At this time of day, the plaza wasbusy but not as boisterous as it would be later this evening. The sound of a motorcyclezipping through the plaza rumbled above all the other noise. Vann and I watchedwith equal interest as the sleek black crotch rocket zipped through the alleybesideLilouand slid to a stop, like the driver wasfrom some kind of British spy movie.
It was obnoxious how cool he looked.
Goosebumps skittered over my arms, despitethe warm summer sun. Keen awareness rocketed through me, and my stomach flippedwith nervous anticipation.
“That’s him,” Vann confirmed mysuspicions. He turned, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Your competition.”
Swallowing past the fist-sized lump inmy throat, I grated out, “He’s not my competition.”
I felt Vann’s smirk even though Irefused to look at him. I couldn’t take my eyes off the black helmet and leanbody that had dismounted from the motorcycle with a level of grace I’d never,ever achieved.
I gulped and tried not tohyperventilate.
He stared in our direction. If myneighbors in our plaza were curious about the silver RV taking up residence infront of the bike shop, splashingFoodieacross the front in bright red paint was a pretty good indication of what wasgoing on.
He pulled his helmet off and let itdangle in one hand. I flinched, taking an instinctive step back. I couldn’tmake out the finer details of his features, butI hate youwas pretty much written all over his squared shouldersand angry aura.
Killian Quinn knew what moved inacross the street from him and it was safe to say he was not a fan.
I’d been advertising on social mediaand in local papers since I’d gotten approval and all the necessary permitsrequired to open. I had a fair amount of positive interest, but Vann had stayedtight-lipped with his neighbors. He told me it was because he preferred theelement of surprise. I was confident that meant he was terrified to tell themthat he’d opened his lot to a late-night food truck, afraid of what they’dthink of him.
“Then why do you look like you’reabout to throw up?” Vann teased.
My voice was a choked whisper.“That’s really him?”
“Killian Quinn in the flesh.” Vannhad never cared about food. Growing up we’d been mostly responsible for our ownmeals. If we wanted to eat, we had to scrounge for ourselves. Our dad workedtwo jobs, first shift and third shift, and never had the energy for familydinners or grocery shopping. Vann survived on the bare minimum.
It was why he was so happy withgranola bars and protein shakes. They were several steps above his childhooddiet of ramen noodles and Kraft mac and cheese.
I’d taken the opposite approach.Denied basic meals and balanced food groups, food became fascinating to me. Idreamed of the day I could eat something that tasted good. I became obsessed withfood that didn’t taste cheap or convenient.
Good food became a goal thatsprouted wings and grew talons during my junior high HomeEcclass. My goal grew to be a living, breathing monster when I got to high schooland found a teacher that had once been a chef at a European bistro before she’dmet the love of her life and moved here to start their family.
She’d settled in her husband’shometown and turned to inspiring the next generation of chefs when she shouldhave opened her own kitchen and made a name for herself. She’d always laughedwhen I told her that, insisting that love, marriage and raising a family wasthe greatest thing she could ever do.
Moral of the story? Kids ruinedeverything.
Just ask my dad.
All that to say, Vann wasn’tintimidated by Killian Quinn in the least. He didn’t readFood and Wineobsessively or troll online food blogs every singleday. He didn’t have to compare himself to the greatness across the plaza orwish that his life had gone in a similar direction as Quinn’s, instead of thefiery train wreck mine had become.
From across the busy street, Iwatched Killian Quinn staring back. I didn’t have to be close to know it washim. I’d cyberstalked him enough times that I could recognize his dark, wildshock of hair and the signature beard that stood out in an industry filled withcleanly shaven men.
He continued staring at us while westared back. Vann didn’t move to say hi to him, and I felt frozen in place,waiting to shatter from the presence of someone so prolific and talented.
I couldn’t be certain, but I couldhave sworn his eyes narrowed at the freshly painted Foodie declaring mybusiness to the world. I could have sworn his gaze moved over mypaint-splattered white t-shirt and black and white apron tied around my waist.I could have sworn I felt his gaze on me, assessing, calculating, taking in myblack bandana, assessing my face, arms, body before looking at the food truckbehind me again.
I could have sworn Killian Quinnabsorbed every one of my weaknesses and insecurities, including the fragilefaith I put in the truck behind me. He had weighed my worth and my talent, orlack thereof, then disregarded me as anything but a fleeting annoyance.
His body jerked as if awoken from atrance and he turned his attention to his bike, pushing it to park on the sideofLilouand storing his helmet in a sidecompartment. His motorcycle jacket stretched over broad shoulders as hestretched his arms wide and then across his chest as if working out kinks.
I stayed transfixed, watching thishero of mine as he fiddled around for another minute, then pulled keys from hispocket and let himself in the side door ofLilou. Thedoor slammed shut behind him, and there was no more Killian Quinn.
Letting out a slow breath I hadn’trealized I’d been holding back, I shivered despite the heat of the day.
“You’re really that intimidated byhim?” Vann asked, surprise and some amusement lacing his tone.
“He’s a big deal,” I told him.
