It annoyed me that he was in my business. Especially after I’d just decided I didn’t need to talk to Killian tonight. “Maybe.”
“He got an early look at the review this afternoon, Vera. The Gourmand article. It’s not good.”
The menu dropped on the tips of my toes. “What do you mean it’s not good?”
“Noble hated everything. Every single thing. And he didn’t hold any punches.”
I could not process his words. Like, they didn’t make sense. They weren’t in English or something. “That’s not possible.”
He gave me a look before ducking when another plump raindrop landed on his nose. “Ezra tried to get the magazine to retract the article, but they won’t. It’s going out next month.”
“It’s just one article,” I argued pointlessly. “In one magazine. Killian can survive that.”
Wyatt shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “He’s not taking it well. He needs a friend.”
“So, go talk to him.”
He rolled his eyes so hard I thought one of them might get stuck. “Pretty sure I’m not the person he wants consoling him at midnight. Don’t be mean.”
I stared at Foodie for a long time, my shoulders catching sporadic raindrops. The temperature dropped another few degrees, pulling goosebumps from my legs and arms.
“I’ll think about it,” I finally admitted. “Thanks, Wyatt.”
He took a step back, shoulders up by his chin. “At least make sure he actually leaves. I’m afraid he’s going to burn Lilou to the ground in a fit of bad review driven lunacy.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle. Then I remembered Killian the night of my chicken and waffles nightmare. I really hate bad reviews.
He’d been nice enough to pull me out of my depression spiral, and that had only been a few dissatisfied customer complaints. Only two negative reviews had made it online from that night and neither of them were from a big magazine with household-name appeal.
I said goodbye to Wyatt and hurried back inside the truck. I spent the next thirty minutes keeping an eye on Lilou to make sure Killian didn’t leave, cleaning my equipment and surfaces and packing up the remaining food. I had predicted tonight would be a slow night so I hadn’t brought much with me. It all fit into two crates.
“Do you love me?” I asked Vann with the puppy dog look he couldn’t resist.
“I’m not sure. What do you want?”
“Take the food to the commissary tonight? I need to check on Killian.”
My brother’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Check on him how?”
“He thinks he has crabs,” I deadpanned. “I’m going to go inspect the situation.”
His nose wrinkled and his face paled. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
I shrugged. “I could go into more detail if that would help you decide.”
He chuckled, then took the crates of food and the key to the commissary. “Just don’t catch them yourself,” he warned. “I would have to call the health inspector on you. They’d probably tent you. I’d hate to see my sister bug bombed.”
Now I was confused if he was joking or not. For the first, and hopefully only, time in my life I worried about my brother’s sexual education. “I feel like you should go to a doctor to learn more about sexual health. The clinics will give you free pamphlets. It might be beneficial if you had some more information. I’m starting to worry about these nice girls you date.”
He showed me his middle finger—because he was a mature, responsible, small business owner. “Oh, don’t you worry about me. Or them for that matter.”
I shuddered. “Go away, pervert.”
Shooting me one last mischievous grin, he said, “Text me if you need anything. I mean that.”
I waved him off, thankful that he did mean that. That I could rely on him. Trust him. It turned out I didn’t hate all men. There were a few that still had my respect and affection.
Locking up Foodie, I headed across the street to the one man that had my respect and affection and wasn’t related to me. The rain had started, and it wasn’t being shy. I crossed the street in a veritable torrential downpour. By the time I made it to the alley next to Lilou, my hair and chef coat were soaked.
I expected the side door to be locked, but when I tugged on the handle it swung open easily. I stepped inside to a dark kitchen. The dining room lights were still on, filling the in and out doors with golden light.
Shedding my wet coat, I threw it on the nearest counter and listened for the sound of anyone still here. A glass clinked not too far away.
I tugged my hair out of the wet ponytail holder and scrunched it while I followed the sound. Suddenly nervous that it wasn’t Killian out there, but Ezra or someone else instead, I moved with caution. Nerves made the pulse in my throat jump with anticipation.
But my feet kept moving, and my urgency kept increasing. I had been irritated with Killian for making me care about him. But now all I could do was care for him.
This wasn’t the end of his career. At most it was a blip, one of those jarring, thin speed bumps that made everyone bounce around wildly even if you were driving super slowly, but over quickly enough. He would move on. His reputation would be barely tarnished.
His ego on the other hand…
I found him not far from the kitchen. He sat sprawled in a chair with a bottle of Glenmorangie in one hand and a crumpled piece of printer paper in the other. His entire body was reclined, his legs spread apart and casual, even while he radiated tension. He’d unbuttoned his chef’s coat and revealed his sinewy, chiseled chest beneath a thin black t-shirt.
A jolt of something hot and fizzy slid through my belly. He was a fallen angel; a Greek god brought low by the reality of life. He was Killian Quinn, and he wasn’t perfect.
And I wanted to lick him from head to toe.
He’d made some serious progress on the bottle of whiskey in his hand. His glossy eyes took me in without surprise. I doubted that he’d been expecting me, so it had to be the alcohol.
The realization that he was drunk did nothing to slow my thumping heart or buzzing nerves.
At the same time, my gut clenched with sympathy. The review had clearly gotten to him. He looked miserable, completely upended by the harsh words of someone who had judged him based on one visit.
He had been right at lunch, about critics. The reality of our business was that you couldn’t argue with someone’s taste.
We were artists, creating beauty with something ingested. No matter how well-crafted our dishes were, if a person hated an ingredient inside the dish, they judged us on what they thought of that one aspect of the dish. Or sometimes they just didn’t like it. It wasn’t anything that could be logically explained. It was an opinion, as unique and personal as the person holding it.
And if people didn’t like the taste of something, it didn’t matter how visually appealing the dish was or technically perfect or difficult to make. In the end, our reputation depended on enough people liking the taste of what we created.
We were as subjective as ballet or opera.