As I locked the door, the same grumbling engine from yesterday zoomed through the plaza. I turned to watch the sleek motorcycle weave in and out of traffic, disregarding traffic laws and angry drivers alike. A subtle feeling of disappointment gurgled in my belly.
I wasn’t necessarily a rule follower, but it was kind of annoying how Killian Quinn just ignored lanes and traffic lights and pedestrians that were in his way. His face was a mystery behind his sleek black helmet. But his lean body broadcasted relaxed disregard for everyone around him. He simply didn’t care.
Or at least that was what I assumed as I watched him like a stalker pressed against the side of Foodie.
The engine cut off abruptly when he reached Lilou. I strained my neck so I could watch him hop off and store his helmet like he had yesterday. His head whipped my direction as if he could sense my gaze on him. I didn’t think he could see me, but he stared with that laser-like focus at my truck for a long time.
What kind of chef was he? I wondered. Everything I knew about him was from a distance, food blogs and magazine write-ups. Nothing personal. Nothing that hadn’t been edited and filtered. I wanted to know what he was like as a human. His personality and work ethic. Was he outgoing? Or an introvert? How short was his fuse? How perfect was his perfectionism?
Most of the chefs I knew were arrogant and overly self-assured. You kind of had to be in our industry. If you didn’t believe in your food, nobody was going to pat you on the head and convince you that you were good. You either came out of the gate swinging, or you faded into the background.
It was a monstrously competitive industry and not only did you have to convince your peers that you were worth your salt, but you had to convince your diners as well. And the critics. And the food blogs. And the staff that had to stand behind you.
And everyone got to hand out stars. Serious industry professionals gave awards and accolades. There were critics in newspapers, blogs, magazines and every other place online. And your customers had a crack at you with Yelp and Zomato—even Google had business star ratings now, and restaurants were included. Every single person had the authority to judge you. Some were obviously more qualified than others, but all of them were given the power. And most people exercised that power. Fairly or unfairly, it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was what made it to the internet. That was the world we lived in these days.
It wasn’t that I was expecting a chef of Killian Quinn’s caliber to be humble. But I found it completely repulsive when professional confidence tipped over into grossly exaggerated arrogance. And, okay, I hadn’t met the acclaimed Mr. Quinn yet. But everything about him screamed icky conceit and aggressive superiority complex.
I realized he was still looking in my direction and that he could see me—half leaning around my truck bumper to stare back at him. We were yards apart, but I hated that I’d been caught watching him.
At least today he could tell I was a girl. My wild hair hung down to the middle of my back, angry with unruly curls and humidity-induced frizz. I’d sported another white t-shirt, but I’d tucked it into red, high-waisted shorts and zebra-print flip flops, knowing I would get hot in my food truck with the fryer running. And my figure could be described as nothing but generously curvy after a year in Europe.
I had never been skinny. I loved food too much. I loved good food. I couldn’t even stomach the idea of Vann’s diet of green plants and quinoa. So, my thighs had always touched, and my hips had never not flared and my boobs had never been anything itty bitty or manageable.
A year ago, I hated the way I looked. A year ago, I would avoid mirrors and reflections and anything that reminded me that I couldn’t change me.
Insecurity, my old friend, had convinced me that I was fat instead of curvy. My demons were embarrassed of my weight, jeans size and diet instead of comfortable in my own skin. And the voices I’d let into my life only fanned the flames of self-hate and shame.
I’d shed some of the debilitating emotions once I reached Europe, but that lack of confidence hadn’t yet disappeared. Although it was quieter now.
Maybe it was because I was as independent as I’d ever been, or maybe it was because I’d spent a year trekking through France and Italy and Spain with their never-ending glasses of wine and constant supply of carbs. One thing I realized—this was how I was built. I was thicker than most, built more like my dad than my mom. And no matter how much exercise I forced my body to submit to, my ass hung onto carbs like it would shrivel up and die without them.
And I wasn’t about to give up carbs.
I mean… that was obviously an insane expectation.
So, curvy it was. And since I only had myself to please and planned to keep it that way for a very long time, I decided to be happy just the way I was.
Still, Killian’s glare from across the street made me self-conscious. I turned away, stepping away from the truck. I hurried back to my car and out of his sight. I should ignore him anyway. Watching Killian Quinn and comparing myself to him was only going to get me into trouble anyway.
I hated how nervous he made me. I knew what I was getting into before when I asked Vann to let me park here. I wasn’t his competition. We ran opposite kinds of kitchens. There was no reason at all to let him intimidate me.
None.
Not one.
Okay, there were probably a hundred reasons to be intimidated by him. But it wasn’t like I was going to meet him. Ever. He was a food god.
Or at least a legend.
At least in my circle.
Not even in my circle! In restaurant circles. Fine dining restaurant circles that I was not included in because I ran a food truck. A food truck that hadn’t even opened yet. And he ran a world-class five-star restaurant. They were two totally different things. Plus, I had zero interest in other chefs. Dating them or befriending them or hell, even meeting them.
Like I said—opposites.
I needed to start ignoring him and the monster of a shadow Lilou cast, and worry about my own thing.
I nodded to myself, mentally patting my resolve on the head, and grabbed the last of my heavy crates from my shopping excursion. I stacked them on top of each other, so I only had to make one last trip. I was practically crushed under the weight of everything I carried, and my left hand kept slipping because I’d held onto my keys to make unlocking the door as easy as possible.
By the time I staggered back to the truck, beads of sweat had speckled my forehead and trickled down my spine. I cursed creatively as I shuffled to a stop in front of the door, but before I could open it, I noticed the legend himself leaning against the silver siding.
My mouth dried up and I nearly dropped everything. “Son of a bitch!” I hissed against plastic.
I didn’t know whether to run back to my car or keep walking and pretend like I didn’t own this truck and these weren’t my crates overflowing with ingredients. He probably wouldn’t notice if I made a fast U-turn. Or threw myself in front of the oncoming traffic.