Mystomach dropped to my toes. He hated it. I instantly knew he hated it. “Youpromised to keep your opinion to yourself.”
Hemashed his lips together, glaring at the meatball and clearly frustrated thathe’d done that. His eyes flicked up to mine. “Do you hate salt?”
“Excuseme?”
“Salt?Do you hate it?”
Fireand anger and pride seared beneath my skin, setting my bones ablaze and myblood to boil. “No, I don’t hate salt.”
Hejabbed his hand at my food. “Then why do you abuse it like you do? It’s asupporting actor, not the star of the show. It should enhance flavor, not slapyou in the face with it.”
Mygasp cut through the plaza, high and shrill. “Stop! Stop it right there! Idon’t want to hear your opinion or your thoughts or your criticism. No more, Killian!I mean it.”
Hisattention moved so quickly from the meatball to my face that I stumbled back astep. There was so much intensity to him. So much aggression and focus andemotion. He wasn’t someone you could forget. He left an impression in seconds.Or an imprint. He was a force like the wind, or a tornado. He blew over youwith destructive intent, annihilating everything you thought you knew about theworld with his brutal opinions and cocky confidence.
Whenhe just stared at me, I began to shrivel. My hands and knees started trembling,and I felt the immediate urge to bolt, to just run away.
Finally,he stepped forward, scooping up a bite of pita and meatball with this fork. Heheld it toward my face. “Try it.”
Myvoice was nothing more than a breathless gasp. “What?”
Hejerked the fork toward me again. “Try it. Try the meatball.”
“Idid—”
“Humorme.”
Unwillingto give this difficult man everything he wanted, I crossed my arms over mychest and said, “Don’t you have a kitchen to run?”
“Yes,I do. So take the bite.”
“No.”
Hestepped closer, losing some of his hard edge. “Humor me.” After a beat ofsilence, he added, “Please?”
Itwas his please that did it. My body reacted to the softly spoken plea before mybrain could intervene. I closed my mouth around the fork,hisfork, and took the bite. A shiver rolled down my spine when Irealized how strange the gesture was, how intimate.
Ididn’t make a habit of eating off other people’s forks.
“See?”His question brought me back to reality, and I remembered to taste the foodthat was in my mouth.
Ihad spent hours over this recipe. Hours and hours. I’d put every last bit of mytalent into creating the perfect lamb meatball. I had made sure it was wellspiced, a good, solid texture with just the right notes of earthiness andcomfort. The gravy was my own recipe, and it was thick and creamy but not toorich. I’d pickled the vegetables myself and made sure each dice was exactlyeven and consistent. They were tangy and just barely still crisp—just the way Iwanted them. And the pita was a trick I’d learned from a Greek grandmother inItaly. I’d worked with her son at a small bistro, and I’d convinced him to lether teach me how. The pitas were perfection.
Andyet now that he brought up the salt…
“Goddamnyou,” I hissed at him after I swallowed.
Hepoked at the fries. “The fries are clever and would have been the highlight ifnot for everything else. The flatbread is fine. But the vegetables are bland,and the meatball is too salty. Your tzatziki is stringy.”
“Ihate you.”
Heshook his head, ignoring me. “You hate that I’m right.”
IfI didn’t before, I did now. “Go away, Quinn.”
Bynow a line had formed again, and Molly had filled the ticket line with orders.I needed to get back to work and serve people that didn’t care that I’dslightly over-salted the meat. They wouldn’t even be able to tell.
Yes,fine, Killian was right. But only a professional would be able to tell.
