I would try to meet his standards at a professional level.
“Do you want me to bag these up for you?” I asked him at the pick-up window.
He stepped forward so that we were face to face. “It’s okay. I’m going to eat this one.” He reached for the grilled cheese. “I can handle the other two without a sack.”
Unease unfurled in my gut, warning me to snatch his order back. I’d even refund him out of sheer, unfiltered paranoia. “You’re from Lilou?”
He nodded around a big bite of sandwich.
“And they don’t feed you there?”
He chuckled with a mouth full of food and shook his head. “Sure. But I’m on break. And I wanted something different.”
“Don’t tell your boss what you had,” I warned him, wagging a finger back and forth between us. “Pretty sure this is grounds for termination.”
He gave me a funny look. “What do you mean?”
I ducked my head as if I was sharing a secret with him. “I’m the enemy. And you’re currently fraternizing with me.”
His gaze narrowed and that thoughtful look didn’t leave his face. “What makes you think that?”
I glanced over at the two people waiting for me to make their food. I needed to wrap this up, but I couldn’t help saying, “Because he stopped over here the other day to tell me that. I’m an eyesore. And an abomination to the food industry as a whole.”
“He said that?”
I shrugged. “More or less.”
His lips quirked up in a smirk. “I’m not surprised. I once heard him call Marco Tempest, the head chef at Bleu, a microwave-loving fraud.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Why?”
“I’m not sure,” the kid laughed too. “Something about carrots.” He shifted his food to his left hand and stretched out his right to shake mine. “I’m Wyatt Shaw by the way.”
“Vera.” But apparently, he’d already been briefed.
“Vera Delane.” He grinned at me. When I lifted one eyebrow in confusion, he shrugged and took another bite of the grilled cheese. “What? I did my research.”
“Checking out the competition?”
“Something like that.”
“Let me guess—this was a homework assignment from your boss? He wants you all to familiarize yourself with the rival food truck. Steal my secret recipes and smuggle them back to your kitchen?”
He tossed his now empty basket in the nearby trashcan and reached for the other two plates he’d set down on the ledge near the napkin dispenser. “You have no idea how close you are to the truth.” He lifted the baskets in a kind of wave and started walking backward, scurrying away to his kitchen of the damned. “Thanks for these,” he called out. “Don’t hate me.”
“Don’t hate you?” I was truly confused. “Why would I hate you?” But he had already turned around and started jogging back to Lilou. I stared after him for a second longer before I got back to work as well.
I couldn’t shake the weird feeling that crept up my spine after Wyatt disappeared. What I should have asked him was who the food was for.
The truck stayed busy enough that I was forced back into my routine. I realized I truly might have to hire permanent help to take money soon. It wasn’t fair to only rely on my brother and best friend to fill in when they were doing it pro bono.
But that was the problem. This was only day two. I hardly had enough profit to cover my operating expenses. I wasn’t exactly in the best place to start taking on employees.
Wyatt returned an hour later. There was a lull, and Molly and I had our faces an inch away from fans, trying to cool off.
“You’re not secretly serving my food to your customers, are you?” I joked. “Because you better be upcharging the shit out of it if you are.”
He laughed nervously, but it didn’t reach his apologetic eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbled, and I panicked thinking for a second that he really was serving my food to his diners. No, wait. He only took two plates. Unless he was Jesus, miraculous food multiplication was impossible.
That anxious feeling crept back over me and I felt sick again. I didn’t know him, but he was nice enough earlier. What did he possibly have to feel sorry about? “Sorry for what?”
He held out a folded piece of paper. “I didn’t think he’d have notes for you. I swear.”
“Notes? Who had notes?”
Molly was tight at my side. She’d tensed, ready for a fight. But all I could do was look between Wyatt’s downturned face and the white piece of paper he held out to me.
“He wanted to try your food, but I swear, I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known he was going to send me back here.”
My mouth dried out and my thoughts started bouncing against the impossibility of what I didn’t want to believe just happened. It was like I was a bumper car trapped in the corner. I knew what I had to do. I knew what was happening. But I couldn’t get the car turned around in the right direction.
This wasn’t happening.
“Who?” I asked, still calm, still disbelieving. “Killian?”
Wyatt shook the paper at me. “He’s my boss.”
I snatched the note out of his stupid fingers. “Yeah, well you’re not a mindless minion,” I snapped.
Wyatt took a step back and shrugged helplessly. “He’s my boss,” he repeated.
With that, he scurried back across the street and Molly and I were left to stare at the folded piece of paper. Apparently “boss” included spying on the nearby food truck and acting as a carrier pigeon.
“What just happened?” she asked.
I glared at Lilou, mentally wishing it would burst into flames. “I think I just got my first review.”
Molly glanced back and forth between the same restaurant and the paper in my hands putting the pieces together. “No,” she disagreed. “No way.”
I unfolded the paper, and sure enough, handwriting scratched across it, the quick, slanted lines of Killian’s expert opinion.
“He didn’t,” Molly continued to deny. “I mean, the nerve of someone to do that. So what, he sent that guy over to take him back food? So he could critique it? I can’t even imagine what kind of ego you’d have to have… I mean, think about it! What if I sent every other marketer my opinion of their work? It’s so ballsy!”
Molly continued her tirade while I finally scrounged the courage to read the words meant to put me in my place.
Grilled Cheese- too sweet. The pancetta, jam and brioche are way too much. It could be a dessert if not for all the goddamn salt. The tomato drizzle could have been good, but it’s ruined by the cluster fuck of everything else.
Good grief. I wanted to scream at him. What an asshole! Hadn’t I said it before? He was an asshole! And apparently, he was only getting started…
Pulled Pork- I can tell the pork is a day old. Amateur. The green beans are soggy. And the teriyaki sauce is pedestrian.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, he moved on to attack my garnishes.
Stop with the parsley. For God’s sake. What’s the point??
Try harder.
Molly’s gasp of outrage was loud in my ear when she finished reading over my shoulder. “This can’t be real.”
I saw red. Anger boiled my blood and pulsed in my temples. “Try harder? Try harder? Is he kidding me? He doesn’t even know me!” I realized that was a ridiculous thing to say. My diners didn’t know me; they judged me purely on the food I made them. And that was all I expected from them.
But Quinn was different. This felt personal.
He didn’t review my food, he attacked me personally.
“He called my teriyaki sauce pedestrian,” I hissed, surprised when I didn’t breathe fire. “He called my grilled cheese a cluster fuck!”
“He’s an asshole,” Molly conceded. “A complete and utter asshole. I see what you mean now about the whole glossy hotness thing. It’s over. That beard is gross.”
I would have smiled if I wasn’t so utterly pissed off right
now.
Laughter floated over to us, and we looked up to see people wandering our direction.
“Customers,” Molly whispered as if I’d forgotten my entire purpose for being here. “Are you going to respond? What are you going to do?”
My eyes were hot inside my head, furious with tears I desperately held back and hatred for a man I once admired beating like a drum inside my throat. “I’m going to cook the shit out of my pedestrian sauces and overly sweet sandwiches.” I whipped around to the stove, game-planning as I moved. “And tomorrow I’m going to make us reservations at the top restaurant in the city. He’s not the only one with an opinion.”
Molly shot me a menacing smile and then turned to the people waiting to order. “How can I help you?” she asked, sweet and friendly once again.
Thank God she was there to deal with customers while I angry cooked my way through the rest of the night. Like so many other things in my life, I didn’t know what I would have done without her. Besides, her help gave me plenty of space to plot my revenge.
Two can play at this game, Killian Quinn.
Chapter Seven
By Tuesday afternoon I was still exhausted from the weekend. I realized sometime Sunday afternoon when I finally rolled out of bed that my entire schedule was going to have to change.
I was used to late nights from working in various kitchens for the last several years, but by the time I cleaned and closed Foodie, it was four am before I got home.
And I was exhausted. I knew how to bust my ass in a kitchen, but I didn’t expect the stress of running my own, however small, would be so taxing. Saturday night I ran out of pork. But had way too many sticky buns and green beans left over. But without the pork, I couldn’t serve them.
Good thing Dad appreciated leftovers!
When he was hungry enough to eat them.
I had until Thursday to analyze sales, expenses and goals. I learned so much over the weekend, but I had a sinking feeling that I had a ton to figure out. This was not as simple and clear-cut as I’d hoped it would be.
I also decided to change up my menu. Not because of Killian Quinn.
Or mostly not because of him.
But because I was my own boss and I could do whatever I wanted. Killian’s criticism might have been complete bullshit—or mostly bullshit—but he was right about one thing. I could try harder. I could be better.
I’d let myself get away with easy meals because I’d been afraid to push myself only to crash and burn. I had been afraid to push my customers, worried they wouldn’t come back if the food wasn’t familiar and easy to like. I’d been too cowardly to be the chef I wanted to be, and so I’d let myself play it safe and get away with mediocre.
An ugly feeling settled in my chest. I didn’t want to acknowledge the shame I felt burrowing through me, like worms in gritty dirt. Or the embarrassment.
It wasn’t even embarrassment. It was utter humiliation.
Killian Quinn had tried my food, under false pretenses, and found it lacking.
Found me lacking.
Found my whole business lacking.
Good grief, I hadn’t felt this shitty since… well, okay, it hadn’t been that long. But I hated feeling this way. I hated that less-than feeling that hollowed out my chest cavity and churned in my gut. My body felt empty, boneless and bloodless, nothing but an empty shell that couldn’t do anything right. The words rang over and over and over in my head while my thoughts tumbled together, never forming useful ideas or coherent sentences.
Before it had always been Derrek’s opinion that hurt the most. And always because it was aimed at personal things about me. I wasn’t good enough. Pretty enough. Smart enough. I wasn’t ever going to be anything. Amount to anything. Accomplish anything. My soul wasn’t worthy. My very humanity unqualified.
At least I could call that for what it was—an attempt to manipulate and control me. And I’d let it. I’d let those ugly, filthy words twist my spirit until I was wrung so tight I started to unravel.
Killian’s insults weren’t nearly as bad. He’d offended me on a professional level. He’d taken my hopes and fears and thrown them in my face. And he’d called me out.
But he hadn’t dedicated years to breaking me. He hadn’t trapped me in his world where he could poison me, where he could direct my slow death. He hadn’t abused me.
He’d just pissed me off.
I had two days to finish a new menu and prove him wrong. And I would.
I’d prove them both wrong.
“Well, if it isn’t Sleeping Beauty.” My dad’s gravelly voice greeted me in the kitchen. He stood over the sink with a store-bought danish halfway to his mouth.
I wrinkled my nose at the processed food, but didn’t say anything because they were his absolute favorite. This picture of my dad, one hand braced against the scuffed sink basin, the other holding some variation of manufactured pastry, crumbs dusting his chin, was one I would always remember. This was my dad.
“Sorry,” I mumbled through a yawn. “I’m not used to working so late.”
He winked at me. “I remember those days. Man, do they mess with your internal clock. It always felt weird to drink beer at seven in the morning. But then again, you can’t end the work day without a beer.” He finished off the second half of his pastry in one giant bite. “It used to be quite the conundrum.” His words were muffled by his full mouth, and his eyes were so thoughtful, so rich and deep with years of life and experience and wisdom.
“I don’t think it would be hard for me to decide.”
My dad chuckled. “Yeah, it was never too hard for me to choose either. Besides if you pick the light stuff, it can be considered breakfast too.”
“Is that how it works?” I smiled at him and moved to the refrigerator. My hand closed around the orange juice carton, and it was all I could do to keep from popping the top off and guzzling it straight from the carton. Partly because of thirst, but also because of old habits that hadn’t died. I never expected to have to move back here at twenty-six, and there was just something about drinking straight from the carton that brought out the fourteen-year-old kid in me.
“What are your plans for the day?” Dad asked after he’d washed and dried his hands.
“I don’t even know where to start,” I told him. “I want to talk to a few distributors, and there’s this farmer’s market I found online that I’d like to wander around.”
“You’re not open tonight, though, are you?”
I shook my head and enjoyed a long gulp of orange juice from a tumbler. “Nope. Thursdays through Saturday. For now.”
“You wanna get dinner with me tonight?” he asked. “We could go down to the Riverwalk and grab tacos at that place you like.”
Worry pitted in my stomach, quickly growing roots and spreading out under my skin. “Are you sure you’re up for it?”
He waved me off. “I’m fine. Besides, haven’t you heard of the curative powers of tacos? For as smart as you are, I wonder sometimes.”
There was a twinkle in his eye, and I couldn’t help but laugh. “You know, I hadn’t heard of that before, but who am I to argue with medical science?”
“My thoughts exactly. Invite your brother. He’ll get jealous if we leave him out again.”
“Again?”
My dad gestured at the kitchen. “You know, because you’re living here with me. He feels like he’s missing out on something.”
My mouth unhinged. “He doesn’t live here because he has an actual apartment. Because he can support himself at his actual job. What is there to be jealous of?”
Dad let out a long-suffering sigh. “Well, you know your brother. He’s more sensitive than you.”
I laughed again and felt encouraged at his surprising burst of energy. “That’s true,” I agreed. “Fine, I’ll invite my poor, delicate brother to tacos. I better go then. I’ve got a lot to do in a short amount of time.”
“Don’t rush for me, baby girl. I can eat a late dinner.”
>
I let him see my eye roll. “Dad, a late dinner to you is like four-thirty. That gives me all of three hours to run my errands and stop by the truck for a bit.”
He waved me off again. “Go on then, get out of here.”
I kissed his cheek and grabbed my purse off the counter. “Love you!”
“Love you,” he called back. “And don’t forget your brother!”
I promised to invite him and headed out. The city felt sticky with summer heat. The tar on the street had started to melt, and the air smelled like metal and sweat. I blinked at the aggressive daylight, groaning in resignation. Coffee was at the top of my list today.
Before Europe, I had a decent size savings account. It wasn’t anything to retire on, but it got me to Amsterdam and helped fund my journey to self-discovery. When I go there, I had convinced myself that I would work my way through the best restaurants in the best cities and keep my savings padded so there would be nothing to worry about.
The reality was a crash course in foreign work visas and my ignorance of the languages—all the languages. So instead, I ate my way through the most mediocre kitchens in cities that had reputable hostels and worked wherever anyone was willing to pay me cash under the table. Still, I saw and experienced a ton.
Sleeping in skeezy dorms and working in even worse kitchens wasn’t what I set out to accomplish, but I wouldn’t trade that year for anything.
When I got home, Dad put up some capital for me to start Foodie. He’d cashed his 401k since he claimed he no longer needed a retirement and told me it was my early inheritance. I used what remained of my bank account and a decent size business loan to fill in the gaps. I’d made money over the weekend, but I had student loans and bills and expenses to pay.
Basically, I couldn’t afford to buy coffee.
And yet, I needed one.
Blame it on poor impulse control.
The Opposite of You (Opposites Attract Series Book 1) Page 7
