The Opposite of You (Opposites Attract Series Book 1)

by Rachel Higginson

  I smiled down at the pita pocket I’d made from scratch. “I know.” And I did. But it was still nice to hear it from someone else—someone that knew what he was talking about.

  “I want another,” he demanded.

  “I thought you had to go?” Smiling at the people at the pickup window, I handed their sealed to go containers over and spared Wyatt a glance. He stood hovering above the small staircase as if deciding what to do.

  “When I bring your desserts back I need another one.”

  “You’re going to have to eat it here again,” I told him. His eyes bugged comically. “I’m not kidding. I’m not dealing with him again.”

  His crooked smile made me release one of my own. “Do you know how many kidneys I would give for him to try my food and tell me what he thought? Both of them. I would give both of them.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “And you’re crazy. He was being nice.”

  “He was being an asshole, and you know it. Now get back to work before the asshole fires you.”

  He glanced nervously at the street before tossing his hand up in a quick wave. “You’re right. He will fire me.”

  The door slammed shut behind him, but I was already working on the next order. And the next. A whole fifteen minutes passed before Molly found a second to give me her opinion.

  “He’s cute.”

  I scanned the plaza, playing dumb. “Who?”

  She slapped my arm with the back of her hand. “You know who. Tall, dark and tattooed.”

  “You’re going to have to be more specific,” I told her.

  Making a sound in the back of her throat she pointed at Lilou. “Wyatt the Gyro Lover. He’s hot, and you know it.”

  I chewed on my bottom lip to keep from smiling. “He’s not ugly. I’ll give you that.”

  “And those piercings.”

  I nodded. “They make him even less ugly.”

  “So?”

  Cutting my attention back to my meatballs and the next order, I avoided eye contact with her. “So what?”

  “So… you should hit that.”

  “Oh, my God, Molly. You have a weird obsession with my sex life, you know that?”

  A laugh bubbled out of her, but she didn’t deny it. “I just want you to move on, Vere. And the fastest way to get over someone is to get under someone else.”

  This time I couldn’t help it. I stopped what I was doing and gaped at her. “Molly Maverick, I thought you were a lady.”

  Her head tipped back as she continued to laugh. “Don’t look so scandalized. You know it’s true.”

  “I know nothing,” I argued. “And even if it were true, which it’s not, I wouldn’t be into Wyatt. He’s not my type.”

  “Your type is…what? Not hot guys?”

  I rolled my eyes and turned to my station, wiping it down and cleaning it up while I had a break in customers. “My type is anyone not in my industry. I’m not dating another chef.”

  “I didn’t tell you to date him. I told you to—”

  Cutting her off quickly, I said, “I know what you told me. But I’m telling you, even a one night stand is completely off the table. Especially with someone that works across the street from the business I own. No more drama, Molls. And no more difficult relationships. I won’t survive it.”

  She turned back to the window. I knew I’d shut her up by reminding her of my past. Instantly, I felt guilty. I’d promised myself months ago that I wasn’t going to let my awful history ruin my present. I wanted to move on. I wanted a life. I wanted to get over my bad mistakes and not be afraid to try new things.

  But dating wasn’t an option. Especially not a chef.

  Not that they were all like my ex. But generally, we were egotistical, narcissistic people. It was just the way of things.

  I could admit to being that way. I could also admit that two people with those personality traits did not a healthy relationship make.

  Molly’s soft admonition filled our suddenly quiet space. “You will survive it, Vera. You’re stronger than you think. Stronger than anyone I know.”

  I didn’t answer her. She was wrong. I wasn’t strong. I was weak. Too weak. So weak, I’d let myself be abused, mistreated and trampled on for two years of my life. When I should have been taking important steps advancing my career I’d shrunk behind the shadow of a great chef and shitty human.

  It wasn’t until I had absolutely no other choice that I left. It wasn’t until my dreams had been stripped from me and my confidence battered and burned that I’d finally, desperately escaped.

  And even then, I hadn’t confronted him. I’d removed his name from my savings account and ran away to Europe.

  Those weren’t the markers of someone strong, someone courageous.

  I was a coward, and we both knew it.

  But at least I’d gotten away.

  Two hours later, Molly and I had shrugged off the weirdness that descended whenever we tried to talk about my last relationship. There were very few things that had ever come between us, but Derrek Hanover was always one of them. I knew she didn’t blame me for what I’d been through, but she also didn’t understand how I’d let any of it happen.

  I didn’t understand either, to be honest.

  And that was why I chose to think about it as little as possible.

  “Oh, shit,” Molly hissed, instantly pulling my attention to the order window.

  I stared out the window unbelieving. He couldn’t be serious. Hadn’t I made myself clear enough?

  Killian Quinn approached Foodie without one single hesitant step. He walked up to the window like he had a right to be there. Like he couldn’t be bothered with my hatred of him.

  “I thought you banned him,” Molly whispered quickly.

  Shaking my head slowly I admitted, “I thought I did too.” I bumped her with my hip. “Move over. I’ll deal with him.”

  Leaning forward and resting my elbows on the windowsill, I told him firmly, “We’re closed.”

  His narrowed gaze darted to my latest customers still finishing their meals. They stood in a wide circle, eating over their cardboard containers, laughing and talking animatedly. At least they seemed to be enjoying the food.

  He quirked an eyebrow at me. “Then I should throw these away?” Like a poker player revealing his winning hand, Killian set two golden takeout containers on the small ledge in front of me.

  “What are those?”

  “I was told goods had been exchanged.” His long, gorgeous fingers dipped into the seam of one of the containers, pulling back the lid to reveal rich, creamy mousse. “Desserts for meatballs.”

  I popped up to my full height, deciding to never trust another sous chef again in my life. “My deal was with Wyatt.”

  “Deal?” Killian let out a sound that almost sounded like a laugh. “You blackmailed him and then held him hostage in your tiny truck.”

  My fingers curled around the windowsill, the sharp edges biting into my palms. “And you’re here to avenge him?”

  His lips twitched, but his facial expression—bored annoyance—didn’t change. “I’m here to remind you that you’ve committed two felonies already. Are you sure you want to commit a third?”

  “Felonies? Hardly.” I wanted to slam my window shut and turn off my lights, so he finally got the message but I couldn’t help myself. I had to know. “What’s the third?”

  This time his mouth did turn up in a cocky smirk. “Stealing.” He tapped the top of the gold box with one finger and I momentarily found myself mesmerized.

  Blinking, I tore my gaze from his stupidly perfect hands and focused on his beard. It seemed like the path of least resistance. “You think I’m trying to steal your dessert recipes?” My gaze dragged upward, over his full lips and crooked nose to those deep green eyes.

  He shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened.”

  “I’m not,” I told him honestly, quickly, adamantly. “That’s not what the
deal was about. The deal that Wyatt walked into willingly. With his full consent.”

  Killian tipped forward, pressing all his weight onto his hands. “Make it with me.”

  There was something in his tone, in the way he softened his voice and looked at me so intently. A wicked curl of heat coiled through my belly. I ignored it. “What?”

  “Make the deal with me. Desserts for meatballs.”

  I glanced at the boxes, hating that my traitor of a stomach wanted to agree. I had something of Killian Quinn’s right in front of me. Something of Lilou’s. I was just an inch from touching two desserts I knew would be beyond amazing. All I had to do was sell my soul to get them. “You’re delusional.”

  “Why? Because I want a…” He stepped back and read the chalkboard menu. “A gyro slider and Greek fries?”

  God, he was so tempting. Not just the offer… but him. Everything about him. The playful look in his eyes, the lift of his mouth, the fullness of his beard. It simply wasn’t fair that he looked the way he did and acted the way he did.

  “No, because you won’t be able to keep your mouth shut. Contrary to what you think, I don’t hate myself. I’m perfectly happy never to hear your opinion again.”

  He crowded the window. I could smell him again. He smelled how I imagined his kitchen smelled—a blend of unique spices, grease from the fires and that purely masculine scent that had to be his soap underneath it all. “What are Greek fries anyway?”

  I glared at him. I was proud of my food tonight. Despite his assholery, I had put a lot of effort into making sure my flavors were on point. The plating was as pretty as to-go plating could be. And my Greek fries were both creative and delicious.

  I had nothing to fear from him.

  I ignored his question. “Where’s Wyatt?”

  A muscle near his eye ticked. “Working. Like he’s supposed to be.”

  “Did you fire him?”

  “I just told you he was working.”

  “Are you going to fire him?”

  “Why? Because he abandoned his post so he could flirt with the food truck girl for a half hour? I should fire him. We’re booked the entire night.” I opened my mouth, but I didn’t know where to start. So many of the things he’d said were… annoying. He didn’t give me a chance, though. “Would you fire him?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Not him. Not Wyatt. But if you had a sous chef, someone you counted on to get you through each service, someone you trusted above all other people in your kitchen, and they left you for thirty minutes in the middle of an important night, would you fire him?”

  Killian was trying to trap me. He knew my answer—it was obvious. Yes. Wyatt had made a big mistake. “I don’t know,” I said instead, choosing my words carefully. “I’ve never had a sous chef. Or run a kitchen. I don’t know what I would do.”

  “I do,” Killian was quick with his response. “You’d fire him.”

  My cheeks heated with emotion, I just couldn’t tell which emotion. Killian brought out so many- anger, frustration, embarrassment, insecurity, irritation, lust. Stupid, stupid lust. “You don’t know that.”

  He ran a hand through his beard, messing it up and then tugging it back to its shape. “You’re a hard-ass, Vera Delane. Of course you’d fire him.”

  My guilty heart thumped hard for Wyatt, despite my earlier claims that I didn’t want anything to do with him. “Is that what you’re going to do?”

  “Didn’t you hear me? I trust him. It’s too hard to find a sous as good as him. He’s safe for today. As long as he can give up taking his breaks locked away with you.”

  I slammed my eyes shut in frustration, hating his implication. “He wasn’t locked away with me. I just didn’t want him sneaking his food back to you so you could rip it apart.”

  He stared at me so hard that I felt it all over my skin. I opened my eyes and shivered beneath the heat of his glare. “Then let me rip it apart now.”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  He tapped the boxes again. “It’s a fair trade. I’ll even keep my opinion to myself.”

  “Did Lilou run out of food? Can’t you get your sous chef to make you a snack? God, you’re aggravating.”

  “Come on, Delane,” he persuaded with a lilting voice. “The lemon lavender shortbreads are insane. You know you want them.”

  Curiosity didn’t just kill the cat. It killed the stupid chef that was willing to sell her soul just to get a tiny taste of one of the greatest chefs in the city.

  He held up a hand as if he could read the denial swirling in my head. “And before you go claiming that these are already bought and paid for, let’s just consider that Wyatt really would have gotten fired for smuggling these out of the restaurant. The only way you’re going to get to try these is if you make a deal with me.”

  A deal with the devil.

  “I could always make a reservation. I’m sure it’s not that hard.” That was a lie. I’d already made a reservation after he’d written me that scathing note, but the earliest they could get me in was still six weeks away.

  “Delane, by the time you can manage to sneak inside my restaurant, we’ll have changed the entire menu.”

  I shifted my shoulders, hating the way I felt every time he used my last name. And not because it made me feel bad. Because it made me feel the opposite. “I don’t even like lemon.”

  He leaned closer, erasing the space between us. “You’re such a liar,” he murmured on a dark chuckle. “Just make me the goddamn slider.”

  He was right. I was a liar. And where the hell had Molly gone? Why wasn’t she coming to my rescue? I was about to make a very stupid mistake, and she had promised that she’d intervene the next time I tried to ruin my entire life.

  “Fine,” I relented. Letting out a slow, measured breath so he didn’t see how nervous I was, I said, “One meatball.”

  “And fries.” He smiled victoriously. “Greek fries.”

  Stepping over to the counter I started putting together his box. “What is your fascination with Greek fries?”

  He poked his head through the window so he could watch me. “I’m intrigued.”

  “You’re obnoxious.” I jerked my head to the other side of the truck. “You can wait down there.”

  “You’re not going to make me come in and eat it in front of you?”

  Snapping my head up, I glared at him. “Sorry, friends and employees only. It’s off limits to you.” I held back an evil laugh and asked, “Unless you’re looking for a job? I need someone part time to help with prep and orders. Interested?”

  His eyes narrowed at the insult to everything he’d worked for and accomplished. “I’ll wait down here.”

  “Good idea.” The thrill of victory bubbled in my chest, but I also hated that his smile disappeared. It was a silly thing to miss since I couldn’t stand this man. But he was always so serious. I barely knew the guy, and I could tell that his smiles were rare and hard-earned.

  Focusing on perfecting his order, I threw myself into the very thing I loved, the thing that had saved me—cooking. I heated his pita on the grill top then added the house tzatziki sauce, and pickled red onions, carrots and cucumbers. Next, I plated the fries fresh from the fryer and topped them with generous portions of all that I put on the slider. I scooped out a simmering meatball and set it very carefully in the middle of the pita, careful not to rip the flatbread, finalizing everything with a sprinkle of feta cheese everywhere.

  My hands shook as I carried the box to the pickup window. I tried to convince myself that I already had his worst, that he couldn’t say anything else to me that would be meaner than his note or make me feel less than. Still, my traitor of a heart soared with anticipation and hopeful optimism.

  He might have been right about my grilled cheese and pulled pork, but I’d stepped up my game. He had to acknowledge that.

  That’s when I realized I wanted this. I wanted him to try my food again. It was foolish and masochistic. But Wyatt was righ
t, Killian Quinn’s opinion mattered.

  When I leaned out the window, he had his phone in his hand. The bright light lit up his mouth and that beard, highlighting the contrast of his dark, trimmed facial hair to the red fullness of his lips.

  “Order’s ready.” My voice came out breathier than I intended, weak and afraid. I cleared my throat and waited for him to acknowledge me.

  He tucked the phone into his pocket and traded cartons with me. Without saying anything else, he grabbed a fork and napkin from the cutlery container I had next to the window and dug in.

  I stepped back into the truck, unable to stop myself from obsessing over his reaction. I convinced myself I would move just as soon as he took his first bite. I couldn’t stand there all night watching him chew. That would be weird.

  Right?

  Yes. Obviously. Yes, that was weird.

  He dug in, wrapping his mouth around the pita and I stared at him, determined to read his expression instead of listening to his words. Only it gave nothing away. He was as mysterious as always, and neither looked at me with approval or verbalized his thoughts.

  Spinning away from him, I decided I’d tortured myself enough. The desserts went into the cooler because I could not even begin to enjoy those with him outside, eating and judging my food.

  Judging me.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper yelled at Molly, making an expression that showed her just how furious I was that she’d abandoned me.

  “I, uh, had to text my friend,” she answered.

  I raised an eyebrow. “Your friend?”

  She nodded once, barely restraining her smile. “I meant my mom.”

  “You’re a terrible person,” I told her.

  Her grin broke free, and she looked so ridiculously happy I wanted to punch her. She bounced on her toes and pointed toward the window mouthing, “He’s so hot!”

  “Stop!” I mouthed back. I took a step towards her, keeping my voice low. “He’s the worst!”

  “Delane!”

  I whirled around at my barked name. It only took three steps until I reached the window. He stood there with my meatball completely dissected.

  My stomach dropped to my toes. He hated it. I instantly knew he hated it. “You promised to keep your opinion to yourself.”