Famous last words, right? You’re expecting some epic tale of reluctant love and my dramatic change of heart? Well, you’re not going to get it.
I’m stubborn. And headstrong. And I’ve just survived the worst three years of my life. After escaping an abusive boyfriend to live in hostels and cheap hotels while I worked my way across Europe, I’ve come to two conclusions.
The first? Now that I’m back home, I’m going to squander my expensive culinary degree on a food truck that caters to the late night drunk crowd.
The second? I’m going to prove to the bastard across the plaza that my street food is better than his fussy five course monstrosities.
Killian Quinn might be Food and Wine’s Chef to Watch Out For. He might have a Michelin Star. He might have every food critic in the city wrapped around his too-large fingers. But he’s also pretentious and unbearably arrogant and the very opposite of me.
So he can keep his unsolicited advice and his late night visits and his cocky smiles. I want none of it. Or him.
I want the opposite.
Teaser:I darted away from him, ready to fling myself out the front door, but he grabbed my wrist and yanked me back to his body. I landed in a surprised heap against his chest, my cheek smooshed over his chiseled pectoral.
I rested there for a second. Maybe two seconds.
There was a good possibility it was at least thirty seconds.
Hot awareness zinged through me with my body pressed so tightly to his. He was breathing heavily, worked up by the review. I couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to be plastered over his well-defined body in other circumstances.
Like if we were both naked, for example.
Replacing my cheek with my hand, I quickly pushed away from him, desperate for space. He kept hold of my wrist and caged me in against the cool counter.
My butt hit the edge and my back bowed in an attempt to put some distance between myself and my now looming neighbor. Killian’s hands rested on either side of my waist, making an impenetrable prison while his body leaned over mine, holding my full attention.
I tried not to smell him again, but he was everywhere. And so very close. His thighs rested against mine. His stomach against mine. Our chests were just inches apart. If I leaned forward just a smidge, I could head butt him. Or bite him.
Or kiss him.
I swallowed through the dysfunctional lump in my throat. “What are you doing?” I whispered.
He held my gaze, his voice dropping low, rumbly. “Forcing a confession.”