Opposites Attract: The complete box set Page 3

  He continued staring at us while we stared 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 could have sworn his eyes narrowed at the freshly painted Foodie declaring my business to the world. I could have sworn his gaze moved over my paint-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 my black bandana, assessing my face, arms, body before looking at the food truck behind me again.

  I could have sworn Killian Quinn absorbed every one of my weaknesses and insecurities, including the fragile faith I put in the truck behind me. He had weighed my worth and my talent, or lack thereof, then disregarded me as anything but a fleeting annoyance.

  His body jerked as if awoken from a trance and he turned his attention to his bike, pushing it to park on the side of Lilou and storing his helmet in a side compartment. His motorcycle jacket stretched over broad shoulders as he stretched his arms wide and then across his chest as if working out kinks.

  I stayed transfixed, watching this hero of mine as he fiddled around for another minute, then pulled keys from his pocket and let himself in the side door of Lilou. The door slammed shut behind him, and there was no more Killian Quinn.

  Letting out a slow breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding back, I shivered despite the heat of the day.

  “You’re really that intimidated by him?” Vann asked, surprise and some amusement lacing his tone.

  “He’s a big deal,” I told him.

  Vann shook his head and turned to offer Molly a hand as she jumped down from the RV. “If you say so.”

  “If I say what?” Molly asked.

  “Not you. Me. We just got our first glimpse of him,” I explained, turning to Molly with ABORT MISSION written all over my face.

  Molly was momentarily perplexed. “Him? Oh, him! And I missed it! Why didn’t you call me out here?”

  Vann made a choked sound, clearly disapproving our interest. “I really don’t get what the big deal is. So he’s a good cook. So are you, Vere. You’ve got nothing to be afraid of.”

  Molly nodded enthusiastically, patting me on the shoulder. “Vann’s right. You’re the best. Killian Quinn’s got nothing on you, babe.”

  “If that’s what you think then why are you so interested in him?” Vann asked Molly curiously.

  “Uh, are you serious?” She laughed. “Because he’s smokin’ hot! Didn’t you just see him? He could make burnt oatmeal, and I would pretend to be amazed.”

  “More likely you’ll be the one to make him burned oatmeal,” I laughed.

  “If he’s as good as you say he is, my cooking might be a deal breaker, huh?”

  “You’re cooking is a deal breaker for every guy,” Vann muttered.

  Molly punched him in the kidneys, causing him to jerk forward and grunt. Vann reached up and grabbed a fistful of Molly’s hair, yanking it backward. The two of them were like a Three Stooges routine.

  “Stand up for me, Vera!” Molly demanded.

  “I can’t,” I told her honestly. “Vann’s right. Your cooking is so bad it’s almost a deal breaker for me.”

  “I hate you both,” she pouted. “And just for that, I get to pick the restaurant.”

  I tried to protest. Molly’s taste ranged from Junior Whoppers with cheese to filet mignon- cooked well done. Ick. “But—”

  “Am I buying your lunch too?” Vann squinted at her.

  She squinted back. “Are you offering?”

  He shrugged and decided, “I’ll put it on the business card and call it a client lunch.”

  Molly and I grinned at each other. “Make it someplace nice, Molls.” She started to point across the plaza but I cut her off before she got ahead of herself. “Except Lilou. They’re not open for lunch. And we don’t have a genie, so there’s no way we’re getting in before the next solar eclipse anyway.”

  Her face fell, disappointed, but it was a universal truth. Until something better popped up or a zombie apocalypse occurred, there was no way we were eating at Lilou without doing our time on the reservation list.

  “Vincenzo’s it is!” Molly decided.

  “I’m going to have to fight a carb coma for the rest of the day,” my ultra-healthy brother complained.

  Molly pinched his waist, looking for pudge that wasn’t there. “And it’s going to feel so good.”

  I laughed, despite my fresh onslaught of nerves and pending failure. We walked across the plaza past Lilou, on our way to the next block of buildings and cobblestone square. I couldn’t help but stare at the darkened windows as we passed, taking in the rustic white washed brick and vibrant green ivy snaking around the windows. I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was in there and my pulse quickened with insecurities.

  Until this moment, opening Foodie had felt like the craziest thing I’d ever done.

  But I realized that wasn’t true. Now I was forced to acknowledge that Killian Quinn resided less than a football field away from me and I realized that this was the craziest thing I’d ever done. And the stupidest.

  It wasn’t the truck that was foolish. It was opening a pseudo fast food restaurant across the plaza from one of America’s rising chefs.

  I let out a breath and forced myself to get over it. It was sink or swim time, and besides that, I’d already hit rock bottom.

  A nervous breath escaped me as I thought, how bad can it really be?

  Maybe I’d even learn a thing or two from my illustrious competition…

  Famous last words.

  Three

  “Dad?” It was late when I got home. Well, late for my dad. He usually went to bed by eight, and it was already past nine.

  When he didn’t answer, I set my purse down on the cluttered, Formica table and weaved my way through the small house.

  My childhood home—a cozy three bedroom, two bath with tight corners—had furniture packed in every available space. My dad bought this house for my mom when they were first married. They’d planned to upgrade when they had kids. But shortly after I was born, my mom got sick, and their plans halted.

  After my mom passed away, my dad never considered leaving. Plus, there wasn’t any reason to with only the three of us.

  Where my dad and brother were content to be cramped and close in the old, museum of a house, I had wanted to flee somewhere since I could remember. I’d moved out as soon as possible, headed for school and the big goals I’d set for myself.

  Coming back here after everything that had happened felt strange, misplaced. I was too big for this house. Too old. I had shed this skin a long time ago, but somehow had to figure out a way to wear it again.

  I had nowhere else to go.

  Plus, Dad needed me.

  I found him asleep in his favorite chair, a faded blue recliner that creaked every time the footrest popped up. The TV remote rested loosely in his hand and one of his house shoes dangled precariously from the tip of his toe.

  Quietly, I slipped the remote from his grip and grabbed the nearest throw blanket, gently tossing it over his legs. He barely fit in the recliner meant for normal-size humans. My dad was tall, bulky and built from a lifetime as a mechanic. He routinely had to duck under doorframes and squeeze into tight spaces like cars, hallways and the Grand Canyon.

  But that was my dad, oversized and larger than life even if he was more likely to shy away from conversation and people. He was absent a lot when Vann and I were younger. He had to work all the time just to make ends meet, and after my mom died, it was hard for him to come home anyway.

  There were too many reminders of mom. Every room was touched with her decorating style and framed pictures of before she got sick. In a corner of the backyard sat the remnants of her abandoned garden. The ground had never recovered, tangled with weeds thanks to our neglect, but reminiscent of her all the same. And us— Vann and me— spitting images of the wo
man he had loved so deeply and lost so early.

  So he stayed away, isolating himself from the aching memories and painful present. We had everything we needed, but never enough of what we wanted. And so my lonely childhood had turned into an adolescence filled with desperation to escape. But now my exodus had turned into a last-resort homecoming to take care of the man that had done everything he could to take care of me.

  These were things I accepted a long time ago. And whatever bitterness or resentment I felt during those earlier years had faded in the light of his real love for us.

  I had come to accept his distant role in our lives, even count on it. It was easier to have a father that loved me but didn’t want anything to do with me when I was doing things I shouldn’t—when I was living a life he would never approve of anyway. His love was real. I told myself that was all that mattered.

  And now, looking down at him while he slept in his favorite chair, I actually believed it.

  He stirred, probably sensing me staring at him. Heavy eyelids fluttered open, and he rubbed his face with one of his big, rough hands.

  When I was a child, I was morbidly fascinated with his huge hands. As a mechanic, his hands were constantly black, streaked with dirt and oil and whatever else he worked on. He would stumble through the kitchen door at the end of his shift smelling like the equipment he worked on and covered in grease. Those big, dirty hands of his would lift to give us all a weary hello, and then he’d turn to the sink and start scrubbing.

  They were clean now. He had to retire two years back when he first got sick. It wasn’t cancer yet, but he was too sick to keep up his manual-labor lifestyle. Thankfully, his pension could cover all his medical expenses.

  “Vera May,” he mumbled sleepily.

  “Hi, Daddy.” My voice stayed a whisper even though he was awake now.

  “Just getting home?”

  I gave him the tired smile I imagined he gave me all those years. Our roles were reversed now. I was the one wandering in after a long day’s work, exhausted and filthy. My clothes were covered in dried paint and my skin in salty sweat from working in the heat all afternoon.

  “Yeah,” I affirmed through a yawn. Sliding down on the couch nearby, I plopped my bare feet on the coffee table and tipped my head back. My eyes closed without permission.

  His warm chuckle floated through the quiet room. “You’re working yourself too hard. You haven’t even opened yet.”

  I lifted one droopy eyelid and shot him a stern frown. “Says the man that worked two jobs his entire life.”

  He chuffed a laugh. “Not because I wanted to. That was for survival.”

  I tilted my head back against the couch and closed my eyes tightly again. “Yeah, well this is for survival too.”

  I heard the creak of the recliner as my dad sat up as quickly as he was capable of. “Why do you say that now? Have you heard from him? Has he been bothering you again?”

  I shook my head, keeping my eyes closed. “No, it’s not him. I haven’t seen or heard… He hasn’t bothered me.” Banished memories flooded my mind unbidden. My heart kicked into a gallop, pounding against my chest, beating to break free from the nightmare of my past. I opened my eyes, hoping to escape the thoughts that seemed to imprison me even after a year of freedom. Meeting my dad’s worried gray gaze, I said, “This is for me. This is all for me.”

  His forehead scrunched, pulling his wrinkled skin into deep lines. “I’m proud of you, Vere. You know that, don’t you?”

  I looked at my dad, a shadow of the strength and stability he used to be. He was so sick now. He quite literally worked himself to death. But, he was still the same man I grew up trusting. He was still the same man that provided for Vann and me when all he wanted to do was crumble and give up. He was still the man that had given me his approval when I ran away to Europe, even though he was the one that had to stay to fight my battles and banish my demons.

  My dad was a survivor. A lot of my life had been spent running from this house… running from the things that I thought I didn’t want. But I wanted his strength now. I wanted to be a survivor, too—exactly like my dad.

  I cleared my throat, so he didn’t hear the emotion clogging it. “I know, Daddy.”

  He leaned forward, earnest for me to understand. “And not just about the food truck, yeah? I’m proud of you for all of it. For getting out. For knowing when to get out.”

  I swallow back more tears and the lies I felt coating my tongue. My dad only knew part of the story. He only knew the sugar-coated version I could bear to give him. But what he knew was bad enough.

  “I’m proud of you, too,” I told him. Because it was true. And because I desperately wanted to change the subject.

  He waved his hand in the air and leaned back in the recliner. “Bah,” he mumbled. “There’s nothing to be proud of me for.”

  I stood up and walked over to give him a kiss on his shiny bald head. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  He grabbed my hand and looked up at me, surprising me with the tears clinging to his lashes. Hank Delane was not an emotional man. “Glad you’re home, baby girl.”

  I sighed, and this time when I spoke, it was the whole truth. “Me too.” Squeezing his hand, I looked around the dimly lit living room. Book shelves were pushed into the corners and a muted TV flashed brightly along one wall.

  The furniture had all been here since my mom. But the floors and paint were new. Despite cancer, my dad was still thinking about Vann and me. He’d been slowly remodeling the house so that we’d be able to sell it easily after he was gone.

  It was a sweet and thoughtful gesture, but also super morbid. Vann and I had been begging him to quit, to let us take care of everything if he goes. But he wouldn’t listen.

  The man was too stubborn for his own good.

  But mostly I didn’t think he knew how to do anything but take care of us. At least in his own way.

  “Do you want me to help you to your room?” I asked him.

  He yawned and shook his head. “Nah, I’m more comfortable here. Plus, the TV’s already on.”

  I handed him the remote again and told him goodnight. His snores filled the air before I could even check the front door to make sure it was locked.

  Making my way through the rest of the house, I flicked off lights and picked up my things that were scattered throughout every room.

  When I moved out on my own I became an obsessive neat freak. First by choice, and later by necessity. But since I moved back in with my dad, old habits had popped up out of nowhere. I couldn’t seem to remember to pick up my socks off the living room floor or put my dishes in the sink. It wasn’t that big of a deal, but I couldn’t help but feel the panicked dread every time I noticed one of my belongings out of place or dirty dishes on the counter.

  It was silly. And if anything I should be grateful there were no real consequences to leaving my things strewn about the house.

  I should feel better.

  But I couldn’t. Not yet.

  Moving back home with my dad at twenty-six was never something I planned for, but I was grateful to be here now. He needed me, and I was not afraid to admit that I needed him—for as long as I could keep him.

  I showered, then changed into yoga pants and a tank top and spent a few minutes in the bathroom brushing my teeth and adding product to control my excessively thick hair. By the time I shut myself in my old room, exhaustion had settled in my weary bones.

  I blinked blearily at the clock and forced myself to do another hour’s worth of work. I desperately needed to finalize the menu for Friday night. And once that was done, I needed to figure out my grocery list and where I could pick up all the ingredients around town. I still needed to wash all of my equipment and lug it over to the truck. Plus, I needed to write up the menu on my chalkboard and figure out how to hang it next to the window.

  Panic swirled through my belly. What am I doing?

  I can’t do this.

  What makes me think I can d
o this?

  I glanced at my knives still in their case on my desk. The clean black cloth was nicely folded, velvety in perfect softness and hiding the tools of my trade. They were a graduation gift from Vann and my dad. And the most expensive thing I owned. I had always been suspicious that my dad took out a loan to pay for them. But I’d always been too grateful for them to ask.

  My knives stared back at me tonight, asking silent questions and looking sorely neglected. I hadn’t cooked since I’d been back home. I hadn’t tested recipes or flavors or even made myself a grilled cheese sandwich.

  And I hated the reason why.

  I was afraid.

  No, it was worse than that. I was crippled by fear. I was drowning in the terror of failure and the realization that I might have bet my entire life on a false sense of self-worth.

  Old insecurities slipped into my thoughts like thunderclouds on a sunny day. They covered the sun and blocked out the blue sky. They darkened every positive thing and left me feeling cold and lost, without a sense of direction.

  My breathing staggered and my hands turned to ice. I felt the pressure to succeed—the pressure not to screw this up like I’d destroyed every other thing in my life—like serial killer hands around my throat.

  I shook my head and threw my notebook off my lap. I’d been sitting on my bed with my legs tucked under me hoping to find inspiration, but that hadn’t worked. And I couldn’t make myself face my knives yet. I couldn’t even use my desk because I was afraid to move them.

  How pathetic was that?

  Pulling my laptop onto my lap, I let out a slow, steady breath. Fear and self-doubt still tugged at my confidence, trying to unravel everything I’d worked to regain over the last year. I wouldn’t let them win.

  I wouldn’t.

  It was sheer determination that my breaths evened out and my vision cleared. My hands still shook as my laptop came to life.

  I intended to research some food for my menu, but my Facebook homepage popped up because I never closed out of it the last time I used my computer. I was instantly pulled into the newsfeed, even though it wasn’t very interesting.