“Okay. I’m okay. I can do this. I can do anything.” The words sound hollow, but I don’t have time to muster up enough confidence to make them sound real.
“That’s right! Crush this interview!” Lola replies on the other end. “Go in there and do a great job and send me the linkto the interview the second it goes live so I can frame it for you.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Baby’s first big interview.”
“Oh my God.”
“Would you sign it for me? I want to get your autograph before you’re too famous for me.”
“I’m hanging up now.”Lola’s soft laugh fills my ear as I pull the phone from it and press the red button, effectively ending the call. Then I turn and stare at the heavy wooden door in a deep, dark stain. The restaurant’s name is painted in the center of the massive picture window beside it. Cute little planter boxes rest on either side of the door, little green buds of flowers popping out of it and adding to the reminder of spring in the damp, April air.
With one last breath for courage, I pull open the handle and step inside. The sound of my heels echo against the floor as I walk into the industrial interior. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimmer light in here and I realize it's because although three sparkly chandeliers hang from the ceiling across the space, right now, the room is only lit by the natural light streaming through the high windows along the cream brick walls. Below the windows, the walls are covered with a mix of paintings and blown up black-and-white photos that give the room a sophisticated edge. My eyes drag along them until they finally land on the dark-top bar at the far end of the restaurant, with empty wooden stools stacked on top of it.
"Wow," I breathe. Even empty, this is the most beautiful restaurant I've ever seen. “I can’t believe I get paid to be here,” I mutter to myself, stepping further into the space.
I think I’m really going to like this new job. Only one week in and it already feels like a better fit. Much better than articleslike “Top Ten Must Haves for Your Weekend Getaway” and “Which travel products are worth the hype.”
“Hello?” I call out into the void. My voice echoes, but no one else answers. It feels illegal to be in a restaurant that is so obviously closed, but this is my job now, so I hold my head high andtake another step into the room.
“Hello?” I try again. No response. Is it too much to hope that the chef or the restaurant’s marketing contact might just appear? I tap my hands against my legs and continue walking through the room leisurely, my gaze still swiveling back and forth at the decor. I pull out my phone again and check the most recent email from my contact.
That sounds great, Jane! I’ll have Chef Matthews meet you in the dining room at 2:15 p.m. on Monday. Talk soon.
My eyes slide up to the time on the top corner of my phone and I squeeze my eyes shut. 2 p.m. I sprinted all the way here thinking I was late for an interview and I ended up being fifteen minutes early instead. Another notification pops up on my phone from the staff photographer and I slide it open, hopeful she at least knows the time to be here since I apparently didn’t.
Estelle: Just leaving another photoshoot! I’ll be cutting it tight, but I should be there by 2:15. Feel free to start without me if you need to!
Jane: Okay! See you soon!
Great, so she at least knows how to put the correct times in her calendar, unlike myself. I might as well be patient then as I wait for her and the chef. I open the camera app and start snapping photos of the place to use as descriptive inspiration for my article. I snap a couple pictures of the silver tile ceiling, of thesparkling chandelier, and of the dark bar top. It’s only as I spin around that I notice the accent wall in the room, a fake moss wall opposite the bar that was out of my view as I stepped inside. I happily take a photo of it, half-wondering if I could put a wall like that in a house.
You know, if I had the money to build a house.
I start to back up to line up a panorama photo of the restaurant, but only make it two steps before I bump into something warm and incredibly sturdy.
“Son of a—” someone mutters under their breath, but the end of the phrase is drowned out by the loud symphony of a number of plates shattering on the ground.
I stiffen. And then I slowly turn around and as the last crescendo of the shattering plate meets my ears, I lift my head and my gaze meets the bright blue-gray eyes of the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.
Chapter 2
The crashing plates still ring in my ears as I stare down at the mess. Pasta and chicken and bread and salad are all scattered on the tile floor among shards of navy and white porcelain.
My last little bit of my confidence is scattered there as well.
So much for crushing it during my first week. Well, I mean, I technically did crush it, but I didn’t intend to crush things literally. No wonder I wrote articles like “Which Suitcase is Right For You” and “How Early Do YouReallyNeed to Get to the Airport?” Who was I kidding thinking I could leave the desk and interview actual people?
The silence that follows the crash is too loud. Too uncomfortable.
“I am so sorry,” I say, the words whooshing out of me so fast I’m not entirely sure they’re understandable.
The man draws in a slow breath through his nose as if I’m a child he’s fighting himself from reprimanding. I pull my lips between my teeth as I nervously peer up at the looming figure next to me, cringing as I realize he’s wearing a white chef’s coat.
What are the chances he’s not the chef I’m here tointerview?
My eyes catch on the name stitched into his coat with black thread:Chef Matthews.
