Perfect Pairing (3 page)

“And you're honest, blunt even, but not mean. This could really work.”

“I'm sorry. Are you talking to me, or the voices in your head? 'Cause you seem to have had something mapped out since you bowled your way to the front of my line tonight, but I still don't even know who you are.”

“Right, well first of all, what you're referring to as a line was not a line, but aside from that I'm Quinn Banning. I work in the corporate side of Nickel City Bank, and also as a private real estate investor.”

“Well hello, Quinn Banning, banker and line connoisseur. Maybe someday I'll think it was nice to meet you, but right now I'm still not quite there.”

“Fair enough, but I don't think you'll have to wait too long. Give me three minutes to make a pitch and your gratitude for knowing me may just burst out of you like little rays of cheesy sunshine.”

Hal sat on the bench facing out with her elbow resting on the table beside her. “When you phrase it like that, how can I tell you no?”

“You can't tell me no, Hal.” Quinn flashed a smile that seemed more practiced and controlled than the earlier one, but still very effective. “May I call you ‘Hal,' or do your prefer ‘Halle'? Or maybe ‘Fryboi'?”

Honestly, a woman who looked like her could normally call her anything she wanted for a night, but something told her there was more to Quinn than her shapely legs and high cheekbones. “Hal's good.”

“All right then, Hal.” She glanced at an elegant, silver watch
gracing her right wrist. “Three minutes start now. Congratulations, you're the next big thing. Your reputation precedes you, and the piece in
Buffalo Spree
only confirms what I've been hearing for the last month. You're the ‘it' girl, or boi, for Buffalo this summer.”

“Thanks,” Hal said, not totally sure any of that sounded like a genuine compliment.

“This isn't the part of the conversation where you do grateful, because ‘it' girls and poster bois come and go quickly in Buffalo, especially in summers that last about as long as the lifespan of a gadfly. Your days in the truck are numbered. Hipsters' days in Buffalo are numbered. Larkin Square itself may even be living on borrowed time.”

“Is this where I'm supposed to be grateful?”

“Wait for it.”

“Sure.”

“I came out here because I heard you're more than a flash in a truck-sized frying pan. I heard you have staying power that goes beyond a summer season. I heard you had the charisma, the work ethic, and a quality that's uniquely Buffalo, a blue-collar sensibility with an Obama-esque sense of hope and change.”

Hal tried not to get too excited about the assessment. She was clearly being buttered up for something. “Was that in the article?”

“No, I wrote that on the fly.”

“Nice, but can we get to the sales part of this pitch? All the foreplay makes me nervous. I never trust anyone until their cards are on the table or their clothes are on the floor.”

Quinn didn't flinch. “Here's the deal. I'm interested in long-term investments. I'm interested in long-term revitalization of the city you and I both love. I'm interested in making money while also keeping money in the community where I live. And I'm interested in raising the bar culturally, without losing the qualities that make Buffalo a place worth fighting for.”

Quinn paused either for dramatic effect or to search Hal's expression for some sort of affirmation of their shared vision. Hal wouldn't give her the satisfaction of either until she was certain Quinn wasn't trying to sell her a Kirby vacuum cleaner. “And?”

“And I want to set you up in a real restaurant of your own. You'll have complete artistic control. You pick your staff. You build your kitchen. You set the menu however and whenever you want. I do all the other work and carry all the financial risk. Your profit share is sizable. All you have to do is be you on a permanent basis.”

Hal stared at her, her face likely as void as her brain.

Quinn waited several long, heavy seconds before glancing at her watch. “Okay, that was three minutes on the nose. How happy are you to know me now?”

Hal rose and ran her hands down the sides of her chef coat to smooth it out. “No, thank you.”

“What?” Quinn blinked her pale blue eyes, the warmth that had infused them a moment ago frozen once more.

“I said, ‘no thank you.'”

“I just offered you a dream scenario. If I made that pitch to any of the thirty other food truck owners here tonight, every one of them would have jumped at the opportunity.”

“Probably.” Hal couldn't argue with her logic any more than she would explain her own. “Feel free to track one of them down, but my answer is no.”

Quinn hopped up and followed her a few steps to the truck. “I'm not sure what you think's going on here, but I'm not joking. I'd happily show you references, bank statements, proof of capital. I'm the real deal, Hal.”

“I believe you, Quinn.”

“But?”

“My answer is no.”

“Without explanation or reason?”

“My reasons are mine.” Hal hopped back into the truck. “And I get that you probably don't hear this word often. It's just ‘no.'”

Quinn opened her mouth to protest, but the words were cut off by the slam of a heavy metal door closing a foot away from her face.

“So, you want to talk about whatever happened with the blond bombshell?” Sully asked almost an hour later.

Hal didn't look up from the corner of the griddle as she scrubbed. “Would we call her a bombshell? I thought bombshell meant all big-breasted and pouty lips.”

“Her breasts were not lacking.”

Hal tried to remain neutral at the assessment, but she had a visual memory, and the image of Quinn's chest rising and falling when she got worked up wasn't an unpleasant one. Then again the reason why she'd gotten worked up cooled the warmth threatening to overtake her.

“Besides, you're not a boob woman. You go for legs, and her legs were shapely. She got your attention.”

“For a few seconds, that's all.”

“Really?” Sully elbowed her gently. “Then why have you been cleaning the same spot for the last ten minutes?”

Hal lifted her scrubby sponge to see the gleaming surface below. Chagrined, she tossed the sponge across the truck into the sink. “It's nothing.”

“Huh. Yeah, seems that way. You get propositioned by beautiful women who leave you slamming doors and brooding every day,” Sully said. “She did proposition you, right?”

“No. Well, yeah.”
A proposition, that's what Quinn offered, right?
“But not in the way you think.”

“I think about being propositioned a lot.”

“She's just a suit looking to make a buck off of me.”

“She's a hooker?”

“Geez, Sul, she's an investor. She wanted to give me my own restaurant.”

Silence filled the truck as Sully blinked her dark eyes several times.

“What? No snappy comeback?” Hal asked, her chest constricting as she let the full impact of the offer wash over her again.

“I got nothing.”

“Seriously? How about something about me being a kept woman? A little ball and chain joke? Golden handcuffs? You can work with that.”

“Dude, a beautiful woman walks in and basically says she's your fairy fucking Godmother, and you slam the door in her face?”

“Fairy Godmother, that's one angle. It would be better if she'd been a gay guy though.”

Sully slapped her lightly upside the back of her head. “Stop and listen to yourself for a second. This isn't a joke.”

“Of course it's a joke. It's all a joke. Money, pretty women, security, all one big joke.” Hal's laugh was bitter. “She said all I had to do was be me on a permanent basis.”

Sully's eyes softened and her shoulders dropped. “Oh, so that's what upset you. This reaction, it's about the permanence thing, right?”

“Don't.”

“Don't what?”

“Psychoanalyze. Or life-coach me. I'm not lying down on any couches. I'm a food-truck driver. I'm my own boss. I've got total freedom and work I love. I'm not interested in selling any of that to some uptight pencil pusher with great legs.”

Sully sighed. “She did have great legs.”

“Epic legs,” Hal admitted. “But those legs came with an agenda.”

“Epic agenda, friend. Can you imagine—”

“Don't go there. We've got a good thing here. A great thing,” Hal said with a shot of confidence. She then undercut herself by asking, “Right?”

“Yes, Chef.” Sully smiled.

“So let's not fix what's not broken.”

“Yes, Chef.”

“All right, now, you want to go get a drink?”

Sully smiled and threw her arm around Hal's shoulder. “Hell yes, Chef.”

Chapter Two

Quinn slammed her front door at seven o'clock on Friday night. She'd been doing more of that lately—slamming doors. Car doors, office doors, the door to the ladies' room at work. The sound was always satisfying. Except no matter how many times she did it, she couldn't shake the reminder of one door in particular: the loud, metallic thump of the food-truck door still rang through her ears, and she'd begun to wonder if she'd ever be able to even the score.

No, she didn't want to even the score. She wanted to beat it.

Hal Orion, that cocky little wannabe chef, was so far off her rocker, Quinn had spent the past two days dreaming about how satisfying it would be when the food-truck scene went under and Hal came crawling back looking for work. Then she could slam a door in her face. Or maybe she'd offer her a job as a line cook just to knock her down a peg while still using her talent at a grill, because damned if that stupid
Hippy Dippy
wasn't the best sandwich she'd eaten in . . . ever. She wouldn't slam the door until she'd had one of those suckers again. And while she was cooking and begging for a job, maybe Hal would finally offer up those vast and mysterious reasons for rejecting a clearly gracious and generous offer.

Something about the way Hal had said her name, warning and plaintive all at once, wouldn't let her move on. The woman clearly saw her, got her, understood what she had to offer. And she didn't appear stupid. The disconnect drove Quinn insane. Maybe that's what bothered her most today, since her rage had fallen just below boiling, the plan to slam the door now came with a host of contingencies, so many contingencies, she wasn't totally certain there would be any door slamming at all. Because ultimately, while Hal might be a hotheaded, frat
boi, grease monkey . . . Quinn was not. She knew a good thing when she saw one, and the so-called line at Cheesy Does It had gone on for hours. Every customer left happy, taking pictures of their food to share on social media, and many times even coming back for more.

“Hey, big sister.”

“Hello, baby brother.”

Ian grinned at her as he passed through the living room on the way to the kitchen. The response was more generous than she'd gotten for the same greeting ten years ago, but then again ten years ago he hadn't been six foot tall and able to comfortably rest his chin on her head.

She followed him, dropping her keys and briefcase as she went, but not releasing her iPhone.

“Rough day?” he asked, opening the fridge.

“Rough week.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.”

He pulled out a tub of margarine and a package of American cheese. “Want a grilled cheese?”

“Is that some sort of a joke?” she snapped.

He furrowed his brow. “Um, if so, I don't get the punch line.”

“Sorry.”

“So, no?”

“No. I mean, yes.” She exhaled. “I do not want a grilled cheese.”

He shrugged and flipped on the gas burner beneath a small skillet. She watched him work. He'd hit the bulk of his growth spurt since graduating from high school and was still easing into his limbs. He still had the façade of man paired with the awkwardness of a boy. His movements were jarring to watch, especially compared to the fluidity she'd witnessed in Hal.

Hal.

Of course everything came back to her. And the thing is, she could've been satisfyingly smug and spiteful about that if the woman hadn't been everything her reputation purported and more. Charismatic, talented, cocky, approachable—well, at least right up until the door slamming part. “Damn her.”

“Who?”

“What?”

“Who are you damning?” He cringed. “Oh God, do you have a girlfriend?”

“No. Why? And don't make that face when you say ‘girlfriend.'”

He dropped a piece of buttered bread into the skillet. “Sorry, it's just your girlfriends are usually, well . . . never mind. What do I know about girlfriends, right?”

“Right.” She let him off the hook because she didn't think she wanted to hear the end of that sentence any more than he'd wanted to say it. Her relationships were few and far between, so they wouldn't likely have to broach the subject again anytime soon.

He layered on the cheese and capped off the sandwich. They both watched it long enough to see the cheese begin to melt.

“What do you know about the food-truck scene?”

“Not much. The cool kids dig it. They go hunting for them. They're into the woman whose magazine you've been carrying around. She's like some rock star of cooking or something.”

Quinn pursed her lips. “She's not that great.”

He shrugged and flipped the sandwich. “You've met her?”

“Briefly. What else do you know about her?”

“Nothing. I don't exactly run with the in crowd.”

Her chest ached. His first year at UB had been better than high school, but Ian still oozed social awkwardness. Friends were few, and romantic prospects seemed nowhere on the horizon.

“But I could Internet stalk her for you,” he offered.

No wonder the kid couldn't get a date. “I don't think that's necessary. I already know everything I need to.” She heard the door of Hal's truck slam again. “Or most everything, anyway.”

“And this . . . not girlfriend thing, does she know about you?” He slid the sandwich onto a plate and used the butter knife to cut it in half. “Or is it like when I had a crush on Lisa Knapp, but she didn't even know I was alive?”

“First of all, not a crush. Second of all, no she knows nothing about me.” She took a second to think about what Hal really knew. “Or she knows the wrong things about me.”

He took a bite of the grilled cheese and watched her as he chewed.

“I may have come on a little strong.”

Ian widened his eyes in mock disbelief. “What, you?”

“Okay, a lot strong . . . twice . . . in one night.”

“Twice in one night? We're still talking the platonic sense, right?”

“Yes! I may have cut in line, sort of, but not really. Then she had me wait a long time to talk to her.”

“Uh-oh.”

“And then I sort of rushed through a really great offer for her.”

“Was the offer even better for you?”

“Maybe.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “Did it involve you being the boss of her?”

“Maybe, just a little bit.”

“Did you give her any time to think about it?”

“Three minutes . . . while I was talking.”

“Quinn . . .”

“Okay, okay.” Why did he have to put everything into such a harsh light? “I can see where she might have gotten the wrong idea, but she didn't have to be rude.”

“How was she rude?”

“She said, and I quote ‘I get that you probably don't hear this word often. It's just ‘no.'”

“Well then, she didn't get totally the wrong idea about you.”

Quinn eyed him seriously.

“What? You aren't used to hearing the word ‘no.'”

She scowled then snatched his sandwich off the plate and took a bite.

“And clearly you're not good at accepting defeat, either. When are you going back to see her again?”

She thought about it a moment as she chewed. The sandwich wasn't bad, but it was no
Hippy Dippy
. At least she could get another one of those when she went back to Cheesy Does It. Somehow his assuming that she'd see Hal again gave her the freedom to do the same. “Why don't you do some of that Internet stalking you mentioned and find out where she'll be tomorrow at lunch.”

“On one condition,” he said.

“What's that?”

“You buy me a grilled cheese to make up for the one you just stole.”

“Deal,” she said resolutely, but she made no promises not to eat that one too.

Hal bobbed her head to the bass beat behind Bruno Mars' version of “Uptown Funk.” They were serving
Heard Of Buffalo?
sandwiches like they were the cure to cancer. The
Spree
story had spread across Buffalo via Facebook, Twitter, and print media. Their feeds had nearly doubled in followers, and this morning's update about their location in Delaware Park had been shared over a hundred times.

They'd seen the bump in press and prepared for a rush, or so she'd thought. They'd prepped double their usual amount of the Buffalo chicken wing dip that made up the filling of their signature dish, but as she looked in the crockpots behind her, she realized they had enough left for only about thirty servings. There had to be at least that many people in line now with more than an hour left to go.

“What do you want to do, Chef?” Sully asked, as if reading her mind.

“I don't know yet.”

“What can I get for you?” Sully called out to a young man in a Bills cap. She jotted down the order before turning back to Hal and asking. “What would Jesus do?”

“Jesus could make bread multiply. I can't work the same kind of miracle with Buffalo wing dip.”

She squirted another healthy dose of vegetable oil on the griddle. The key to serving the heavy filling of her signature dish was getting both sides of the bread extra crisp.

“I could run and prep some more. We've got all the ingredients back at the apartment.”

“First you want me to be Jesus, now you want me to be Ganesh. I don't have the extra set of hands I'd need to handle this line on my own.”

Sully had her I-told-you-so face on.

“I know, I know. We need to hire a third person for the summer.” She slid a completed sandwich over to the serving window. They were both pros at working and talking at the same time. They'd cooked together so long, it wasn't unusual for them to have multiple dishes and multiple conversations going at the same time. “We're going to have to shut the
Heard of Buffalo?
down.”

Sully raised her dark eyebrows.

“I don't like it either.” Hal responded to the unspoken.

A lot of food truck drivers thrived on exclusivity. They purposefully did limited runs under the guise of not having enough space or resources to accommodate the crowd. Of course, preparing only for a small crowd made it look like they'd been overrun due to their massive popularity when in reality they were manipulating the supply to make it look like they'd generated extra demand. Hal believed the smoke and mirrors would catch up with them eventually. People didn't like being played, and they might be willing to wait in a long line a couple of times to try something new, but as soon as they did finally get to try that dish, their expectations would be so high, they couldn't possibly be met. Whereas someone who got great food when they wanted it was much more likely to come back and bring their friends.

Her food was good enough to keep people coming back, good enough to make its own hype. She had plenty of personal reasons for not wanting to turn people away hungry, but she reasoned that the lengths she went to in order to feed everyone stemmed mostly from good business. She wanted to give people what they wanted. Still, all of the miracles she'd ever worked with food were in the area of quality, not quantity.

“We've probably got another half an hour left in us. Maybe we'll get a rush of vegetarians.”

“I think in this crowd you're more likely got get a rush of vagitarians,” Sully quipped. “Get it?”

Hal shook her head and went back to toasting the bread. Sully had a flare for the dramatic and the juvenile. They'd seen an uptick in queer customers, but they'd seen an increase in all customers. She may have heard more flirty comments than usual over the last few days,
but women certainly weren't knocking down the door, and the one who had held her attention for more than a minute wasn't looking for love.

“Are you thinking about her again?” Sully asked between orders.

“Who?”

“Blond Banker.”

“No.”

“Maybe you should.”

She sighed. “We've been over this, Sully.”

“I think we're about to go over it again.”

“Why?”

“Because she's in line.”

Hal scanned the crowd automatically and immediately locked eyes with the cool blues of Quinn Banning. She was dressed down compared to the skirt and heels she'd worn the other night, but she still stood out in the blue-collar crowd. The woman oozed class in tan linen pants and a white oxford open at the neck. She looked like she belonged in the Hamptons, not in a food-truck line in Buffalo. Hal clamped down on a mix of emotions—anger, attraction, curiosity. They would all have to wait.

She slid another sandwich to Sully and grabbed the next ticket. This one wanted a
Sloppy First
. Hal was silently thankful for the person not wanting a
Heard of Buffalo?
as she ladled a scoop of sloppy-joe meat on a slice of beer bread, then smothered it in smoked Gouda. Sully would take over from there, keeping an eye out for when the sandwich needed to be flipped then served. The next ticket listed an order for a
Heard of Buffalo?
It wasn't uncommon to run out of ingredients by the end of the day, and they always made do, but today they'd have to make do a little earlier.