“I have to meet the liquor distributor today.”
“Okay.”
“And”—he shot me a guilty look—“I need to go in and talk to Ray about the specials.”
Like he had to apologize for being... Chef. I widened my eyes in mock horror. “On your day off? I’m shocked.”
“There are no days off when you own a restaurant,” he said a little grumpily. “Ray can handle the service, no problem. But it isn’t his name on the menu.”
My name was on my blog. Well, my pseudonym, actually, but the principle was the same. I couldn’t take the day off, either. “It’s fine. I’m used to having my own space.”
His brow wrinkled.
“Really,” I assured him. “Actually, this will be great.”
Maybe me being myself gave him the freedom to be himself, too. Or was it the other way around?
He raised an eyebrow. “Trying to get rid of me?”
“No. Kind of. I just... I have work to do, too. You can do your thing and I’ll do mine.”
“Your thing?”
I opened my mouth. Shut it again. He thought I was honest.“You speak your mind,”he’d said. But I wasn’t prepared to tell him aboutHungryyet. Everything between us felt too new. I didn’t want to spoil the moment, the day, his good opinion, by confessing I was an idiot hipster food blogger.
He was waiting for an answer, watching me with interest. Paying attention, damn it. I had to say something.
“I’m a writer.Wasa writer. Before I was let go.”
He nodded. “From the newspaper. I know.”
I looked at him, surprised.
“I read your job application,” he said. “You were a reporter.”
“Lifestyle journalist. Weddings, science fairs, parades.” I forced myself to meet his gaze. “Restaurant openings.”
His eyes lit with amusement. “So, maybe you are glad to get fired, yeah? What are you writing now?”
For some reason, for no reason at all, I thought of my abandoned master’s project, all those finished files going nowhere. My writing was“quite competent,”my adviser had said kindly, sticking a knife in my dreams. If only I could overcome my insistence on sentiment, my dependence on plot.
I cleared my throat. “I want to write a book. Eventually. When I have enough material.”
“I would like to read it.”
A chasm yawned at my feet. “You don’t want to do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because. Even my own mother doesn’t read my...”Blog. Don’t sayblog. “It’s not the sort of thing you’d be interested in.”
Fucking critics.
“Jo.” My name, in his deep, slightly accented voice. “I am interested in you. You wrote it, put your heart on the page, the way I put my heart on a plate every night. I want to know your heart.”
My breath went. It was so unfair. Who talked like that? Besides poets and heroes in romance novels. I could feel myself teetering closer to the edge. So close. So far to fall. My heart pounded in panic. How was I supposed to answer him?
“It’s not, er, ready.”I’m not ready. “Anyway, don’t you have to go buy booze? See Ray about a menu?”
