The Opposite of You (Opposites Attract Series Book 1)

by Rachel Higginson

  I grabbed my favorite latte from my favorite local coffee shop and headed into the heart of downtown.

  The heat only blazed hotter here. The humidity sat in the air like a wet pillow, trying to suck all the air from my lungs. I wasn’t planning on cooking today, so my breezy, floral maxi dress was supposed to combat the high temps. And yet it stuck to my back and stomach as I tried to pretend I wasn’t melting.

  I met with a butcher I thought could help me out with better meats than the grocery store. He was an older guy, built like a truck, and thick, caterpillar-like black eyebrows. I’d read about him in an online forum. A lot of the nearby restaurants used him, so he knew popular cuts of meat and always offered his most interesting proteins to his favorite customers.

  Which I planned to be soon enough.

  He was polite, even though I had a feeling he was upcharging me. Still, he would be cheaper than the supermarket. And he agreed to do business with me even though I was a tiny account compared to the other venues he worked with.

  Next, I stopped at two bakeries, hoping to find one that was willing to partner with me. I wanted to offer something in the way of sweets, but I wasn’t a baker. I mean, I could bake, but it wasn’t my specialty. Plus, I didn’t have the time for it.

  My hope was to find a local shop that wanted to team up with me. I would sell their product and advertise their bakery, and in return, they would make enough of a sweet offering for me to stay stocked. And ideally, they would also advertise my food truck in return.

  I left a note at one of the bakeries for the owner to call me and was flat out rejected at the other one. Not even a possibility there.

  I wanted to shake off the rejection. I knew I was asking a lot. Besides they didn’t know me. I didn’t have a reputation. Or experience. Or any redeeming resume-related qualities. But I wasn’t expecting a decision or anyone to lock in today. I just wanted to start a conversation.

  My spirits dipped even further after tracking down the farmer’s market. It was on the edge of downtown where a lot of art galleries and hipster secondhand stores could be found. I had gone there hoping for fresh, organic veggies, but found organic flowers instead.

  It was a cool place filled with original art and jewelry. I picked up a pale pink nail polish that was supposed to be better for me than my store-bought ones. But there were no vegetables in sight.

  By the time I left, I was cranky and disappointed. It wasn’t until I was halfway to the plaza that I realized I should have asked one of the vendors if they knew where I could go for better produce.

  I bounced my forehead on my faded steering wheel and ignored the frustration biting underneath my skin.

  This was my hometown, but I had been gone awhile. Culinary Art Institute of Charlotte was in Charlotte, only a few hours’ drive from here. But after school, I’d stayed there with my boyfriend playing house and designing a life I didn’t want.

  It had been almost impossible to find an excuse to get home to visit Dad and Vann even though it was so close. It wasn’t until the tail end of my European sabbatical that my dad had emailed about his failing health. I’d finally come home to Durham and came clean to Molly. Dad and Vann got only the dark highlights, but those were enough. This city was the only place for me after I landed back in America.

  I didn’t know the city of Durham at all. I knew the familiar childhood haunts around my house and enough about the city to drive to most areas without getting lost. But I didn’t know the ins and outs of the city that you learn when you’re an adult. And I didn’t know all the little secrets that someone in my profession would need to survive.

  I parked behind the bike shop and grabbed my notebook. I needed to take inventory before I decided on this week’s menu. Plus, I was hoping my beloved truck and staring down the devil across the street would spur some much needed inspiration.

  Poking my head in the bike shop’s door, I smiled at Vann. “Hey. Are you alone today?”

  He looked up from the cash register where he sat on a tall stool reading a fitness magazine. “Scott is late, and Maizy couldn’t wait for him to get here, so I’m filling in.”

  “That’s good for you,” I told him. “You can see how the rest of us peons live.”

  He frowned at me. “I have three employees. I’m not exactly living large.”

  I leveled him with a look, “One man’s barely-surviving small business is another man’s kingdom, Vann.”

  “Says the small business owner to the other small business owner.”

  I wrinkled my nose at him. “Yeah, but I don’t even have one employee. I just have people that I manipulate into helping me for free food.”

  “I think you need more people.” He made that sound in the back of his throat that I found irritating. “Molly and I aren’t going to always be available.”

  I slumped against the doorframe. He was right. “I need more friends.”

  He barked out a laugh. “You need a boyfriend. Slave labor is part of the deal.”

  He was joking. I knew he was joking. Still, a sick feeling rolled through my stomach, and my heart immediately started punching my chest. “I’d rather figure it out myself. Thanks for the advice, though.”

  His face fell at my terse tone, and I saw his regret immediately. “I didn’t mean anything by that—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I cut him off. “I know.”

  He made a thoughtful face and shook his head. “Vere, not every guy is a bad seed. You can’t write us all off.”

  I cleared my throat and tried to make a joke. “Well, I’m writing you off obviously. You’re my brother. Gross.”

  “That’s not what I meant. You know that’s not what I meant.”

  “I’m going to get to work. I’ll see you later.”

  “Vera.”

  “Oh, Dad wants to take us for tacos later. You in?”

  His forehead wrinkled, but he let it go. “When?”

  “Um, later? I have some work to do. And he says he’s not in a hurry. Just whenever you’re ready.”

  “I’m done about six. I can pick you and Dad up?”

  I let out a slow breath, thankful we had moved on from relationship talk. “That works.”

  “K, see you then.”

  “Bye, Vann. Keep up the good work.”

  “Go away.”

  Despite our tense moment, I smiled as I walked to the truck. Vann didn’t abandon dad like I did when I moved away, but he still wouldn’t have made time for tacos before the diagnosis. Until six months ago, my dad had health complications with his bladder that were worrisome. But that was it. We worried. We hoped for the best. And then we huddled together when the prognosis became cancer instead of polyps and preventative care. Now that Dad was fighting stage four bladder cancer, we both felt the pressure of how little time we had left with him.

  I missed the cool air from Vann’s shop as soon as I stepped back outside. God, this heat. I can’t wait for fall.

  It was even worse inside Foodie. I quickly turned on the fans and opened the windows. The tiny air conditioning unit kicked on, grumbling under the strain of trying to work in these conditions and letting go of a smelly blast of cool air. I once again praised Vann for the convenience of my parking spot. I didn’t have to drive the truck around town or store it at a commissary and deal with paying rent. Vann’s shop couldn’t have been more perfect for my needs.

  Giving up on cooling down, I tossed my hair into a low ponytail with a hair tie from around my wrist. Then pulled out a pen from my purse and got to work. I was halfway to a brilliant idea when a sound at the front door had me spinning around and letting out a startled squeak.

  Killian Quinn glared at me from just outside. “You quit?”

  A hundred horrible things rolled around in my mouth. I settled on a confused, “What?”

  His green eyes glinted at me, and his fingers clenched the doorframe, knuckles turning white from the pressure. “You had one bad weekend, and you quit?”

  A dange
rous emotion started to bubble up in my throat. “I didn’t have a bad weekend. I had a great weekend.” My angry thoughts all tried to push out of my mouth at the same time, and I had to take a breath to make a coherent sentence. “And I didn’t quit. I’m just getting started.”

  “You haven’t been here since Saturday.”

  I swallowed despite my dry throat. He looked even better than I remembered him, which sucked since he was an awful human. His black t-shirt clung to his raised biceps, and his beard had been recently trimmed into cleaner lines. Basically, he was obnoxiously hot, and I hated him.

  His accusation penetrated my heat-addled brain, and I narrowed my eyes belatedly. “I haven’t been here since Saturday because I’m only open Thursday through Saturday.”

  “Why?”

  “What?”

  “Why are you only open three nights a week?” His patience was obviously wearing thin, but I didn’t understand why he’d bothered to walk all the way over here just to pester me.

  So, I asked him. “I’m so confused. Why are you here?”

  For the first time since I turned around, he glanced away. For a second, I thought I saw an emotion other than loathing in his intense expression. I even thought maybe his cheeks turned a little red, but it was hard to tell because of his beard. And it was so damn hot that it could have been because of that.

  “I thought maybe my suggestions…” he started. Clearing his throat, he tried again.

  Suddenly, I was so angry I was sure I could breathe fire if I needed to. “You thought your nasty little note drove me to quit my business?” I made a sound in the back of my throat that reminded me of Vann. “I’m not that insecure.”

  Liar, liar, pants on fire. But I sounded convincing, and that was all that mattered.

  His glare snapped back to mine, pinning me under the concentration of his irritation. “Nasty little note? You make it sound like I was jealous.”

  I couldn’t stop the ridiculous words before they flew out of my mouth. “Maybe because you are.”

  His eyes widened with incredulity, and I realized how stupid I sounded, how completely idiotic my accusations were. “You think I’m jealous of you?” he demanded. “That’s what this is about? I’m jealous of a food truck?”

  “God, you’re a pompous asshole. Do you hear yourself?”

  He laughed, but it was bitter and humorless. “You open up a food truck across from the greatest restaurant in this city and call me pompous? Unbelievable!” He moved his head in a slow shake that sent embarrassment spiraling through me. “That’s the last time I try to help a—” He held his hand up and took a step back. But then quickly stepped forward again, crowding the doorway. “You know what? I felt sorry for you. You show up here in this expensive… thing. You’re obviously spending money on marketing and logos, and then I tasted that… God, that food. It’s not that you don’t have potential. It’s just that it’s completely wasted on easy, fast food that I could find anywhere.”

  “Out.” His eyes widened again, only this time it was from surprise. “Get out. I don’t have to listen to you insult me. Not everybody can be the great Killian Quinn. Not everyone has food critics wrapped around their fingers and a team of chefs at their disposal. I’m doing the best I can. This food truck is my life, and I’m not going to let you or anyone else push me around just because they feel threatened by a little competition.”

  He glared at me, his gaze sweeping over my length, taking my measure, determining my worth. “You’re not my competition.”

  My tone was knife sharp, unwavering when I told him, “And you’re not mine.”

  I swallowed against a jagged bolt of dread when his bright eyes narrowed with challenge. “We’ll see.” He leaned toward me, and I accidentally inhaled him, spice and mint and something that was neither of those things, something that made my mouth go dry and my belly heat. “Good luck, Vera. You’re going to need it.”

  I was too shocked that he remembered my name to get a good last word in. He didn’t wait around for one anyway. He left me staring at him, clinging to my courage and anger. I couldn’t let them go. I needed them, needed to wear them like armor.

  I hated that I watched him cross the street and disappear inside Lilou. I hated that I stared at the door for another ten minutes waiting for him to come back and apologize.

  I hated that he was this complete opposite of me, that he had everything that I’d ever wanted and would never get. I hated that I couldn’t want those things anymore.

  I couldn’t let myself.

  Because if I remembered what I used to want, the things I was forced to give up and let go of… I would crumble.

  I would shatter.

  Most of all, I hated that after how awful Killian Quinn was, his opinion meant everything to me.

  Chapter Eight

  “Don’t serve him!”

  Molly glanced back at me like I’d grown a second head. “Vera?”

  Wyatt stood at the window with an amused grin pulling up his too wide mouth. I’d noticed him step out the side door of Lilou and hoped he was just going for a smoke. Somehow, I knew better.

  I glared at him, irritated with the way he didn’t seem to care that he’d pissed me off. Was I a joke to everyone around here? “I have no idea why you’re here, Wyatt.”

  He raised his hands defensively. “Don’t be mad at me. This is one of those don’t shoot the messenger situations.”

  I leaned over the messy counter, littered with shredded lettuce and feta cheese from tonight’s spicy gyro slider and growled at him through the window. “Too late. You’ve been blacklisted.”

  One of his dark eyebrows lifted, the silver ring at the end glinting in my bright lights. “You can afford to blacklist people?”

  “Oh, my God, you’re just like him.”

  “Wrong,” he argued immediately. “He’s Killian Quinn. I’m just a poor, insignificant sous chef. We could not be more different.”

  The humbled awe in his tone when he murmured Killian Quinn’s name so reverently made me roll my eyes. “I don’t want to hear it, Wyatt. You’re going to have to eat out of your own kitchen.”

  A line had formed behind him. It wasn’t big, just a couple and another set of club goers behind them, but I didn’t want them to walk away because Wyatt wanted to draw me a pie chart of all the ways Killian Quinn was superior to the rest of us posers.

  Wyatt’s gaze followed mine and he glanced over his shoulder at the people standing behind him. When he turned around the arrogance was gone, replaced with puppy dog eyes and an overly exaggerated pout. “But the lamb smells so good, V! I have a thing for gyros. It’s practically sexual.”

  “And I have a thing for not being told I’m doing everything wrong.”

  He clasped his hands together in front of him. “Please, Vera. I’m starving. You wouldn’t deny a starving man a good meal, would you?”

  Molly covered her mouth with her hand, hiding her smile. But her hiccup of laughter gave her away regardless.

  Unlike my forgiving BFF, I held my poker face. “Go away, Wyatt.”

  I half expected him to drop to his knees and beg, but his next offer surprised me. “I’ll trade you.”

  “What?”

  A satisfied gleam lit his eyes, and he leaned into the window as if the people behind him cared what he had to say. He was just tall enough that he could peer inside the truck, his large fingers curling around the metal window frame. “I’ll bring you dessert.”

  Curiosity sparked inside me, but I needed more of a verbal contract. “From where?”

  He jerked his chin toward Lilou. “From where do you think?”

  “What is it?”

  “Lemon and lavender cake bars or dark chocolate mousse with a salted popcorn crunch.”

  I puffed my cheeks out, thinking about his offer. “I want both.”

  “I don’t know if I can—”

  “All or nothing, Wyatt. You did this to yourself.”

  Wyatt glanced helplessly a
t Molly. “She’s so mean to me. Is she this mean to you?”

  Molly laughed and shook her head. “I’ve never sold her secrets to the antichrist.”

  Wyatt glared at her but turned back to me, resigned. “Fine. Both. But if I get caught I need you to testify in court that you held me at gunpoint.”

  My lips twitched, but I suppressed my smile. “You’re stalling, and I have customers.”

  His head dropped back, and he let out a frustrated growl. “Fine. Two desserts.” He looked at me once again. “Can I order now? Please?”

  “You have to eat it inside the truck.”

  “What?”

  I pointed to the space behind Molly. “I don’t trust you, Wyatt. If you’re ordering it, you’re eating in here.”

  “Woman!” He pulled out his wallet despite his frustration. “Fine, but hurry. My break’s almost over.”

  I stepped back from the window and moved to open the door for Wyatt. He marched inside, eating up all the small space with his lanky frame.

  Sensing his hurry, I rushed to make his gyro sliders. I had made meatballs instead of the traditional shaved lamb and let them simmer in Mediterranean gravy all day. They were amazing. And perfectly spiced.

  It had only taken me the entire week to get the recipe right.

  And it had absolutely nothing to do with Killian Quinn’s criticism.

  Nothing at all.

  Wyatt leaned over my shoulder, crowding me. “Don’t be stingy with the feta.”

  I threw him a glare over my shoulder and almost ran into his nose. “Back off, buddy. You’ll get what I give you.”

  He took a step back, his mouth splitting into a charming grin. Unease curled in my stomach, and I turned back to his order.

  It wasn’t him. Wyatt was nothing but adorably friendly. Despite his tattoos and piercings, he was way too chill to be a threat. But my past had broken me. Had twisted my trust and turned my personal bubble into an impenetrable steel cage.

  Molly added orders to the ticket line, so I didn’t have time to pay Wyatt any attention after I handed him his meal.

  “Holy shit, Vera,” he mumbled through a mouth full of food. “This is insane.”