I set my ingredients down on anempty counter and quickly unloaded everything that needed to be refrigerated orhad the potential to wilt in the blazing heat. Grabbing the keys, I decided tokeep her locked up until I could return with the second round of bags.
As I locked the door, the samegrumbling engine from yesterday zoomed through the plaza. I turned to watch thesleek motorcycle weave in and out of traffic, disregarding traffic laws andangry drivers alike. A subtle feeling of disappointment gurgled in my belly.
I wasn’t necessarily a rulefollower, but it was kind of annoying how Killian Quinn just ignored lanes andtraffic lights and pedestrians that were in his way. His face was a mysterybehind his sleek black helmet. But his lean body broadcasted relaxed disregardfor everyone around him. He simply didn’t care.
Or at least that was what I assumedas I watched him like a stalker pressed against the side of Foodie.
The engine cut off abruptly when hereachedLilou. I strained my neck so I could watchhim hop off and store his helmet like he had yesterday. His head whipped mydirection as if he could sense my gaze on him. I didn’t think he could see me,but he stared with that laser-like focus at my truck for a long time.
Whatkind of chef was he?I wondered. Everything I knew about him was from a distance, food blogs andmagazine write-ups. Nothing personal. Nothing that hadn’t been edited andfiltered. I wanted to know what he was like as a human. His personality andwork ethic. Was he outgoing? Or an introvert? How short was his fuse? Howperfect was his perfectionism?
Most of the chefs I knew werearrogant and overly self-assured. You kind of had to be in our industry. If youdidn’t believe in your food, nobody was going to pat you on the head andconvince you that you were good. You either came out of the gate swinging, oryou faded into the background.
It was a monstrously competitiveindustry and not only did you have to convince your peers that you were worthyour salt, but you had to convince your diners as well. And the critics. Andthe food blogs. And the staff that had to stand behind you.
And everyone got to hand out stars. Seriousindustry professionals gave awards and accolades. There were critics innewspapers, blogs, magazines and every other place online. And your customershad a crack at you with Yelp andZomato—even Google hadbusiness star ratings now, and restaurants were included. Every single personhad the authority to judge you. Some were obviously more qualified than others,but all of them were given the power. And most people exercised that power.Fairly or unfairly, it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was whatmade it to the internet. That was the world we lived in these days.
It wasn’t that I was expecting achef of Killian Quinn’s caliber to be humble. But I found it completelyrepulsive when professional confidence tipped over into grossly exaggeratedarrogance. And, okay, I hadn’t met the acclaimed Mr. Quinn yet. But everythingabout him screamed icky conceit and aggressive superiority complex.
I realized he was still looking inmy direction and that he could see me—half leaning around my truck bumper tostare back at him. We were yards apart, but I hated that I’d been caught watchinghim.
At least today he could tell I was agirl. My wild hair hung down to the middle of my back, angry with unruly curlsand humidity-induced frizz. I’d sported another white t-shirt, but I’d tuckedit into red, high-waistedshorts and zebra-print flipflops, knowing I would get hot in my food truck with the fryer running. And myfigure could be described as nothing but generously curvy after a year inEurope.
I had never been skinny. I lovedfood too much. I loved good food. I couldn’t even stomach the idea of Vann’sdiet of green plants and quinoa. So, my thighs had always touched, and my hipshad never not flared and my boobs had never been anything itty bitty ormanageable.
A year ago, I hated the way Ilooked. A year ago, I would avoid mirrors and reflections and anything thatreminded me that I couldn’t change me.
Insecurity, my old friend, hadconvinced me that I was fat instead of curvy. My demons were embarrassed of myweight, jeans size and diet instead of comfortable in my own skin. And thevoices I’d let into my life only fanned the flames of self-hate and shame.
I’d shed some of the debilitatingemotions once I reached Europe, but that lack of confidence hadn’t yetdisappeared. Although it was quieter now.
Maybe it was because I was asindependent as I’d ever been, or maybe it was because I’d spent a year trekkingthrough France and Italy and Spain with their never-ending glasses of wine andconstant supply of carbs. One thing I realized—this was how I was built. I wasthicker than most, built more like my dad than my mom. And no matter how muchexercise I forced my body to submit to, my ass hung onto carbs like it would shrivelup and die without them.
And I wasn’t about to give up carbs.
I mean… that was obviously an insaneexpectation.
So, curvy it was. And since I onlyhad myself to please and planned to keep it that way for a very long time, Idecided to be happy just the way I was.
Still, Killian’s glare from acrossthe street made me self-conscious. I turned away, stepping away from the truck.I hurried back to my car and out of his sight. I should ignore him anyway.Watching Killian Quinn and comparing myself to him was only going to get meinto trouble anyway.
I hated how nervous he made me. Iknew what I was getting into before when I asked Vann to let me park here. Iwasn’t his competition. We ran opposite kinds of kitchens. There was no reasonat all to let him intimidate me.
None.
Not one.
Okay, there were probably a hundredreasons to be intimidated by him. But it wasn’t like I was going to meet him.Ever. He was a food god.
Or at least a legend.
At least in my circle.
Not even in my circle! In restaurantcircles. Fine dining restaurant circles that I was not included in because I rana food truck. A food truck that hadn’t even opened yet. And he ran aworld-class five-star restaurant. They were two totally different things. Plus,I had zero interest in other chefs. Dating them or befriending them or hell,even meeting them.
Like I said—opposites.
I needed to start ignoring him andthe monster of a shadowLiloucast, and worry aboutmy own thing.
