“Stay here,” he orders. “ I’ll go grab our first-aid kit.”
“Smart to keep a first aid kit here,” I murmur absently, keeping my gaze on the water rushing on my open wound.
He’s already walking away from me, but he calls over his shoulder. “We work with knives and open flames, Miss Sinclair. Of course I keep a first-aid kit here.”
Somehow the comment feels like a peace offering, since it was absent from what seems to be his usual sarcasm. I open my mouth to reply, but he adds, “That, and we have clumsy journalists who hurt themselves.”
I snap my mouth shut then narrow my eyes at his turned back. So much for the peace offering.
Chef Matthews makes his way back to me with the little red bag. I watch as turns off the water and grabs my wrist, his fingers sure and firm but gentle, a shocking dichotomy to his brash persona. He dabs my hand dry with a paper towel, smears some antibiotic cream on it, and gently sticks a bandage over my palm.
“There,” he says as he packages up the first-aid kit. “All better.”
I extend my fingers, examining the bandage across my palm and ignoring the tingling feeling left behind there. “Maybe youshould quit being a chef and explore being a nurse or something.”
“I don’t think I’m the one who should be considering a different career path.”
I clench my jaw, but I bite back my retort and try to salvage my professionalism instead. “All right,” I say, “where should we do the interview?”
At this point, I just want to get it over with and get away from him as fast as I possibly can. This has been a terrible start to my food journalist career, and I’m so ready to put the day behind me and start fresh. Maybe my next subject will be a super sweet bakery owner or someone with a food truck and a genuine smile.
Chef Matthews stands in front of me, arms crossed over his chest, and narrows his eyes. “Maybe you should just email me the questions.” His voice is firm, commanding. I glare at him. His stare holds mine as he reaches around me to grab something off the counter I’m still leaning against. “I’ve got a lot of work to catch up on now that I have to remake everything, and I have an event to cater that I need to prep for.”
“But—”
The retort dies on my tongue as he holds a business card between two fingers in front of my face. I snatch it out of his hand so I can glare at him uninterrupted.
“Send them today and I’ll do my best to get them back to you before the weekend.”
“My deadline is on Monday!”
He shrugs like he has no care in the world. And why would he? He’s not the one who will get in trouble over him being an unhelpful jerk about an innocent mistake. “Then send me the questions as soon as you get back, and I’ll write out answers for you tonight.”
“But we’re both already here.”
Chef Matthews crosses arms over his chest, muscle flexing under his white coat. “Yeah, but then I’d have to hang out with you longer, and I’m really not interested in doing that anymore.”
I open my mouth to argue with him, but a bell chimes from the other room, followed swiftly by the photographer’s chipper voice.
“Hello?” she calls. “I’m Estelle Louis, the photographer forThe Savory Standard. I’m looking for Chef Matthews.”
I glance toward the door, curious as to how I can hear Estelle clear as day but Chef Matthews never heard me, only to realize it’s been propped open as we came back through. I imagine it was shut when I came in. And, apparently, made of sound-proofing material.
Chef Matthews takes a step toward me, close enough that I can feel his warm breath on my face and smell his cologne, somehow citrus-y and herbal all at the same time. I try not to breathe it in too obviously.
I don’t succeed, but I do try.
“See?” His voice is a rough whisper, and I hate the way it sends chills through me. “That is how you introduce yourself without causing a mess.”
He pushes away from me and I suck in a full breath of air.
“Email me your questions,” he calls over his shoulder. “Promise I’ll answer them tonight.” He pauses with a hand on the swinging door and looks over at me. He stares at me for a beat longer, and for a moment I think he might say something worthwhile. A motivational quote or a “keep your chin up! You’ll do great!” Instead, he shakes his head and says, “Goodbye, Jane. Good luck.”
Then he walks out the swinging door, leaving me, my bandaged hand, and my bruised ego alone in his kitchen.
Chapter 3
Iswear the hand dryer in this bathroom is so hot it’s going to melt the skin right off my fingers. That, or make my sad, soaking beige bra burst into flames in my hands.
