My mouth went dry watching him. My blood hummed beneath my skin. And every dormant part of me woke up and started paying attention. I decided I had never seen anything so sexy before, so fully my fantasy in every way.
His forehead wrinkled in concentration. His body bent over the plate as he moved it gracefully in circles deciding the perfect angle and position to add the sauce. He dipped a spoon into a tomato-based cream and slashed lines of it over lush stalks of asparagus sitting on top of creamy golden polenta. Plump mushrooms adorned a perfectly seared piece of filet mignon on the other side of the plate.
Seeing Killian in his element stole my breath and replaced my rational thought with unapologetic lust.
I must have made a sound because he finally lifted that intent gaze to find me hovering like a creeper against the door. His eyes softened and his mouth quirked up on one side. I tried not to melt.
“Hey,” he said casually, like it wasn’t an invasion of his professional privacy for me to be watching every single thing he did. Probably because he couldn’t hear the very, very inappropriate thoughts running through my head.
“Hey.”
“Hungry?”
I suddenly felt very shy. I hadn’t done this with a guy in years. Flirt, I mean. I hadn’t even been interested in someone since Derrek first started to pursue me.
And Killian wasn’t just any guy. He was everything cool, strong and masculine. So very different than me—weird, weak and feminine.
We couldn’t have been bigger opposites.
He couldn’t have been more of what I was convinced I didn’t want.
And yet here I was, quivering and interested and tired of telling my heart what it should want instead of letting it chase after what it knew it wanted.
“Yes,” I answered succinctly.
Killian held my gaze, one hand shaping the side of his beard. “I have something for us out in the dining room. Is that okay?”
I pointed at the dish he’d been so focused on. “What’s that?”
He frowned down at the plate. “Practice.”
“For the guy from Gourmand?”
Killian’s frown deepened. “Heath Noble.”
“Yikes,” I hissed, feeling his anxiety ratchet through the room. “That’s not just any critic.”
“No kidding,” he sighed. “Plus, he already hates me. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s showing up just to write a bad review.”
I moved closer so I could inspect his dish. Obviously, I hadn’t tasted it yet, but it looked perfect. It looked beyond perfect. It was everything good food should be. The steak was fat and juicy, sear lines making a plaid outline on the surface. The mushrooms had been sliced exactly evenly and the brown sauce coating them smelled robust and savory. The polenta was the right side dish, creamy, golden with tipped peaks and the right amount of substance without looking gluey. Despite everything on the plate, the asparagus refused to be ignored—a verdant green, pliable without being floppy, and crisp ends that would crunch in contrast to the soft polenta. It was flawless.
Immaculate.
My mouth watered just looking at it.
“It looks and smells amazing, Killian. You have nothing to worry about.”
“It’s not modern,” he countered. “It’s not interesting or pushy or anything but ordinary. I’m bored just looking at it.”
“So make something else,” I encouraged. I hadn’t seen anything but the technical precision he’d used on the dish. But now that he suggested some problems, I could see what he meant. This wasn’t a dish that was pushing the boundaries of the food industry. But not every dish had to be.
He glared at me. “This is what Ezra wants. This is what Ezra gets.”
I leaned in until our shoulders touched, linking my pinky with his. “It’s perfect. You know that it’s perfect. Stop stressing out.”
He let out a deep sigh and wrapped his arms around me, tugging me into a hug. I sucked in a breath, surprised by the intimacy in the middle of his kitchen. For a warm, delicious minute, he just held me against him, seeming to take as much pleasure in our innocent connection as I did. Finally, he dropped a kiss on the top of my head and stepped back. “Let’s go eat. I’ll worry about this later.”
“I didn’t take you for the nervous sort,” I teased him as we weaved through the kitchen and out to the dining room.
He shot me a glance over his shoulder and then stopped at a corner table set for two. “It’s not me I’m worried about. I know I serve the best. But I can’t control him. You can’t make someone enjoy good food. You can’t convince them to appreciate the skill and taste and quality you put into every element. I learned very early on that food service is an art just as much as painting or storytelling. People either like it, or they don’t. You can’t argue with personal taste.”
I sat down in the chair he pulled out for me. “Every other review of you or Lilou has been glowing. I know because I’ve read them all. You seriously have nothing to worry about.”
He sat down across from me and pulled silver domes off the two platters waiting for us. One plate was the chocolate mousse I loved here. And the other was a conglomeration of meats and cheese, mustard, jelly, bread and nuts.
Killian grinned at me. “A charcuterie board.”
“You’re so full of it.”
He nodded, waggling his eyebrows. “And you’re impressed. It’s okay if you want to tell me how much.”
I just shook my head. Unbelievable.
“How was inventory? Do you know what you’re going to serve this week?” He rearranged the plates so the charcuterie was between us and tore off a hunk of bread and meat, dipping it in the mustard before taking a bite.
I followed suit, kind of loving that he hadn’t bothered to plate individually. “I was really inspired by those strawberries at Jo’s stand. I was thinking about doing a deconstructed chicken salad sandwich with a strawberry-rhubarb compote over greens and like a Caprese salad on a skewer. I don’t know. I’m just playing with the idea right now. I don’t want the chicken salad to be too sweet.”
His expression turned thoughtful. “Would you serve bread with it?”
“Maybe toast for texture? Or lavosh? Then layer it with butter lettuce, blackened chicken, the compote and a spicy-ish aioli to give it some heat.”
“And the salad?”
“Fresh mozzarella balls and cherry tomatoes marinated in balsamic vinegar and roasted briefly with a basil pesto to dip it in.”
He leaned forward, bringing us closer together. “Is that your style then? Fancy comfort food?”
I nearly choked on a curried pistachio. “What?”
“Your signature. You’re doing upscale comfort food out of a food truck. It’s clever, Vera. You should run with it.”