Tryharder.
Molly’s gasp of outrage was loud inmy ear when she finished reading over my shoulder. “This can’t be real.”
I saw red. Anger boiled my blood andpulsed in my temples. “Try harder?Tryharder?Is he kidding me? He doesn’t even know me!” I realized that was aridiculous thing to say. My diners didn’t know me; they judged me purely on thefood I made them. And that was all I expected from them.
But Quinn was different. This feltpersonal.
He didn’t review my food, heattacked me personally.
“He called my teriyaki saucepedestrian,” I hissed, surprised when I didn’t breathe fire. “He called mygrilled cheese a cluster fuck!”
“He’s an asshole,” Molly conceded.“A complete and utter asshole. I see what you mean now about the whole glossyhotness thing. It’s over. That beard is gross.”
I would have smiled if I wasn’t soutterly pissed off right now.
Laughter floated over to us, and welooked up to see people wandering our direction.
“Customers,” Molly whispered as ifI’d forgotten my entire purpose for being here. “Are you going to respond? Whatare you going to do?”
My eyes were hot inside my head, furiouswith tears I desperately held back and hatred for a man I once admired beatinglike a drum inside my throat. “I’m going to cook the shit out of my pedestriansauces and overly sweet sandwiches.” I whipped around to the stove, game-planningas I moved. “And tomorrow I’m going to make us reservations at the toprestaurant in the city. He’s not the only one with an opinion.”
Molly shot me a menacing smile andthen turned to the people waiting to order. “How can I help you?” she asked, sweetand friendly once again.
Thank God she was there to deal withcustomers while I angry cooked my way through the rest of the night. Like somany other things in my life, I didn’t know what I would have done without her.Besides, her help gave me plenty of space to plot my revenge.
Twocan play at this game, Killian Quinn.
Chapter Seven
ByTuesday afternoon I was still exhausted from the weekend. I realized sometimeSunday afternoon when I finally rolled out of bed that my entire schedule wasgoing to have to change.
Iwas used to late nights from working in various kitchens for the last severalyears, but by the time I cleaned and closed Foodie, it was four am before I gothome.
AndI was exhausted. I knew how to bust my ass in a kitchen, but I didn’t expectthe stress of running my own, however small, would be so taxing. Saturday nightI ran out of pork. But had way too many sticky buns and green beans left over. Butwithout the pork, I couldn’t serve them.
Goodthing Dad appreciated leftovers!
Whenhe was hungry enough to eat them.
Ihad until Thursday to analyze sales, expenses and goals. I learned so much overthe weekend, but I had a sinking feeling that I had a ton to figure out. Thiswas not as simple and clear-cut as I’d hoped it would be.
Ialso decided to change up my menu. Not because of Killian Quinn.
Ormostly not because of him.
Butbecause I was my own boss and I could do whatever I wanted. Killian’s criticismmight have been complete bullshit—or mostly bullshit—but he was right about onething. I could try harder. I could be better.
I’dlet myself get away with easy meals because I’d been afraid to push myself onlyto crash and burn. I had been afraid to push my customers, worried theywouldn’t come back if the food wasn’t familiar and easy to like. I’d been toocowardly to be the chef I wanted to be, and so I’d let myself play it safe andget away with mediocre.
Anugly feeling settled in my chest. I didn’t want to acknowledge the shame I feltburrowing through me, like worms in gritty dirt. Or the embarrassment.
Itwasn’t even embarrassment. It was utter humiliation.
KillianQuinn had tried my food, under false pretenses, and found it lacking.
Foundme lacking.
Foundmy whole business lacking.
