“The nerve of that man,” I grumbled while I consulted my menu and matched the dishes with the plates in front of me.
“Should we send it back?” Molly had already started eating from the plate in front of her, not even bothering to disguise her blissed-out reactions.
“Are you kidding? I’m irritated, not crazy!”
She waggled her eyebrows at me, and we dove in. I tried to explain the dishes to her so she knew what she was eating, but she didn’t care about the individual components of each plate. She just wanted to eat in peace.
So, I let her. Meanwhile, I dissected every single thing in front of me, studying it, examining it… enjoying it. Killian wasn’t just a good chef, he was a phenomenal one. I couldn’t help but picture those strong fingers of his, carefully crafting each dish, putting it together with all that dynamic focus, refusing to let even one peppercorn fall out of place.
The meal wasn’t simply sustenance. It wasn’t even as simple as a memorable experience. This was a work of art, the masterpiece in front of me reaching all five senses and even further than that, down into my soul where I would remember this meal for the rest of my life.
Everything was perfectly cooked, perfectly crispy, perfectly moist, perfectly whatever it needed to be to make the flavors explode in my mouth and burrow deep down in my bones. Braised rabbit legs, creamy truffle risotto, slow-cooked bone-in duck breast with fig sauce, succulent filet with duck fat fries, golden trout with leeks and pineapple and heirloom tomatoes.
This wasn’t just a meal, it was a religious experience. I would never be the same after this, unequivocally altered by the sheer genius of each bite.
I tried to ignore the warmth blooming inside my chest. Killian wasn’t trying to rub his food in my face; he had given me a gift. Only I didn’t understand why.
When we were halfway through our meal, the table looked more like a massacre than an elegant evening out. A tingle of awareness prickled the back of my neck. I suppressed the urge to run. I wouldn’t be able to hide my admiration or trick him into believing I was anything but completely enamored. With his food.
Only his food.
He pushed through the kitchen door, striding through the dining room with domineering steps. His gaze went straight to our table. Straight to me. His mouth was all but hidden behind his full beard, but there was a satisfied smile sitting in his eyes. He didn’t have to see my reaction to know how I felt.
He already knew it. Before he’d even stepped foot outside of his kitchen.
And I just sat there staring at him, shivery and impressed and awestruck.
He owned this restaurant. Maybe not literally, he had a boss after all. But he commanded it. He was the captain, and this was his ship.
This was his empire, and he was the king.
Patrons swiveled to watch him move through the narrow aisles. Everyone recognized him, if not because they already knew who he was than because of his presence—because you couldn’t mistake him for anyone besides the man in charge.
He walked directly over to us and by the time he reached our table, my mouth was dry, and all the delicious food I’d inhaled had been turned to dust in my stomach.
I was nervous. And slightly turned on. It was so out of place and ridiculous that I wanted to face plant in my risotto. Instead, I pasted on a charming smile and said, “You stole my tzatziki sauce.”
His green eyes flashed with surprise. He gestured at the half empty plates on the table. “So what are you going to steal from me?”
I had already decided on about a half dozen things, but to him I said, “I don’t need to steal anything from you. I’m good.” His gaze narrowed and I knew he didn’t believe me, but he didn’t call me on it. “Have you met Molly?” I asked him.
“Not formally.” He turned to her. “Hi.”
She took his hand, eying him warily. “Hi.”
“Molly this is Killian. He’s the chef I keep telling you to call the cops on. The one that keeps stealing all of my dishes.”
He turned back to me, fire in his gaze. “Inspired.”
“What?”
“My sauce is inspired by your cute little meatballs. It’s plenty different, and you know it.”
His admission of truth was such a surprise that I momentarily lost the ability to speak. When I finally found my voice again, I said the first stupid thing that came to mind. “Where’s your charcuterie board?”
Killian’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. “Excuse me?”
“They’re all the rage,” I pointed out. “Doesn’t Lilou want to be on trend?”
His lip curled back in disgust. “Lilou likes to go against the grain, not with the masses. Risks get you noticed, Delane. Or were you planning on cooking chili dogs for every meal?”
Before I could argue with him, another man called his name from a short distance away. “Killian.”
We all turned and watched the most gorgeous man I had ever seen approach the table. Black, wavy hair, perfectly tanned, flawless skin, tall, lean, muscular—he was perfect. Completely perfect. And the absolute opposite of Killian.
Clean cut where Killian was basically a lumbersexual. Business sleek where Killian was tattooed and wild. Sophisticated and reserved where Killian was… upfront and unapologetic.
I preferred Killian in every way.
Still, I couldn’t stop staring at the newcomer. He was the kind of beautiful that demanded attention.
“Ezra,” Killian greeted. “I thought you were spending the night at Bianca?”
Not to be confused with spending the night with Bianca.
Ezra Baptiste-that’s who this was. Lilou’s owner. Killian’s boss. Restaurateur, businessman, model.
Okay, I made the model thing up.
“I had to get out of there before I did something impetuous,” Ezra explained. “That little shit is begging to be fired.”
Killian murmured his agreement, glancing at me, gauging my reaction. “Do you want a plate?” he asked Ezra, and if I didn’t know any better, I would have thought it was his attempt to get rid of his boss.
“Yeah, later.” Ezra turned to the table, his smile transforming his entire face from handsome, to devastatingly so. I heard Molly’s audible intake of breath and felt the urge to pat my forehead with the clean side of my napkin. “What’s brought you out of the kitchen? I hope there’s not a problem?”
Because only a problem would pull Killian from his kingdom?
“No,” Killian denied immediately. “Well, not in the traditional sense.”
What was that supposed to mean? Before I could ask, Killian introduced me to one of the most important people in the restaurant industry. “This is our new neighbor, Ezra. Vera Delane meet Ezra Baptiste."
I stuck my trembling hand in Ezra’s and gripped firmly, attempting professionalism. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” he smiled. “Which property is yours?”
Embarrassment swept over me from head to toe. “The truck,” I replied weakly. “Foodie.”
Ezra’s expression lit with recognition. “Ah, now I see. You’re the chef my chef can’t stop talking about.”