In fact, snapping at Killian was farless satisfying than I thought it would be. A gritty, sickly feeling settled inmy stomach as guilt pressed down on me. Killian deserved all of that. I knew hedid. He was mean and a bully and completely out of line.
But that didn’t mean I had to stoopto his level.
I pressed my palms to my temples,hoping to clear the sticky residue of our first and hopefully last interaction.I was serious when I told him to ignore me. I hadn’t expected him to ever doanything but ignore me.
With extra care, I opened the doorto Foodie gently, as if she was as wounded by that exchange as I was. “Itdoesn’t matter,” I whispered to her. “He doesn’t matter.”
And I meant that.
Lilouwould always be one of the bestrestaurants in Durham, maybe even in the nation. And Killian would always be aphenomenal chef. But those weren’t the things I wanted anymore.
Those weren’t my dreams or my goals.
They were only memories.
And Killian Quinn finally poundedthe last nail in the coffin of my former life. I’d moved on. I’d worked really,really hard to move on.
Now I was going to do the two thingsI was great at—hide, and make damn good food.
Chapter Five
Friday night opened with morefanfare than I expected- especially since I didn’t finalize my menu until wellafter midnight the night before. I’d cooked all day. My tiny counter space wascovered in potential dishes, some epic failures, and some surprising winners.And yet I still couldn’t pull the trigger and decide on my final weekend menu.
Insecurity and legitimate fearclouded my judgment and twisted my insight. I’d done my research. I knew myexpertise. The opening night menu should have been obvious. Or at leastmanageable. And yet I couldn’t make myself commit to side dishes, let alone themain fare.
I had been a sweaty, exhausted messwhen I decided to give up and forget this entire thing. A cool breeze hadfinally breached the small kitchen space. I was about to throw in the towel,not only for the night but on this stupid dream completely, when Killian Quinnhad zipped by on his motorcycle, leather jacket tight around his lean torso,black helmet obscuring his pretentious face.
Lilouhad shut down over an hour earlier,and I had been telling myself I wasn’t waiting to catch a glimpse of the ratbastard, even though I couldn’t stop throwing hateful glances his way all day.His staff had filtered out a half hour before, but Killian was the last one thatleft the building.
He didn’t stop by the truck again.And I expected hell would freeze over before he ever spoke to me after ourearlier altercation. Which was more than fine with me.
But something about the way he flewthrough the plaza without once turning his helmeted head my direction lit afire in me once again. He was a jerk. An arrogant jerk! So caught up in hissycophantic world that he couldn’t see a good chef if she punched him in theface…
Before I knew it, I had a decentmenu picked and mentally prepared.
My whole philosophy was modernAmericana comfort food with a twist. I’d played with burgers and mini meatloaves,chicken fried steak and ribs all day, but inspiration hit like a lightningstrike, and I knew exactly what I wanted.
Grilled cheese and tomato soup. Onlymy grilled cheese would come with fresh mozzarella, pancetta andstrawberry-jalapeno jam on brioche. And my tomato soup would be served as acooled drizzle over the sandwich. Hand cut fries for the side with the same tomatosoup served for dipping instead of ketchup. Messy, but not overly so. Familiar,but interesting enough to feel different.
Pulled pork sandwiches. Only insteadof traditional American BBQ, the sandwiches would be Korean BBQ with an Asianslaw and sticky buns. With fried green beans and a teriyaki glaze for the sidedish.
Done.
I’d smiled down at my list, knowingboth dishes could be made quickly and easily enough. I’d start my pork early inthe morning so it would be done ahead of time and the rest was easy enough tohandle by myself.
The menu would have to stay smallfor now, but I could change it when things didn’t work or weren’t selling. Orhell, whenever I felt like it.
I’d gotten used to cooking quicklyover the past year as I moved from kitchen to kitchen wherever I could findwork. I had never been in charge before, but Friday night was as good a time asany to take the lead.
Fast forward twenty-ishhours or so and my pride-fueled optimism had evolvedinto full-fledged panic.
The line in front of my windowstretched six people deep while three other couples waited for their food.
I scrambled around my tiny kitchenlike a mad woman, carefully balancing taking orders and filling orders. If Iignored the window for too long, the people waiting would leave. If I ignoredthe orders waiting, those people would leave too and drop scathing reviews allover the internet.
Or shout their complaints straightto my face.
I wiped my hand across my dampforehead and ignored the hard pounding of my heart. Adrenaline coursed throughme. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to dance in triumph or puke in early defeat.
