“But you did.”
“Well, I’d like to think I’m the better version. But yeah, there’s just something about Jo that crawls under your skin and makes you want to love her. She finally got me out of jail, but informed me immediately that I needed a job to pay all my court and legal fees off.
“I thought she was joking at first, but Jo doesn’t joke. She put me to work on her farm. I was only fourteen, and the only food I had ever eaten was what was put before me. Depending on the foster family, sometimes it was nutritious and tolerable. Sometimes it was a soggy TV dinner and a beer. Jo put real food in my hand and told me to grow it. She said I couldn’t count on anything, not even a steady meal. If I was tired of not knowing where my next meal was coming from, then I should learn to cook it myself. So, I did.
“She taught me how to grow food and judge it, pick out the best and recognize the not-good-enough. When I turned out to be decent at growing, she moved me into the kitchen and showed me how to turn my harvest into a meal. It was the first time I had ever loved something.”
“Jo?” I guessed where this was going. But I was wrong again.
He shook his head. “Cooking.”
The ache in my chest needed to hear he had a happy ending, though. I needed to hear him tell me she became a mother to him and gave him the life he’d always wanted. “But you did love Jo, didn’t you?”
He chuckled. “Later. Much later. For the most part, Jo was more of a drill sergeant than a mom. She didn’t tolerate disobedience or laziness. Ezra and I worked hard for her. We earned our room and board from the sweat off our backs. We hated her at first. Ezra still hates her sometimes, but then again, Ezra is prone to hating a lot of things. Anyway, she got the job done. She turned Ezra and me into functioning adults and encouraged us to go to college. In return, we helped her turn her garden into a farm and grow her business. To this day, it’s still a give and take relationship. She provides us with the best produce; we give her our exclusive business.”
He’d seared steak, made a sauce and poached eggs during his story. Now he plated them with grace and poise and precision. He was everything a great chef should be.
Everything a good man ought to be.
“Does she still take foster kids?” I asked out of sheer curiosity.
His affectionate smile lit up his face. “Who else would work her farm?” He lifted his gaze, revealing deep loyalty and sincerity. “I hope you know I mean that in the best way. She’s not a slave driver. She gives kids that have never loved or cherished anything the chance to have something of their own. It’s more about developing a strong work ethic and sense of accomplishment than her crops.”
I smiled reassuringly. “She’s like the Mr. Miyagi of farming.”
He nodded, turning back to the plate. “Exactly.”
“So you left her farm and went to culinary school? And Ezra?”
“Ezra’s real dad found him his senior year of high school. It’s a pretty messed up story, but basically, his dad was very wealthy and really sick. He’d always known Ezra existed but had trouble finding him because of something his birth mom did. Anyway, long story short, Ezra’s dad died two years later, leaving Ezra and his half-sister Dillon a pretty substantial inheritance. Ezra turned that money into more money. It turns out Jo taught me how to cook and Ezra how to work twenty hours of every day.”
We fell silent for a few minutes while he finished plating and I digested his story. My heart hurt for the child he’d been, for the troubled teen that had needed so much guidance, for the man that he was today that only loved two things—cooking and Jo. And at the same time, I marveled at how well he’d done for himself, at the man he’d become despite his circumstances.
He walked over, handing me a fork, a plate of food and a glass of wine he’d borrowed from the restaurant cellar. He’d sliced steak over crispy hash and nestled the poached egg in the middle. A creamy yellow sauce crisscrossed over the top. Hollandaise?
“I can do fancy Americana, too,” he said by way of explanation.
“Steak and eggs. Very creative.”
He nudged me with his elbow. “Smart ass.”
We dove into our food, and I tried not to have another orgasm. First, from the excellent Cabernet he’d picked out. Then from the meal he’d cooked for me. Oh, my God. The steak was probably one of the best I’d ever had. I didn’t need fussy food, I just wanted it well-flavored and perfectly cooked. Killian accomplished both so effortlessly that it was hard not to be jealous of him.
“Ezra paid for culinary school.”
I looked over at him, surprised by his statement. “Is that why you stay at Lilou?”
He took another bite of steak without responding. “We have our differences, but he’s been there for me when I had nobody else.”
Reaching over to steal one of his strips of steak, I very casually said, “But there are other chefs out there. Chefs who would kill for this job. Maybe even murder you for it. Here’s the thing, when Ezra paid for you to go to school did he know he wanted to open restaurants?”
Killian shook his head. “No. That came much later.”
“He didn’t send you to school so he could have a personal chef, right?”
“Right.”
“And you’re paying him back?”
“I did. Years ago.”
“What do you have to feel guilty for? If you think it will destroy your relationship with Ezra, I mean maybe I understand your hesitation. But Killian, you can’t live your life for someone else. You hate it here.”
Setting his plate down next to him, he leaned back on one hand and stared at me. “I don’t hate it here. I’m just frustrated. And I feel… stagnant.”
“Then you have your answer. You’re too good at your job to feel stuck.”
“And what about you?” Those green eyes burned straight through me, obliterating whatever line of defense I’d still try to use against him. “We both know the food truck isn’t your end game. You want a kitchen, Vera. How are you going to get it?”
“Listen, I made my bed. I’m happy to lie in it. There are worse things than owning your own business and setting your own hours.”
One side of his mouth lifted in a sardonic smile, calling me on my bullshit. “We both know the truck isn’t big enough for you. And if you ever figure out how to set reasonable hours, let me know your trick.”
I didn’t want to get into this right now. My life was complicated enough without having the great Killian Quinn reminding me of everything I didn’t have. He was held back by loyalty to someone he considered a brother. I was trapped because of a series of bad, unfortunate decisions. They weren’t the same thing.