The Opposite of You (Opposites Attract Series Book 1)

by Rachel Higginson

  He squinted against the wind whipping him in the face. “Hey.”

  My hand landed on my frantically pounding heart, and I breathed in sharply through my nose. Apparently, I was terrified of Derrek showing up again if my reaction to Wyatt’s surprise visit was anything to go by. I tried to appear unruffled, though. “Hey, sorry. We’re closing. We want to get out of here before the rain gets bad.”

  “Oh, no, that’s not why I’m here.” He glanced over his shoulder nervously, and I immediately knew something was up.

  “What’s wrong?”

  His lips pressed into a frown, and he played with his eyebrow ring nervously. “Have you talked to Killian today?”

  “I haven’t heard from him since yesterday.”

  He rubbed a hand over his face, pulling his bottom lip into a U. “You should talk to him,” Wyatt coaxed.

  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.

  It was easy to tell ourselves that truth whe
n the logical part of our brain was in charge. It was harder to believe it after a hurtful review.

  Especially an important one.

  We stared at each other for several long minutes. He didn’t say anything, and I didn’t either. And the longer we stayed silent, the thicker the silence became, the heavier.

  Seeing him like this, realizing he had taken this review about as hard as anyone could, I just wanted to soothe the pain away. I wanted to make this better for him. I wanted to take this from him and remind him how amazing he was—how incredibly talented and innovative he was.

  I had decided thirty minutes ago that I didn’t want to see him tonight. That I’d gotten too wrapped up in us, too wrapped up in him.

  But looking at Killian like this, so completely at the end of himself, I realized I didn’t care about any of that. Because I cared about this man. I cared for him deeply. Somehow over the summer, he’d wormed his way into my heart and made a permanent home there.

  He wasn’t Derrek. He was nothing like Derrek.

  Yes, he was arrogant and bullish and demanding. But he wasn’t mean. He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t selfish.

  And yes, he was a chef. But he was also a friend. And a confidant. And a mentor. And everything I believed a good man was.

  He wasn’t Derrek. And I wasn’t in danger of getting myself back into a bad relationship. Whatever this was with Killian was healthy in a way that I’d never experienced before. Healthy and hopeful and heady.

  Sucking in a steadying breath, I walked over to him. His eyes tracked my every movement. The rain had soaked my coat and left my white t-shirt damp, clinging to me everywhere. I’d worn black leggings tonight instead of practical pants, and he noticed them with a searing gaze that moved over my hips and thighs with hungry interest. He took a slow sip of expensive whiskey straight from the bottle, and I watched his tanned throat work as he swallowed without flinching.

  I took the bottle from him when he finished, setting it carefully on the table next to him. He relinquished it without a fight.

  He sat up straighter and moved his legs together when I stepped over them, straddling him. The emailed review fluttered to the ground forgotten.

  I gently placed my hands on his broad shoulders, loving the feel of muscle and bone beneath the starchy fabric of his coat. I rubbed back and forth once, twice. His lips met mine halfway when I leaned in for a kiss.

  It was like we’d been doused in gasoline, and someone had thrown a lit match on us. We exploded in hunger and passion and the familiar push and pull we’d always had.

  He tugged me down, settling me firmly against him, while his lips moved over mine. He nipped roughly at my bottom lip, pulling it into his mouth, sucking, biting, licking before he moved to my tongue, repeating every aggressively delicious action.

  His hands gripped my waist, yanking me closer against him, fitting our bodies as tightly together as possible. The feel of him under me, my legs wrapped around his waist, my hands holding on to his shoulders for balance sent shockwaves of sensation rocking through me.

  I felt him beneath me, the button to his pants through the thin material of my leggings. The hardness of the thighs I straddled. The hip bones that framed his tapered waist. And the part of him that made him oh, so very male.

  My fingers curled into his shoulders at the feel of him growing hard beneath me. I rocked forward, unable to stop myself. He caught the whimper that fell out of my mouth and deepened the kiss, making the moment even more intense, more erotic.

  I clung to him as he held me against him, letting me fidget and grind and work my body against his the way a man and woman should move together. His beard left an intimate burn over my chin and lips, reminding me who was kissing me—never letting me forget it. He tasted like whiskey and oranges and every hot fantasy I’d ever had.

  Before I could talk myself out of it, I started pushing at his coat, needing it off him, needing to have it out of my way. He tugged his arms free, revealing those toned, tattooed arms. Once unrestricted, one of those big hands I’d been obsessed with for months slipped beneath my shirt.

  We both gasped at the contact. His hand so hot against my ribcage, his palm so hard against the softness of my skin. Our mouths crashed back together, greedier than ever. He palmed my breast under my shirt, kneading until I couldn’t catch a full breath. Until I was nothing but want and need and trembling desire.

  He shoved the cup of my bra to the side, and his fingers did wicked things to my nipple, pulling sounds from me I had never, ever made before. And the whole time my legs squeezed his waist while he moved against us, our clothes the worst kind of obstacle in the history of obstacles.

  “Killian,” I moaned when he yanked my shirt up, exposing my soft stomach, my breasts, my peaked nipples.

  He groaned deep in his throat and then captured my nipple in his mouth, licking, sucking, biting again in a way that mimicked how he kissed me but better. So. Much. Better.

  “More,” I pleaded. “Please more.”

  He made a very agreeable sound in the back of his throat and moved to the other breast. His talented fingers tugged my bra cup down, giving me the pleasure I was so, so desperate for.

  I leaned into him, giving him as much of me as he wanted. Taking as much of him as I could get. One hand supported my back, the other played with the waistband of my leggings. His fingers dipped inside, and I shivered at the tickling sensation.

  He sucked harder on my nipple, and I nearly exploded. Adjusting his grip, he leaned me back further, exposing me like his own personal feast. He kissed his way from one breast to the other, taking his time on my breastbone, then over my heart as it raced in my chest. His fingers dipped further inside my leggings, playing with the seam of my panties.

  His fingers brushed over my core, separated from my most intimate part by just a thin scrap of fabric. He moved his fingers again in a way that was so perfectly timed I bucked against him.

  I dug my fingers into his hair as we kissed and kissed and kissed. He moved my underwear to the side and his fingers dragged over my center deliberately slowly. My breath caught in my throat as I waited for more, barely holding onto the tether of reality.

  One finger slid inside me, and I stopped kissing him. I couldn’t multitask anymore. I couldn’t even think coherent thoughts anymore. I rested my forehead against his and accepted the pleasure he was intent on giving.

  He moved that one finger achingly unhurried. Deep. Deeper. Oh, God.

  A second finger joined his first, and that was all it took. I held onto him as fireworks burst behind my closed eyelids. My body clenched around his fingers while my head swam in the best way, dizzy and disoriented. The orgasm burst through me, tightening every single muscle as I gasped and clung to him, unable to let go until I’d landed back on earth, fully sated.

  Oh, my God.

  There was more I wanted to do. More I needed to do. But first, I had to catch my breath. Our temples were pressed together, his breathing as erratic as mine. The only difference between us was I had my pleasure, and he was still hard and tense beneath me.

  Which was perfectly fine with me. I could help him out with that.

  And I planned to.

  Unfortunately, he had other plans.

  When my breathing had finally evened out, he pressed a sweet kiss to the corner of my eye and stood up without warning. I let out a squeak of surprise as his hands went under my bum, taking me with him.

  Apparently, the fun part of the evening was over. Killian was officially on a new mission.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Where are we going?” I laughed as he moved through the restaurant.

  He didn’t say anything. He just continued to stalk through his kitchen, his domain, flipping light switches as he went.

  The kitchen was just as beautiful as the first time I’d been here, only bigger without all the activity that brought it to life. Nevertheless, my breath caught, and my stomach flipped, feeling the deep, familiar pull that whispered I
belonged here.

  Maybe not here-here. But somewhere like it.

  I loved Foodie, but this was what I wanted. I wanted it to be mine. I wanted the staff and the space and the rush of dinner service. I wanted the acclaim and the challenge and every single thing.

  No matter how satisfying running my food truck was, it would never compare to this. And I wasn’t made to settle for it. I couldn’t shut off the need to be something better, something more… something great.

  If I could, I would. Truly. It was like a burden that I didn’t know how to carry. I just wanted to put it down and walk away from it, leave it for someone else to find.

  But I couldn’t.

  Killian set me down on the center counter, the stainless steel cold against the backs of my thighs. He stayed between my legs, playing with the ends of my hair.

  His eyes had lost the listlessness from disappointment and too much whiskey. They were now clear, green and endlessly deep.

  He dropped my hair and brushed the backs of his fingers over my jaw. “You’re incredible, Vera.”

  I reached up and grabbed a handful of his beard, bristly to the touch, and tugged. “I’ve wanted to do that since I met you,” I explained. “Sorry.”

  He smiled patiently at me, but untangled my hand from his facial hair so he could link our fingers together. “Hungry?”

  A blush stained my cheeks, and butterflies buzzed in my belly. “Mmm-hmm.”

  He dropped a lingering kiss to the corner of my jaw and spoke against my skin. “Me too. But how about some food instead?”

  I shivered at his implication. “Are you going to cook for me?” Apparently, I’d been body-snatched by a horny alien with a much sexier voice. Was that really me?

  He pulled back, and I watched his mouth spread in a slow smile. “Don’t move.”

  I laughed when he held up his hands, wiggling those unfairly attractive fingers. He walked deliberately over to the sink and washed his hands, sending me a quick wink.

  We shared another searing look, a promise for more, but then he got down to business. He moved around the kitchen, turning things on and gathering ingredients. I decided watching him cook was my new favorite activity.