“Why? So you can fix everything? Make it better and remind me how much I suck?” The words tasted like vinegar, whiney and self-pitying.
“Geez, you’re in a mood tonight. It can’t be that bad.”
I turned away from him, pulling a towel down to start wiping up the counter. “It’s fine,” I said to the hard balls of batter that had crusted on the stainless steel.
His voice dropped to a low murmur as he addressed Molly. “How bad was it?”
“Mean customers,” Molly explained. “That last guy was a real jerk.”
Embarrassment sharp and stinging sliced through me. It wasn’t that I cared about Molly or Killian’s opinion of me. But it bothered me that I cared at all, that a few harsh words had upset me so completely.
The door opened, and Killian stepped inside uninvited. His footsteps echoed around the space while neither Molly nor I moved.
I wanted to remind him that he wasn’t invited. That I didn’t want him in here, but I couldn’t find the courage to even look at him. If I would have been closer to the pick-up window, I would have jumped out of it by now and ran away.
Never to be heard from again.
“I hate bad reviews. I mean, I really hate them. I don’t think there’s a single other thing I hate, actually.” He stepped up next to me, his words honest, but his tone gentle. “Except maybe eggplant. I also hate eggplant.”
I stilled, remembering his reaction to my Yelp review. It wasn’t hard to imagine just how much he hated negative feedback. Even the joking kind.
He’d walked over so he could stand right at my side, not touching, but close enough that his presence invaded every single one of my senses, burrowing so deep I felt him in my blood, my bones… my breath.
“It’s one thing when they come from a critic,” Killian went on. “But it’s physically painful when it comes from a regular, or someone who doesn’t know you at all. Then you know it wasn’t a small technicality or minuscule mistake. Then you know you just suck.”
I smiled, it was small and barely there, but I felt a chink in my pissed-off armor. “I thought you came in here to make me feel better.”
His tone turned teasing. “You’re so young, Delane. So very young. And so very na?ve.”
“Stop with all the compliments. Seriously, my ego is like—” I made an explosion sound, mimicking the motion with both hands.
He turned, propping his hip against the counter. “How old are you? Fifteen? Sixteen?”
“Gross, stop.”
His lips twitched again. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m older than you. Wiser. I’ve been doing this for a lot longer than you, and I can honestly say they all sting. Every last one of them. There’s no way to get around the pain. There’s no way to ignore the feeling of incompetence. You just have to ride it out and show up anyway.”
I knew he was right. I’d been here before. It wasn’t like this was my first bad night. Or even close.
But this was the first shitty night that was mine completely. I wasn’t working for someone else. A different chef didn’t have their name on the final project or banner. This was mine. Completely. And I’d screwed up.
“Name them,” he demanded.
I raised my gaze to find his. I’d been perfectly happy staring at his beard, but now I needed his eyes, the strength that was always present there… the courage. “Name what?”
“Name your fears. Your insecurities. Name the truth you heard in the complaint, the thing that’s got you so wrapped up you’re ready to quit.”
Logic started to dawn in my otherwise dark night of pity. I realized he was right. My fears had become a roadblock inside my chest, a tangle of lies and fears and uncertainties. I opened my mouth to say them out loud, but I couldn’t get them out of my mouth. They stayed lodged in my throat, an inconvenient lump growing into a jagged boulder.
“My chicken was tasteless.”
His eyes widened, revealing his surprise. He hadn’t thought I could do it. “You forgot salt. Didn’t you?”
I hated him just a tiny bit more for teasing me. Hated him and liked him. “I didn’t forget it,” I growled. “I just… ugh, I just didn’t use enough. And my waffles were too doughy. I overcooked half of them tonight trying to manage everything.”
He grinned at me. “What else?”
“I don’t think I can do this. It’s too much. Too hard. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve never even been in charge of my own kitchen. I don’t know why I thought I could run my own goddamn business.” I slapped my hand over my mouth, surprised that I’d said so much.
Surprised that I felt so much.
Killian had lost his smile, his amusement. Those green eyes glittered brightly above the darkness of his beard, seeing more of me than I ever wanted to show him. “Now do you realize how absurd those thoughts are? You had a bad night. So what? You learned something. You pushed yourself to your limit and found out what you’re capable of. What works. What doesn’t work. And now you can go on with your life. You won’t make this dish. You won’t ever use that antiquated piece of shit waffle iron again.” He did a double take, his eyes widening at the sight of it covered in dried batter, rusted near the rubber feet. “Good lord, what is that thing?” He nudged the chipped handle with the tip of his finger as if he was afraid it would give him some kind of disease. “And you’ll remember the fucking flavor. Yeah?”
I nodded even while I said, “I hate you almost as much as I hate salt.”
His lips twitched with an almost smile. “You don’t hate salt.” He stepped closer. “And you really don’t hate me.”
“I do too,” I insisted. But it was an unconvincing whisper. And a dirty lie.
He ignored me. “You don’t have to worry about doing this, Delane. You are doing it. We’ll rework the menu and tomorrow will be a better day.”
“Does that always work?”
“What?”
“Naming it like that, calling yourself on your own crap. Is that all it takes to move on?”
The hint of something played over his features. Regret maybe? Disappointment? It was hard to say, but whatever it was made me feel cold all over again inside. I knew the answer before he vocalized it.
“No, it doesn’t. But when this therapeutic bullshit fails, we do what we do best.”
“And that is?”
“We cook, Delane. Come on, we’re chefs. So, we cook. Not for them, not for the people judging us. We cook for us. We make whatever reminds us of how fucking amazing we are.”
I laughed, and it was the first time all night I finally felt like myself again. Hell, maybe it was the first time in years I felt like myself again. Not the shadowed, broken version I’d been since Derrek, but the real me. The one that had been rescued by cooking and empowered by the kitchen. “I thought you were going to say drinking,” I told him. “That when all else fails, we drink.”
He chuckled, reaching for a bowl of spices. “Well, we do that too.”
“Hey, Vere?” Molly called from behind me.