He jerked his chin toward the parking lot, “You’re a chef. You can’t exactly starve yourself.”
“I run a food truck.” I grabbed the edge of the stainless steel counter and squeezed. “I’m going to run a food truck,” I amended. “I’m basically a fry cook. Hardly worthy of the chef title. And I can starve. I can very easily starve.”
His usually intense gray eyes softened, followed by a patient sigh that was so out of character for him, my insides went squishy with sisterly affection. “They’re going to love you, Vere. And your truck. And your awesome food. This is a brilliant idea.”
“And if they don’t? If I fail?”
“You won’t,” he promised. “Besides, I’ll send all my customers to you. Guaranteed business.”
I snorted, a smile finally breaking free on my face after acknowledging Lilou across the way. “Your crunchy granola loving crowd is hardly my ideal clientele, Vann. Besides, opposite business hours, remember? That’s why this whole thing works.”
His mouth tilted into a rare smile. “Hey, even crunchy, granola-loving, tree huggers drink too much on occasion. We even stay out late once in a while. Sometimes past midnight.”
My eyes bulged in mock surprise. “No, Vann! Past midnight? I can’t even imagine. That’s just… so crazy. You’re really living life on the edge.”
His smile disappeared, and his voice flattened, back to the super serious big brother I knew and loved. “I’m rethinking my offer to buy you lunch.”
“You’re buying?” I grabbed my purse from the wire shelf overhead and followed him out the door. Pausing to lock the door behind me, I added, “You should have led with that.”
“Wait!” Molly stopped me with my key still in the deadbolt. “I need to store my paints.”
She’d already packed away the bright reds and taken care of her paint pallet, but her brushes still glistened with crimson. I eyed them skeptically.
She let out a longsuffering sigh. “I promise not to stain your pristine sanctuary. Seriously, Vera!” She gestured at the sign she just painted for me—for free—then waved around her expensive brushes in exasperation.
“No dripping,” I sternly warned her.
She rolled her eyes but nodded compliantly. “I promise to leave it as shiny and new as I found it.”
I unlocked the door again, and pulled it open for her. She pushed past me without waiting for me to drop the outer step so her climb into the truck was awkward and wide. She didn’t seem to notice.
“Yeesh,” Vann mumbled. “And I thought I was anal.”
I turned to give him the evil eye. “I guess she could have washed her brushes off in your store.”
He cringed, seeing my point.
My brother was as meticulous and OCD as they came. We were products of our environment. And by that I meant, raised by a single father that hardly remembered to run the dishwasher let alone clean things like bathrooms or clothes or really anything. Vann and I had emerged from our childhood home desperate for order and good hygiene. We were the opposite of everything Dad had been.
But not out of spite.
We loved our dad fiercely. He’d sacrificed everything for us and then managed to raise us to be decent, successful grownups. Or at least that was how he’d raised Vann. I was still finding my sea legs on the functioning adult ship. But I hoped to make him proud soon.
Really soon, since I didn’t have much time.
The sound of an engine interrupted our quiet afternoon, growling through the plaza. Most of downtown was a busy mix of one-way streets and constant traffic, but the center strip, with its border of brick industrial buildings turned into trendy lofts and high-end businesses, was the busiest part.
Three separate plazas, one right next to the other, boasted restaurants, bars, clubs, lofts and businesses successful enough to pay the exorbitant rent. This section of town was all millennials clubbing until ungodly hours and high rollers throwing their money around for extravagant dinners and designer clothes.
I was neither cool enough to have real estate here nor rich enough for the rent. But Vann’s custom bicycle shop fit in perfectly and after begging, pleading and selling my soul to the city council, I’d been given temporary and reluctant approval to operate on the same property.
At this time of day, the plaza was busy but not as boisterous as it would be later this evening. The sound of a motorcycle zipping through the plaza rumbled above all the other noise. Vann and I watched with equal interest as the sleek black crotch rocket zipped through the alley beside Lilou and slid to a stop, like the driver was from some kind of British spy movie.
It was obnoxious how cool he looked.
Goosebumps skittered over my arms, despite the warm summer sun. Keen awareness rocketed through me, and my stomach flipped with nervous anticipation.
“That’s him,” Vann confirmed my suspicions. He turned, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Your competition.”
Swallowing past the fist-sized lump in my throat, I grated out, “He’s not my competition.”
I felt Vann’s smirk even though I refused to look at him. I couldn’t take my eyes off the black helmet and lean body that had dismounted from the motorcycle with a level of grace I’d never, ever achieved.
I gulped and tried not to hyperventilate.
He stared in our direction. If my neighbors in our plaza were curious about the silver RV taking up residence in front of the bike shop, splashing Foodie across the front in bright red paint was a pretty good indication of what was going on.
He pulled his helmet off and let it dangle in one hand. I flinched, taking an instinctive step back. I couldn’t make out the finer details of his features, but I hate you was pretty much written all over his squared shoulders and angry aura.
Killian Quinn knew what moved in across the street from him and it was safe to say he was not a fan.
I’d been advertising on social media and in local papers since I’d gotten approval and all the necessary permits required to open. I had a fair amount of positive interest, but Vann had stayed tight-lipped with his neighbors. He told me it was because he preferred the element of surprise. I was confident that meant he was terrified to tell them that he’d opened his lot to a late-night food truck, afraid of what they’d think of him.
“Then why do you look like you’re about to throw up?” Vann teased.
My voice was a choked whisper. “That’s really him?”
“Killian Quinn in the flesh.” Vann had never cared about food. Growing up we’d been mostly responsible for our own meals. If we wanted to eat, we had to scrounge for ourselves. Our dad worked two jobs, first shift and third shift, and never had the energy for family dinners or grocery shopping. Vann survived on the bare minimum.
It was why he was so happy with granola bars and protein shakes. They were several steps above his childhood diet of ramen noodles and Kraft mac and cheese.