I’d gotten to know one guest chef too closely. And then I’d fallen in love with him.
Instead of getting a foot in the door of an ultra-competitive industry, I’d traded my goals and aspirations for a toxic relationship that inevitably ruined any chance I had at making a name for myself.
But even if it weren’t for my firsthand experience with self-absorbed, verbally abusive chefs, I still would want nothing to do with Killian Quinn. He was rude, intrusive and insensitive. I didn’t ask him for his opinion.
And I certainly didn’t want it.
What I wanted was for him to leave me alone.
Apparently, that was too much to ask.
I’d seen him arrive at Lilou an hour earlier. It was Saturday afternoon, and I was deep in prep work for this evening’s dinner service. The second I saw him pull up, I had ducked out of view, where I watched him like a weird stalker from the shadows.
He’d dismounted his motorcycle with the same careless ease he always did and tugged the helmet from his head. Only this time instead of going straight inside his restaurant, he stared at the food truck for a solid two minutes.
My heart pounded inside my chest, afraid he would walk over here. I scrunched back against the cooler, praying he couldn’t see me as I hid like a coward. But his gaze stayed so intent that I started to wonder if he had super-vision.
Finally, he propped his helmet on his bike and disappeared inside Lilou. I took a deep, stabilizing breath and contemplated trying to convince Vann to move the bike shop. Like across town. Or to a different city. Maybe, possibly, the moon.
I already knew my brother would never do it. Selfish bastard.
The sauce in front of me simmered in the pan, bubbles bursting every once in a while. Dipping a clean spoon in it, I lifted it to my lips and tasted. Not salty enough.
Damn it.
I needed to get the meatballs in the sauce, but now I was afraid of ruining the flavor. The self-doubt wasn’t natural for me, and I hated it even more because it was inspired by the idiot across the street. It wrapped around me like cracked, too-tight skin I desperately needed to shed.
A sharp knock on the door interrupted my internal freak out, and I spun around ready to face Vann or Molly and ask them to restore some of my confidence with flowery, over the top compliments.
I wasn’t ashamed to beg for verbal affirmations. Sometimes a girl just needed to hear how freaking awesome she was.
Before you judge, I gave out verbal affirmations in return. Because I was a good friend and a good sister. And because Molly and Vann truly were freaking awesome.
Unfortunately, it was neither of them.
“Do I need to get a restraining order for you to take the hint?”
Killian stared at me, his mouth just barely twitching. “We’re neighbors. Our kitchens aren’t even one hundred feet apart.”
I snorted. “And wouldn’t it be a pity if you lost your job because you can’t leave mine alone?”
His cocky expression turned into a scowl. “I knew you were green, Delane. But I didn’t think you were a baby.”
“I’m not taking your bait, Quinn. You might as well leave.”
“The thing about baiting is that sometimes it takes a little persistence. You’ll give in. I’m not worried.”
I slammed a hand on my hip, remembering that I hadn’t changed into professional clothes yet. The weather still sizzled around the temperature of the sun, so I’d worn loud, yellow, flowery high-waisted shorts because they were every girl’s best friend, and a navy blue lacy crop top.
“I’ve got work to do, Killian. What do you want?”
He stepped inside the truck but didn’t come further than the entryway. “I wanted to…” He took another step toward me, his gaze catching on the simmering pan. “Are you reworking your gravy?”
I swallowed against the offended lump in my throat. “No.”
He sniffed the air and moved closer to me. “Are you sure?”
“This isn’t gravy,” I lied to him. “I’m trying to figure out your shortbread recipe.”
His low chuckle slid over the back of my neck and whispered down my spine. “You could have just asked.”
I whipped around to face him, jumpy from feelings I shouldn’t be having. “And you would have given it to me?”
He shrugged. “Sure.”
I wasn’t planning on making my own desserts, but I wanted to test him. “Okay, give it to me.”
“What do I get out of it?”
“Who says you get anything out of it?”
He held my gaze, his mouth quirking at one corner. Good grief, he was unfairly hot. Molly was right about that.
Standing this close to him in daylight I could finally check out his tattoos. And I did, uncaring if he caught me staring. We were well beyond polite shyness.
An anatomical heart had been strikingly etched on the inside of one forearm with a giant, bloody butcher knife piercing its center. Celtic designs wound around the rest of the space disappearing underneath the sleeve of his black t-shirt. On the other forearm, a large compass stretched from the inside of his elbow to his wrist, filling up almost the entire space. Instead of arrows pointing toward the direction markers, kitchen utensils had been cleverly used. A spatula pointed west, and a whisk pointed north, like a clock telling time.
He crossed his arms over his chest, breaking the momentary spell his tattoos had put on me. “That’s how we play this game, Delane. You give me something. I give you something.”
I blinked at him. “We’re not playing a game.”
“Are you sure?” His tongue swept over his bottom lip, and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from mimicking him.
“Yes,” I told him firmly.
“Try it,” he suggested. “Ask me for something. I’ll tell you what it costs.”
“So how do I stop you from giving me any more unwanted advice?”
His mouth broke into a full grin. He watched me for a few, long seconds as he debated something internally. “It doesn’t matter. The shortbread recipe isn’t mine. I can’t give it to you.”
I would have been surprised had it been his. He wasn’t known for his desserts after all. “I didn’t want it anyway.”
“But you do want my help with the sauce.”
“I don’t.”
He reached past me, brushing my waist with his hand, uncaring that I was standing between him and the stove. “If you’ll just…” Unable to reach a clean spoon, he gripped my hip with two hands and physically moved me to the side.
“What the—”
Outraged I watched him try the sauce and then tap his nose with the tip of the spoon. He stood there in thought before grabbing a meatball out of the cooler and biting into it. He got a different spoon and tasted the gravy again before finishing the meatball.
He slammed around my kitchen, rifling through shelves and opening metal cabinets. Finally, he moved to the cooler and pulled out fresh mint.
I bought it for the tzatziki sauce. I’d contemplated putting it into the meatballs, but I hadn’t. I didn’t want that particular flavor to be overwhelming.
Killian moved back to the counter and pulled down a clean cutting board. Then he helped himself to my knives.