Chapter One
“That son of a bitch.”
I’d only read several lines of theNew York for Real New Yorkersblog article before I threw my iPad across my king-sized bed and watched it sail to the floor and land with abang. Add the hangover throbbing behind my eyes, and my day was now officially ruined—and I hadn’t even gotten out of bed.
“How fucking dare he call me a pompous, arrogant food snob?” I swung my legs out from under the fluffy comforter and paced the expanse of my bedroom loft. Hitting my foot on the discarded iPad, it gave me an almost sexual pleasure to kick it viciously out of my way. I watched it skid under my dresser where it belonged. Hidden, out of sight. It didn’t matter, though. The opening paragraph of the article entitled “We Don’t Have to Take This” had burned itself into my mind:
“Francisco Martinelli, food critic forUltimate NYC, the magazine for the über-rich who can afford to Uber everywhere, is known more for his rude, sarcastic commentary than the quality of his restaurant reviews. He delights in stepping on small-restaurant owners struggling to make a living. No one—from the chef to the unassuming busboy—is immune from the sharpness of his barbed tongue. He favors the chic, overpriced, overhyped establishments instead of concentrating on what matters: the food and the people behind the plate.”
“The fuck I do.” I glared at my reflection in the full-length mirror. “Does this loser know how many trips to the hospital due to food poisoning I’ve lived through after slogging through badly prepared meals?”
My phone rang, and when I saw my editor’s name, my heart sank. Isodid not want to pick up the phone, but I knew Edward would keep calling until I did.
“Hello.” I hit the Speaker button. “How’re you?”
“Fucking pissed is how I am. What the hell do you think?”
I winced. Edward rarely cursed. No need to ask if he’d read the article. “Well, yeah, me too. I don’t know why this Salvatore Grant has such a hard-on for me. I’ve never met the guy, never even heard of him until he began his one-man crusade to take me down. This is the third or fourth time he’s sniped at me in his column in the past couple of years.”
“Try an even half dozen.” Edward chuckled. At least he’d retained his sense of humor. “Are you insinuating Grant has it in for you? Why?”
“Who the fuck knows? He obviously thinks I’m a food snob, which I’m not. You know me. I’ll go anywhere you send me to review and eat almost anything.” Irritated, I sat on my bed. “I can’t help it if sometimes what I eat is shit. My guess is I once hurt his tiny little feelings and he’s mad. Maybe his best friend owns a restaurant and I hated it. Maybe his girlfriend was a server and didn’t like my tip, although I always leave twenty-five percent.”
“Is it possible you might’ve had a relationship with him and he feels rejected?”
At almost seventy, Edward had been with his partner for over thirty years and despaired of my decision to not only remain single but to shun a steady companion. I had no desire to talk about my personal life with him or anyone.
“I don’t have ‘relationships’ with anyone. And of course it’s possible I was with him for the night. But I don’t remember anyone by that name.”
“Would you?” he asked gently. “You’ve made no secret of your,erm, rather notorious sexual activities and how much you abhor intimacy. Does that include always knowing the names of your partners?”
I opened my mouth to snap at him, but out of respect for his age—and the fact that he was my boss and I did like my job despite my constant bitching—I tempered my answer. “Just to set the record straight, my ‘sexual activities,’ as you so delicately put it, might be frequent, but I always know who I get naked with. And that includes their marital status and their names. I’ve never been with a Salvatore Grant.”
“Well, then I have no answer other than somehow you’ve insulted him.”
“And I have no clue. I don’t curb my tongue or my written word, as you know. It’s one of the reasons I enjoy working for you. I’m allowed the freedom to be completely honest.”
“True.” I could hear the machinations of Edward’s nimble mind at work, even through the phone. “But maybe you want an opportunity to show how wrong he is.”
“Meaning?” I asked, already sensing doom. “Tell me what you’re thinking. I know you have something in mind, so just say it, please.”
At his sigh, I winced. I’d sat through enough staff meetings to know—that sigh always precipitated a decision Edward anticipated would be a hard sell. “I’m taking you off your usual rotation. Maybe youhavegotten a little spoiled, covering only high-end restaurants or hot spots. Time to challenge your taste buds, son. Eat elbow to elbow with the common people who can’t afford two-hundred-dollar dinners.”
“Dammit, what do you want me to do? Review the best hot-dog carts in the city? Dollar-slice places?” I shuddered. “All-you-can-eat Taco Tuesday? Jesus fucking Christ, this is insane.”
“Not a bad idea.” He cackled, ignoring my upset. “I wouldn’t mind knowing myself, so if you’re serious…”
“The hell you say.” Outraged, I jumped up again. “Look, Edward, listen. I’ll try and tone it down. I can be harsh, I know, but I’ll do better.”
“It’s not that simple anymore. Webster called me earlier. You know you’ve been on his radar lately.”
Well, fuck.
Webster was the editor in chief. Arrogant and pompous, image above everything. He didn’t give a shit what anyone did as long as his precious magazine didn’t get a bad rep. Case in point, he’d been screwing around on Genie, his wife, for years, but you would think he was a choirboy. Unfortunately for him, I saw him with his girlfriend one night at a restaurant, and to say he was shocked was an understatement. I could’ve called him on it, but I wouldn’t hurt Genie. I liked her. Plus, she had three kids with the cheating asshole, and for some crazy reason, she loved him. He’d never said a word to me, yet I felt I’d been walking around with a death warrant hanging over my head, waiting for him to sign it.
“He doesn’t like the fact that we sound like an elitist, out-of-touch publication that only speaks to certain people of New York.”
“Even though he’s an elitist, out-of-touch bastard who lives in a ten-million-dollar apartment and only speaks to certain people?” My shoulders slumped. “Okay. So what’s the verdict? Where am I being sent?”
