“Yes, please.”
I thank him as he steps back to make room for me.
The guy seems to be staring at my nose as he smiles at me, revealing a mouthful of metal braces with blue bands. “Any time,” he replies, not making any attempt to conceal how he repeatedly glances between my breasts and my nose. “I’m Warner.”
My stomach clenches at the lascivious look in his eyes, and at the prospect of having to say my name aloud. “Alice,” I mutter, hoping the people in front of us can’t hear me over Ethan’s lesson, for which I seem to have arrived very late.
I need to pay close attention to make up for my tardiness. But as soon as the girl with the dark, glossy hair standing next to me stops taking notes, I know I’ve spoken too loudly.
Her almond eyes narrow at me. “Alice Lopez?”
I flash her a curt smile, not wanting to seem unfriendly, but desperate to be done with the introductions, so I can get back to listening to Ethan. But the gesture doesn’t deter her.
Her eyes widen now as a smile stretches across her round face. “I was just telling Ollie how excited I am to finally meet you.”
I glance down at the notepad in her hand—a reminder about why we’re here—then I turn back to Ethan as I whisper, “Great to meet you, too.”
The girl is silent for a brief moment, long enough for me to hear Ethan say the words deep Maillard crust, then she continues. “You didn’t even ask my name. I’d hardly say we’ve met.”
My stomach sinks as I realize how rude I must seem. This is definitely not the impression I want to make on my first day at Forked.
Turning back to her, I smile again, more warmly this time. “I’m sorry. I’m just trying to pay attention since I arrived late. What’s your name?”
She raises an eyebrow, clearly not impressed with my social skills—or lack thereof. “Misty,” she replies, though her tone sounds more hurt than annoyed.
“I’m really sorry,” I apologize again, feeling the confidence Judy infused in me seeping out like juices from a steak.
My self-esteem takes another hit as I’m forced to reach back and pick my jeans out of my butt-crack again.
Misty waves off my words and a smile creeps up her cheeks again. “No worries,” she says, her gaze fixed on my nose. “You’ve got something on your… It looks like...”
I touch my nose and find a smear of chocolate on my finger. “Crap!”
She giggles softly and a searing heat creeps up my cheeks. And, suddenly, I’m back to feeling like the new kid in class. I need to focus on the lesson before I’m sent to the principal.
I continue rubbing my nose to get the rest of the chocolate Judy must have transferred to me when we hugged, then I turn back to Ethan. The room has gone deadly quiet, and a couple dozen eyes are now boring into me.
My heart thuds in my chest as I realize this is the moment I’ve been dreading since my father secured the interview for me weeks ago; the moment when everyone would recognize me, and I’d be subject to the judgment of my peers.
Have they all read the article in Food & Beverage magazine? Or have they all heard the lies Edward told about me secondhand, like a game of Telephone, muddled and twisted by personal opinion and bad memory?
“Sorry, I’m late.” I squeezed the words out through the tightness in my throat. “I…I met Mrs. Ben—I mean, Judy. I met Judy, and we had a…chat. I didn’t—”
“I saw your reunion,” Ethan cuts me off. “I’m fairly certain you were already late before that.”
I glance around at the curious faces then turn back to my new boss. “You’re right. I’m…” Was I really going to apologize for the third time today? “I’m sorry. I should have arrived a few minutes early.”
Ethan laughs. “Why would you want to arrive early? And you don’t have to apologize to me. I’m not the one who’ll suffer your ignorance when you can’t tell a customer which wine pairs with a wood-fired Tomahawk.”
Suffer my ignorance?
I hardly believe someone’s dinner can be ruined by the wrong wine pairing. Then again, maybe I only feel this way because I’ve never really had a taste for fermented grape juice, as much as I love it in braised meat dishes and a good reduction sauce. But my opinion on wine isn’t the point. Though I’m no sommelier, I do have a strong understanding of wine pairings as long as I know the tannic quality and what notes are most prominent.
“You’re absolutely right,” I say, straightening my shoulders in an attempt to force myself to feel some of that confidence again. “But I think I have at least a basic understanding of wine pairings. I’m sure I’ll fill in any gaps in my knowledge through experience.” It’s humiliating to have to pretend as though I haven’t worked at some of the most demanding restaurants in Manhattan so as not to bruise this man’s ego. “Besides, why does a hostess need to know wine pairings? Isn’t that the job of the servers?”
I glance around again, hoping to see agreement in my new coworkers’ eyes, but all I see is confusion and trepidation. Clearly, I’ve said something wrong.
Ethan lets out a long sigh as he begins making his way through the small crowd of people between us. “I thought you did your homework on me and were so impressed with what I’ve built,” he remarks as he stops, his face no more than a foot from my mine. “Isn’t that what you said last week? So, do tell me, where did you do your research? The Library of Alexandria?”
His words are drenched in so much disdain it’s almost terrifying.
“I don’t understand what you mean,” I say, desperately trying not to
