Okay, so the chances are not good at all.
The man is still staring down at the debris across the floor, a muscle feathering in his sharp jawline. At least I think I see a muscle clenching there. It’s hard to tell with the dark stubble covering his face. He drags his eyes from the mess to meet me and now I’m positive that he’s clenching his jaw because the look of rage on his face would pair well with that.
“Who are you?” he spits out.
“Oh, right.” I stick out my right hand, hopeful that the introduction will distract from getting off to a rough start. “Jane Sinclair. FromThe Savory Standard.” He looks down at my outstretched hand then back up to my face before arching a brow. A nervous laugh bubbles out of me, but I continue on, doing my best to salvage this very bad first impression. “Terrible circumstances, I’m afraid, but a pleasure to meet you nonetheless.” I extend my hand just an inch further toward him to punctuate the introduction. Instead of shaking it or introducing himself back, he crosses his arms over his chest, his white chef’s coat pulling across his biceps.
“Do you often just barge into people’s places of work and get in the way for interviews?”
“I wasn’t trying to get in the way,” I mutter.
“Well, you did.”
“Aren’t you supposed to shout ‘behind’ or ‘door’ or something? How was I supposed to know you were coming out?”
“Well, for starters, you could let us know you’re here.”
I throw my hands up in frustration. “I tried! No one heard me.”
“So instead you were strolling around, making yourself comfortable?—”
“I wouldn’t say I was making myself comfortable considering I got hit in the back by a swinging door?—”
“While snooping.”
“I was not snooping. I was taking in the ambiance. Isn’t that what writers do?”
“Why are you asking me? Aren’tyouthe journalist?”
I flinch then glance away from his judgmental stare. It’s not like he said it to hurt me. At least I don’t think so, but with this less than rosy introduction, I can’t be entirely sure.
He doesn’t know me or have any clue that I was up most of the night panicking because how the hell am I here when I barely feel qualified to be a journalist at all? But it hits me all the same anyway that I am so out of my element here.
“This—” I clear my throat and shift on my feet, accidentally crunching on a piece of lettuce by my shoe. I’m not sure I should be admitting this out loud to him, but maybe he’ll be more understanding if he knows the truth. “This is my first story.”
He lets out a humorless laugh, finally unfolding his arms from his chest and dropping them to his sides. I realize my hand is still awkwardly outstretched and I finally accept defeat and pull it back in.
“Of course it is,” he says.
I rear back in surprise. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“First of all, you’re fifteen minutes early.”
I don’t want to admit that I didn’t get here fifteen minutes early on purpose considering I already shattered plates full of food. So instead, I pretend like it was intentional. Like I was supposed to be here early. I cross my arms over my own chest now, feigning a level of confidence I don’t feel at the moment. “It’s bad to be early?”
“Yes,” he says curtly. “We set a time for a reason. We have staging to do.” He breaks my gaze to look around the roompointedly before dragging his gaze back to me. “And I don’t see any camera equipment.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “The photographer is on the way. She was leaving another photoshoot.”
He gestures a hand toward the mess on the floor, exhaling a frustrated breath that makes me cringe with guilt. “Well you might as well tell her to take her time seeing as I’ll have to go remake all of this.”
How absolutely mortifying. Ducking my head to hide my burning cheeks, I drop to my knees and start picking up shattered glass and tossing it onto the now-empty serving tray. There’s nothing I can do at this point to fix what happened, but at least I can make amends by helping clean up. With a sigh, Chef Matthews crouches down next to me and starts to help.
“This is a really bad start to my journalism career,” I mutter to myself.
He pauses briefly, then asks, “Is today really your first day?” I nod, hoping he’ll show me some sympathy. Instead, he tosses a shard of plate on the tray, the clatter seeming to echo in the room, and says, “Might as well be your last day if this is how you are going to introduce yourself to people.”
Wow, so much for compassion and giving people a second chance.
