My mouth watered just looking at it.
“It looks and smells amazing,Killian. You have nothing to worry about.”
“It’s not modern,” he countered.“It’s not interesting or pushy or anything but ordinary. I’m bored just lookingat it.”
“So make something else,” Iencouraged. I hadn’t seen anything but the technical precision he’d used on thedish. But now that he suggested some problems, I could see what he meant. Thiswasn’t a dish that was pushing the boundaries of the food industry. But not everydish had to be.
He glared at me. “This is what Ezrawants. This is what Ezra gets.”
I leaned in until our shoulderstouched, linking my pinky with his. “It’s perfect. You know that it’s perfect.Stop stressing out.”
He let out a deep sigh and wrappedhis arms around me, tugging me into a hug. I sucked in a breath, surprised bythe intimacy in the middle of his kitchen. For a warm, delicious minute, hejust held me against him, seeming to take as much pleasure in our innocentconnection as I did. Finally, he dropped a kiss on the top of my head andstepped back. “Let’s go eat. I’ll worry about this later.”
“I didn’t take you for the nervoussort,” I teased him as we weaved through the kitchen and out to the diningroom.
He shot me a glance over his shoulderand then stopped at a corner table set for two. “It’s not me I’m worried about.I know I serve the best. But I can’t control him. You can’t make someone enjoygood food. You can’t convince them to appreciate the skill and taste andquality you put into every element. I learned very early on that food serviceis an art just as much as painting or storytelling. People either like it, orthey don’t. You can’t argue with personal taste.”
I sat down in the chair he pulledout for me. “Every other review of you orLilouhasbeen glowing. I know because I’ve read them all. You seriously have nothing toworry about.”
He sat down across from me andpulled silver domes off the two platters waiting for us. One plate was thechocolate mousse I loved here. And the other was a conglomeration of meats andcheese, mustard, jelly, bread and nuts.
Killian grinned at me. “Acharcuterie board.”
“You’re so full of it.”
He nodded, waggling his eyebrows.“And you’re impressed. It’s okay if you want to tell me how much.”
I just shook my head. Unbelievable.
“How was inventory? Do you know whatyou’re going to serve this week?” He rearranged the plates so the charcuteriewas between us and tore off a hunk of bread and meat, dipping it in the mustardbefore taking a bite.
I followed suit, kind of loving thathe hadn’t bothered to plate individually. “I was really inspired by thosestrawberries at Jo’s stand. I was thinking about doing a deconstructed chickensalad sandwich with a strawberry-rhubarb compote over greens and like a Capresesalad on a skewer. I don’t know. I’m just playing with the idea right now. Idon’t want the chicken salad to be too sweet.”
His expression turned thoughtful.“Would you serve bread with it?”
“Maybe toast for texture? Orlavosh? Then layer it with butter lettuce, blackenedchicken, the compote and a spicy-ishaioli to give itsome heat.”
“And the salad?”
“Fresh mozzarella balls and cherrytomatoes marinated in balsamic vinegar and roasted briefly with a basil pestoto dip it in.”
He leaned forward, bringing uscloser together. “Is that your style then? Fancy comfort food?”
I nearly choked on a curriedpistachio. “What?”
“Your signature. You’re doingupscale comfort food out of a food truck. It’s clever, Vera. You should runwith it.”
I popped another pistachio in mymouth and let his words settle inside me. That was exactly my style. It wasn’t asecret, but I hadn’t had to explain it to him. He’d simply gotten to know myfood and figured it out himself. There was satisfying validation in that.
My pride soared, and I settled intothe style all over again. I loved to take ordinary meals that we were all usedto and make them interesting, different. I wanted to take the thing that yourmom made you on your sick days or the meals that reminded you most of home andspin them until they felt completely different. And then I wanted to make youlove them just as much.
I smiled instead, appreciatingKillian all over again. “Yes. That is my style.”
“Are you ever going to expand beyondthe truck?”
Was this his version of twentyquestions? Geez. “Right now I’m about fifty thousand dollars in debt. First I’mgoing to pay off my student and business loans.”
His eyebrows lifted at mycandidness. Swiping a piece of cheese through the red pepper jelly, he said,“Yeah, but if the food truck continues to grow you’ll need to capitalize onyour success. I know you want a kitchen, Vera. And I know Foodie is taking off.A restaurant of your own seems like the next, most natural step.”
