But just so we’re clear, no matter how many good meals I’d had, or how high my standards for food were, boxed brownie mix was the best kind of guilty pleasure.
Or, my exhaustion and icky feeling of disappointment could have stemmed from the lack of sleep. I hadn’t been able to fall asleep until close to three.
I blamed my weekend hours. Thursday through Sunday I stayed up until ungodly hours and by the time I got home, showered and decompressed it was always after four before I finally closed my eyes.
The important thing to note was that this had nothing to do with the lame ass text I’d sent to Killian the night before.
Despite my sleepless night, I still dragged myself from bed early enough to get to the Morning Market by the opening. I’d had to Google it for the exact address and found pictures of what to expect. Killian had definite rights to my first born. This market was everything I was looking for.
The market sat nestled in the corner of an industrial area, neighbored by a tool and die designer on one side and a lighting palace on the other. It spread out in an abandoned parking lot, covered by mix-matched tents and just as diverse vendors.
In one section, fragrant flowers in every color burst from buckets with hand drawn price tags hanging off them. In another, eggs and farm-fresh milk in coolers spread out between artisan cheeses and all manner of jerkies.
But the majority of the market? Fresh produce. Fresh produce everywhere. Fruits, vegetables. More fruits. More vegetables.
It was glorious.
And Killian hadn’t lied about the kolache stand. I stopped there first, picking up an egg and spicy bacon pastry and a cup of hazelnut coffee with the perfect amount of creamer.
My weird mood faded in light of the possibilities in front of me. And the coffee.
The coffee definitely helped.
I’d just stepped up to a pepper stand with bins of every single pepper I could think of. Colored bells, spicy habaneros, shishitos and jalapenos, and my favorite—hatch. Plus so many more. The vendor even had hybrids he’d been breeding himself.
My eyes got a little misty, but I blamed it on the pollen in the air.
“Let me guess…” I nearly dropped my coffee when Killian stepped up next to me. “Anchos. You’re all about the anchos.”
Embarrassment for my awkward text from the night before burst to life inside me, flushing my cheeks a nice, dark, strawberry red. But at the same time, the achy feeling in my chest faded. I stopped feeling mildly queasy. I stopped hating myself for not going out the night before. I stopped missing Killian and hating myself for being such a coward. Most of all, I stopped analyzing every single thing I did, said or thought.
He was here! And I was determined not to be a giant weirdo.
“Really? We’ve been friends for three weeks now, and you pick anchos? Do you not know me at all?”
We turned to face each other. His expression remained cautious, thoughtful. I didn’t know if it was part of our game or if he had taken my blow-off text to heart. “Three weeks? We’ve been friends longer than that.”
I hid my smile behind a drink of coffee. “No, I’ve been friends with James Q for longer than that. You’ve only just recently decided to be nice.”
He gave me the side eye. “James Q was kind of an asshole. I’ve been nice to you for at least three months.” His hand moved up to tug at the side of his beard. His other hand held a cup of coffee just like mine. Except without creamer. Because apparently, he hated himself.
I wrinkled my nose in thought. “Then you should know better than ancho. And you should have told me you had a secret internet identity.”
“It’s only secret from the general public. I thought it would be better not to give angry diners a platform to hunt me down.” I could actually understand that since I also went by a variation of my name.
“So, it’s Killian James Quinn?”
He nodded. “And you’re Vera Foodie the Food Truck Delane?”
“May,” I confessed. “Vera May Delane.”
We acknowledged each other’s full names with a shared look of satisfaction. Turning back to the table, he tilted his head, examining the table of peppers once again. “Hatch?”
“Ding, ding, ding.” A warm feeling fizzed through me, like my insides were suddenly carbonated. “They are my favorite. But I’m actually interested in the shishitos.”
His gaze found mine again, so green, like freshly mowed grass or Christmas-worthy evergreens. “What are you thinking?”
“Skirt steak tacos with roasted shishitos, crumbled cotija cheese and braised lettuce.”
His eyebrows shot up at the same time his eyes flashed with something like surprise. “You should squeeze fresh lemon over the top instead of lime.”
It was my turn to be surprised. That was a great idea. Different enough to be interesting. Acidic enough to bring the dish together. “Good idea, Quinn. You should be a chef or something.”
He chuckled at my lame joke. “Are you telling me there won’t be any meatballs for me?”
I shrugged and tossed a casual, “Sorry, you’re in charge of your own balls this weekend,” before I turned to the vendor and talked pepper quantities and prices.
Killian laughed outright but let me haggle in peace. As soon as I finished and paid, agreeing to pick up my purchase at the end of my shopping, he jumped in with his own questions.
Where I’d been mostly interested in being able to afford the peppers I wanted, Killian had a long list of questions to ask. He didn’t care about price—and he wouldn’t have to since he wasn’t paying for these peppers out of his pocket. He was more interested in soil quality and sunlight exposure. He wanted to know spice variants and hybrid procedures. He spent the next twenty minutes tasting them raw, deliberating over each bite.
I watched him with unfiltered awe. He let me without calling me on it. Instead, he generously offered to give me bites as well, asking my opinion, discussing the crispness or heat or sweetness of each one. He asked question after question about the future of each breed. What would the hatch taste like in the fall? The serrano?
Then he turned to me and hinted at dish ideas he was mulling over for the autumn menu. He wanted to know my thoughts on pepper-protein combinations. What did I think would go best with flank steak? With frog legs? With tofu?
I blinked at him. “Tofu?”
“Ezra’s idea,” he explained. “He wants a more vegetarian/vegan-friendly menu. He says we’re ignoring a huge consumer base.”
“Is that true?”
He lifted one shoulder. “People do not come to Lilou for their diversity-friendly menu. They want the best meal of their life. Not tofu.”
His frustrated resignation laced each word, broadcasting his feelings on the topic. “Ezra won’t listen to you?” I guessed.
“Ezra is a businessman. A damn good one. But he doesn’t know the first thing about food.” He picked up a jalapeno by the stem and examined one side of it, the cracked, brownish lines that snaked over it like veins. You could tell just by looking at those dried out vines that it would be a spicy one. “That won’t stop him from getting involved, though.”