“Your sister is the pretty one,” Chef said in an odd voice.
“Well, yeah.”
The eyebrows rose. “And what are you?”
My brain froze. Was he implying... Did he think I waspretty? I reached up and tightened my ponytail. “I’m the...”Smart one,I almost said, out of habit. Except, look at me. I wasn’t anywhere close to the five-year plan I’d made my senior year of college. My time was running out, and all I had to show for it was a half-baked collection of random reviews, recipes, and rejection letters. My graduate school project—“consisting of a substantial piece of writing,”a collection of coming-of-age stories set in Bunyan—had been judged adequate to receive my degree but ultimately too“immature”to merit special praiseor attention. I’d been let go from my newspaper job. Did New York need another food blog? No. Everything was happening on Instagram now anyway. Pictures, rather than words. But writing was all I knew how to do. Writing and cooking. And I wasn’t that great a cook.
“I’m the one who talks too much,” I said.
He put back his head and laughed. He had a great laugh. Against the darkness of his heavy stubble, his teeth looked very white. His throat was smooth and strong.
Yep. I was definitely feeling some feelings. Me. For my at-least-a-decade-older-than-me divorced boss.Not smart at all.
He held my gaze, that little smile tugging his mouth. My heart beat faster. Maybe... Was it possible that he felt something, too? Maybe with a little encouragement, he would ask me... What? To breakfast. For a drink after work. For sex.
His lips were moving, forming actual words, but my blood was pounding so hard I didn’t hear them.
“What?” I asked.
“Why did you move to New York?” he repeated patiently.
I got a fellowship at NYU,I almost blurted.And then I was a lifestyle reporter. It wasn’t exactly a secret. I’d listed my former employment on my job application. But Chef had probably never called my editor for a reference, maybe never even read my résumé. In the kitchen hierarchy, I wasn’t that important. I shrugged. “You know what they say. If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.”
“There are other places for a chef to get training.”
There were other places to be a writer, too. But after I was downsized, moving away felt like giving up. Felt like failure.
“You’re here,” I pointed out.
“For now.”
Something inside me sank. “Does that mean you would move? Sell the restaurant?”But what about the people who worked there? What about me?
“If I found a better opportunity, sure.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Anyway, I wouldn’t have to sell to start somewhere else. Ray is itching to take over the kitchen.”
I fought an unexpected sense of loss. Of panic, almost. “But Gusto isyours. What about your dedication? Your, um...”
“Passion?”
I regarded him uncertainly, that curl still teasing the corner of his mouth, his eyes serious. Were we still talking about the restaurant?
Just for a moment I wished I had Amy’s ease with men, her ability to make the perfect, light, flirty comeback. “That’s what you said. Before,” I reminded him. “You live to cook, you told me.”
“I love to cook,” he said promptly. “But this business isn’t static. You are always on your way up or your way down.”
Right. No question where he thought I was headed.
“Thank you for those words of encouragement,” I grumbled.
His smile spread. “You should be encouraged. You think I hire every English major who walks through my door?”
As if I were special. As if he wanted me training under him. As if—maybe—he’d read my job application after all.
“Why did you hire me?” I asked.
He started to say something. Gave a quick shake of his head instead. “You are smart,” he answered finally. “You work hard. You learn quickly. But I think maybe I made a mistake with you.”
My lips felt numb. Was he... Oh God, was he letting me go? “If you don’t want me...” I said stiffly.
