We didn’t have to wait long before Frank returned and extended one long finger toward the other remaining applicant. “You, come with me.”
I didn’t even get the chance to ask him what I should do before Frank disappeared again.
“Good luck,” I whispered as the other applicant followed Frank.
“If you’re looking for something to do, there are some onions there that need to be chopped.”
I turned, looking for the owner of the voice, to find a thin, nice-looking blond man watching me. He couldn’t have been much older than I was, but his steely-blue eyes made him look too intense for his age. He nodded toward the onions in front of him before returning his attention to the chicken he was chopping.
Wondering if this was some sort of test to see if I was a team player or whatever, I washed my hands again, put on fresh gloves, and scooped up the first onion.
“The waiting’s the worst,” he said. “I’m Brandon, by the way.”
“Annetta.” I set the onion down on the board and grabbed a knife. “The other guy is being interviewed, right?”
It seemed like the obvious answer to his disappearance, but the restaurant management desperately needed to work on its communication.
“Yes,” Brandon replied, going about his work.
“Well, that’s reassuring, because I’m kinda picking up an ax murderer vibe from that Frank character.”
Brandon chuckled.
Realizing I’d let my thoughts tumble out of my mouth, I shook my head at myself. “Sorry. I probably shouldn’t have said that.”
He beamed me a smile. “I won’t tell anyone. Besides, Frank’s not too bad. Just intense.”
Keeping one eye on the door, I finished the onions and started crushing garlic. Frank returned and motioned me back, barely giving me enough time to remove my gloves and grab my bag before he disappeared again. Running to catch up, I turned the corner and stumbled to a stop inside a big office with a long table down the center. Four men sat at the table, watching my ungracious entry. The first stood and introduced himself as Collin Royal, the restaurant manager. The other three offered only first names with no titles.
“You’re a chef?” the suited man named Dominico asked, eyebrows shooting up his forehead with surprise. Bloodshot eyes watched me from under dark, messy hair as he cradled his head like it hurt. He was attractive, and I would have felt bad for his obvious pain, but both his question and tone rankled. I’d worked extremely hard to earn my title and didn’t appreciate his obvious skepticism. Assuming he was just another pig-headed chauvinist, I raised my chin and said, “Yes sir. They’re letting women in these days.”
It wasn’t the wisest choice of words for a prospective employee, but if he was half as sexist as his comment suggested, I’d never make it past my first week here anyway. Forget the beautiful restaurant and perfect kitchen. Might as well torch the opportunity now than wait and ruin my work history with an early termination.
Seated beside Dominico, Mario snickered.
Dominico’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t back down. “What I meant is that you’re very beautiful. Seems a shame to hide you away in a kitchen.”
My cheeks burned with both anger and embarrassment. Was he trying to flatter me during my interview? I needed a job and this handsome player seemed insistent on blowing it for me. I’d had enough. “My apologies sir. I didn’t mean to misrepresent, but all the ugly women are currently becoming meter maids and mail clerks.”
This time Dominico cracked a smile. It lit up his entire face and made my breath catch. No matter how big of a pig he was, the man was downright gorgeous when he smiled.
Mario leaned forward. “The dish you prepared was excellent. It’s your own recipe?”
Thankful for the change of topic, I took a breath. “My mother’s, but I altered it.”
“Perhaps it’s your mother we should be interviewing,” Michael suggested. My attention turned to him, noting the resemblance he shared with Dominico. I’d bet my best spatula the two were related, with not an ounce of manners to spare between them.
“That would be impossible, since she’s dead.”
Even though I hadn’t had many interviews, I was pretty certain this one was a flop. Michael clamped his mouth shut and Mario looked away. Nobody apologized for the crass statement, but they did manage to seem uncomfortable if not embarrassed.
Finally, Collin stepped in. “Legally speaking, you own your mother’s recipes then, correct?”
“Yes, and I have made my own alterations for each one. I attended the Culinary Academy of Las Vegas and earned—”
“Yes, we have your résumé,” he said, waving it in the air. “If we need anything else, we’ll call.”
And with that, I was dismissed. Frank shooed me out a back exit, the door clicking shut behind me.
