I stop a few steps short of the swinging doors. “You know, I actually have somewhere else I need to be. I’m so sorry.”
Ollie looks confused. “I’m sorry, did I say something?”
I shake my head as I let out a soft sigh, suddenly unable to fake my enthusiasm. “I’m just not in the mood to be publicly humiliated today.”
Her mouth drops open. “Oh, my God. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like for you since…well, you know,” she says, once again surprising me with how genuine she seems. “Personally, not that my opinion matters, but I think you’ve been vilified for no reason. And believe me, you weren’t brought here to be paraded around like some kind of sacrificial lamb. That’s not our style.”
I force a smile. “Forgive me if I’m a bit skeptical, but this is my thirty-first rejec—I mean, my thirty-first interview. I’m just so over it.”
She looks me in the eye for a moment, empathy radiating off of her in beautiful waves. “Well, I have a feeling this is going to be your thirty-first and your last,” she says with a wide grin. “Come on.” She pushes the double doors open, and I follow her in. “So, your dad got you the interview?” she asks politely.
A twinge of shame stirs in my belly. “Yeah, using my dad’s connections was kind of a last resort.”
She shrugs. “Nothing wrong with working the Daddy’s girl angle. I would if my dad worked at a venture capitalist firm.”
I want to refute the Daddy’s girl comment, but I can’t. It’s true. I’m a Daddy’s girl through and through. Always have been and probably always will be.
When I was six years old, our first-grade teacher asked the class what we wanted to be when we grew up. Without skipping a beat, I blurted out, “my daddy!” Of course, the room exploded with laughter. That was my first indication I was different from everyone else.
In high school, I preferred working at the family restaurant—when we used to have a family restaurant—rather than going to the mall with my friends. If I wasn’t working, I favored staying home to learn the recipes my mother learned from my grandmother during the first years of my parents’ marriage.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not the Susie Homemaker type. My best friend Minka once callously referred to my bedroom as a “homeless encampment.” But to understand who I am, all anyone needs to know is this: I hate my big butt, but I live, breathe, eat, sleep, dream food.
Succulent seared scallops. Tender rabbit legs soaked in Chianti and pan-fried to a crisp. Dry-aged ribeye cooked to a perfect medium-rare and blanketed in a crackling peppercorn crust. A delicate, flaky branzino with a bright squeeze of lemon. A decadent chocolate marquise drizzled with a silky creme Anglaise.
Food is my safe haven. Other than great sex, good food is my favorite sensory experience. It’s also the source of my greatest weakness: Men who love food.
When I watch a man flip a sizzling steak, I don’t watch the meat. I watch the man-meat. The tendrils of muscle in his forearms as he turns his wrist are bewitching. The utter focus on a man’s face as he tastes a sauce makes my heart race. When I see a man carefully twisting a mound of pasta onto a clean plate, my mouth salivates.
Unfortunately, my blind spot for men who can cook is the reason I’m in my current situation.
Ollie and I pass through a pastry prep area, then another set of swinging doors, and into the main kitchen at Forked Restaurant. But as soon as we’re inside, I come to a dead stop.
A male chef is standing at a stainless steel table, rubbing and slapping spices all over a giant Tomahawk steak.
The man is gorgeous. Okay, beyond gorgeous. But it isn’t his good looks that make my breath catch in my throat.
It’s not what he is that surprises me. It’s who he is.
The man standing in the kitchen of the only restaurant in New York that may actually hire me after six months of unemployment is none other than my ex-boyfriend, Edward Thorne.
The ex who said something so horrible to me, I had no choice but to quit my hard-earned sous chef job on the spot six months ago, walking out on the most important service of my life. The ex who got me blacklisted from every reputable restaurant in New York by telling Food & Beverage magazine I cost him his second Michelin star. The ex who simultaneously ruined my career and my life.
If you get involved with your new boss, I’m sending you to live with your grandma. My father spoke these words when he told me he’d secured me an interview with his new client.
I’m almost thirty years old.
Sending me to live with my grandmother is a threat my father hasn’t used on me since I left home when I was eighteen. Living with your parents when you’re an unemployed adult should be considered adult-child abuse. At this point, I’m just waiting for child protective services to rescue me.
My beloved father works as an account manager at a venture capital firm, which specializes in hospitality projects. He thought I acted hastily when I quit my sous chef position six months ago. Of course, I haven’t shared with him the exact words my jerk ex-boyfriend said to me before I walked out on him that day.
When my dad made me promise I wouldn’t date my new boss, he knew the scenario he was setting into motion. I can’t determine if this is plain cruel, or it’s just my father’s way of
