade.”
He tossed his half-eaten meal in the trash can and sauntered back to his restaurant. If I didn’t know any better, I would have even said there was a spring in his step.
“God, what an asshole,” I growled once he was out of earshot.
When Molly didn’t immediately agree, I turned to look at her. She shrugged innocently. “I think he’s used to getting his way.”
“It’s obnoxious.”
She fanned herself with her notepad. “And so damn hot.”
I should have disagreed with her. But that would have been a filthy lie.
Chapter Nine
I hoped Killian had gotten the message that I didn’t want anything more to do with him. It was weird hating a chef of Killian’s caliber, but the guy was intolerable. I couldn’t stand him.
He had to realize that by now.
I didn’t like to think of myself as an opportunist, but in culinary school I’d made it a point to get to know as many notable chefs as possible. Whether they were teachers or guest speakers, I wanted to glean as much technique and talent as I could from them.
It wasn’t anything more than a desire to get the most out of my expensive education. But in the end, it had backfired.