It burned in my chest, punching against my breastbone, wanting something I couldn’t define. I hated this feeling. I hated that it followed me around like a specter, taunting and poking and never leaving me alone.
I’d felt it in high school the second I realized I wanted to be a chef. Every time I researched schools or made plans for my future, it was there, spurring me on to chase my dreams. I’d had a momentary break from it during culinary school, but it returned in full force once I was tied to Derrek and realized my dream of becoming a famous chef faded in the long shadow of his illustrious career.
In the beginning, I had hoped Derrek would help me in my career. I hadn’t wanted to use his connections for unfair advantages, but he’d been an opinion I trusted, a gentle critic that would both inspire me to do better and point out my flaws. Until we moved in together. Then he’d quickly made it clear that I could cook in a kitchen, but not one that I ran. He didn’t want to compete with me. He didn’t want me to suffer a schedule like his. He didn’t think that we would survive both of our career goals.
So, I’d blended into the background while he continued to accomplish everything he wanted to.
My heart started hurting again the day I was offered a sous chef position in an up and coming bistro. I’d come home elated and so proud. Derrek had been excited for me too, but then started asking questions carefully crafted to make me doubt myself. By the end of the conversation, I’d believed I wasn’t ready to be a sous chef. He’d helped me realize that if I took that important of a position, then I wouldn’t be able to see him or take care of our apartment. It was a great kitchen, but not one on the top of my list. If I settled now, I would always be settling.
I turned down the offer and worked part time at a bigger, more commercial kitchen. The food wasn’t interesting, and the head chef was obstinate and self-absorbed. I would never have moved up there. I would never inspire new and creative dishes. I would make the same generic crap over and over again under the thumb of a man that didn’t even know my name.
But I did get to see Derrek whenever he was home or needed me. I did get to play house with our apartment.
And that was just the beginning of how things went so wrong.
I continued to rub my chest, wondering when the ache would go away. Derrek was gone. I ran my own kitchen. I owned a business.
I’d been forced to change my dreams since my young culinary days, but I’d recalibrated and made new dreams. Set new goals.
And I was reaching them.
So why did it feel like settling?
Chapter Ten
The next four weekends became a circus routine of trying to make the best damn food on the freaking planet and Killian sending one of his spies to infiltrate my very carefully vetted line of customers every time I changed up the menu.
It was infuriating.
He was infuriating.
I would have denied access to every single one of his moles except I couldn’t screen as thoroughly as I would have liked. Not while I was busy cooking. And not while he dressed them in disguise—or at least made them take off their chef jackets.
Not to mention, when it came down to it I was afraid to refuse service to anyone just in case they didn’t work for Killian. Refusing to serve customers based solely on my irritation with the man across the street would obviously be very bad for business.
So, to combat Killian’s ruthless criticism, I kept the menu at one option instead of two. And I honed every one of my techniques to master level. I became a freaking black belt at cooking.
The notes still didn’t stop.
The weekend I made meatloaf burgers on onion buns he sent this back: Mushy and over seasoned. I’m taking away your salt privileges. And if you don’t stop using parsley as a garnish, I’m suing. I will sue you for defamation.
The next night, Friday night, I chopped up four cups of parsley out of spite and sent it over to Lilou in a to-go container. I made Wyatt give it to Killian. Actually, I tried to get Wyatt to throw it in his face and yell, “Make it rain, motherfucker!” But Wyatt was a giant, skinny chicken. Basically, Wyatt just handed it to him and explained my evil plan. And then apparently, they had a nice chuckle over it. I hated them both.
Lesson learned, never send a man to get a woman’s revenge.
That Saturday night, I’d removed the parsley from the dish—mainly because I used it all in my flop of a prank—tightened up the spices and added a thorough fry to the meatloaf burger on the grill top to make it less “mushy.” Killian stopped by after Lilou closed to suggest I use Panko in the burgers instead of regular breadcrumbs, add turmeric to the seasoning mix, and top them with fried onion rings instead of sautéed onions.
His suggestions were obnoxious.
And genius.
The weekend I served a mashup of poutine and pot roast with slow-cooked chuck roast over French fries with fried cheese curds, gravy and a side of roasted balsamic carrots, he sent this lovely note: What is this, Canada? Make it taste better, Delane.
I’d actually sent a note back that time that said, What does that even mean?
He didn’t waste any time. Not five minutes later he wrote:
1. Chuck roast—cheap. It’s so cheap. Why are you so cheap, chef?
2. Fries—soggy.
3. Cheese curds—stringy.
4. Carrots—how are those working out for you? That’s what I thought.
5. …
Well, to be honest, I already knew what number five was going to say, and I didn’t want to read it. Or care about it. Or bother with it.
5. Gravy—I’m sending someone over to confiscate your salt. Don’t fight this. It’s the best thing for both of us.
That Friday morning, I stopped by Tractor Supply and picked up a twenty-five-pound salt block for $6.99. I made Wyatt take it over to him later that night. It had been as satisfying as I imagined it would be.
He stopped by around midnight and tricked Vann into letting him order. I’d made his food and had it halfway out the window before I realized it was him. Before I could pull it back, he’d grabbed it and taken off across the street.
I shouted after him, “You better run, Quinn!”
He’d turned around to flash me a smug grin and almost got hit by an oncoming Volvo.
The weekend I tried a play on Reubens by stuffing biscuits with pastrami, Swiss cheese, house-made sauerkraut and Thousand Island aioli to dip it in, Killian made a traffic ticket out of an order pad and fined me one million dollars for “Forcing soggy biscuits on unsuspecting customers.”
One million dollars.
I copied his ticket on an order paper of my own and fined him one billion dollars for being such an asshole. (Molly’s idea!)