My hands clenched into fists. “What are you doing?”
He glanced at me over his shoulder. “Oh, do you mind if I just…” He gestured at the cutting board with the knife already in his hand.
“I—wha-”
He turned back to the mint and started chopping it into minuscule pieces. “This is a nice knife.” He read the brand and went back to work. “At least you know how to take care of your tools.”
“What a dick thing to say.”
His shoulders shook with a silent laugh. “I just gave you a compliment.”
“You gave me a backhanded compliment. And you know it.”
He moved the mint to the white sauce and added dill. Then he went back to the cooler and pulled out a lemon. “Take the compliment, chef, and stop assuming that everything I say is an insult.”
He called me chef.
He called me chef!
My ego perked up at the unexpected accolade and I tried to remember all the horrible things he’d done to me in the short time I knew him.
“You’re making it too much like the tzatziki,” I complained.
He shook his head, his lips quirking up in a private smile. “Have a little faith.” He then grabbed the red pepper flakes and tossed in a generous amount.
He stood over the pan and stirred while I watched him. Neither of us said anything for a long time. I couldn’t guess the thoughts in his head, but I was trying to come to terms with how comfortable he looked in my kitchen.
He should have been too big for the small interior. But he hunched his broad shoulders when he worked, curling his long torso over his food protectively… thoughtfully. His muscles rolled with every small movement, every stir of his whisk or lift of a new spoon to taste his progress.
His ego should have made him seem pretentious and out of place in my humble space. But he moved around with a natural ease that was at once alluring and intimidating. He guessed where things were, but most of the time he was right. He mastered my knives like he’d used them all his life. And he worked the sauce like it was his original recipe.
He was too good for my kitchen and yet he didn’t act like it. No matter what we’d said to each other leading up to now, he was being nice.
Even friendly.
And it was weirding me out.
Panic twisted in my gut, warning me that this was dangerous. He was dangerous. “What do you want, Killian?”
He turned around with a spoon in one hand, the other making a cup underneath. “For you to try this.”
He all but shoved the spoon in my mouth. I closed my lips around it because there was no other choice.
It was too hot, but I still had to stifle a groan. He’d taken my good sauce and made it a masterpiece. He’d transformed my modest recipe from necessary to essential, from dead to alive, from anonymous to five-star-worthy. I stepped back, keeping hold of the spoon. His eyes followed me, waiting, expecting. “It’s too similar to the tzatziki,” I told him.
“That’s the point,” he explained. “Only use the gravy. Save the tzatziki for the fries. You’ll separate the flavor profiles and make it more interesting.”
I clenched my teeth so hard, my jaw ticked. He was a pushy, intrusive asshole. And completely right. Damn him. I shoved my way between him and the stove, grabbing for the red pepper flakes, just to make a point that this was still my kitchen.
“You went a little light.”
He peered over my shoulder, his chest pressing momentarily against my back. His deep voice rumbled in my ear. “Careful, chef.”
I shivered. I couldn’t help it. He made the relentless summer day feel frigid compared to his body heat. His breath danced along my earlobe and despite the savory sauce filling the kitchen with Mediterranean scents and tangible defeat, all I could smell was him.
The whisk in my hand trembled once, twice. I leaned back into him, unable to resist exploring what it would feel like to be pressed against his hard chest, how he would make me feel against his body.
I had to know.
He leaned closer, and my shoulders settled against him, his hand landing on my hip with the lightest touch. A ripple of uncertainty vibrated through me. I should pull away. I shouldn’t have gotten this close to begin with.
I started to step to the side, and Killian’s fingers dug into my hip, holding me in place, taking the decision away from me. His touch was light only seconds before, but now it was strong, familiar, possessive. He was used to getting his way, and I’d suddenly stopped coming up with reasons why I shouldn’t let him have it.
“Sorry, I’m late, Vera!” My dad’s voice boomed inside the truck and Killian and I jumped apart like we’d been caught cooking completely naked.
Dad ambled inside, catching Killian and I avoiding each other’s eyes and shuffling to opposite sides of the small space. “Oh, sorry,” Dad murmured. “I didn’t realize you had company.”
“I don’t!” I rushed to explain, knowing my eyes were wild with guilt. The reality of how easy it had been to let myself touch Killian crashed down on me carrying the burden of my abandoned dreams and failed relationship. “I mean, he’s not company. Or a friend. Or really, anything.” Dad and Killian shared similar expressions of confusion. Translation: I was acting like a lunatic. “What I mean is he was helping me, but now he’s leaving. Killian runs the kitchen across the street. He was just, uh, giving me his opinion on my sauce for tonight.”
Killian thrust out his hand for my dad to shake. “Killian Quinn. Like Vera said, I run Lilou just over there.”
My dad followed Killian’s pointer finger before taking his hand. “Hank Delane. Vera’s said nice things about that restaurant. She’s the only expert I know, but she always knows what she’s talking about. You must be proud.”
“Very, sir.” He half turned around, staring at the sauce I stirred absently. “I’ll see you later, Vera. Good luck tonight.”
Not wanting to seem rude in front of my dad, I mumbled, “You too.”
Killian left quickly, taking all his weird energy with him. I let out a shaky breath and glared at the gravy.
“He seemed nice,” Dad said. “You made him out to be such a superstar. I wasn’t sure what to expect.”
I snorted and felt a tingle of relief as I remembered how I really felt. “He’s not usually so welcoming. You brought out the decent human in him. Most of the time he’s obnoxiously combative.”
My dad snickered, taking a seat at the tall stool I’d bought for Vann and Molly when they helped me out. Neither of them could be here tonight, so my dad offered to take money instead-even though I was positive he didn’t fully understand what that entailed. I felt beyond guilty asking him to stay up hours past his bedtime, but he insisted. I loved him more for it, plus I needed him to look at my cooler and work his mechanical magic. “I don’t think I’m the reason he was over here helping you with your sauce.”
My face flushed tomato red. “Oh, my gosh, Dad!”
“Well, baby girl, honestly.”