Email:[email protected]
Subject:A Rock Star No Longer on His Own?
Message:A certain breakfast-loving Billboard darling was spotted at Broadway’s Les Misérables revival last night with an unknown blonde on his arm. Is she just a friend or is this fan favorite cooking up a new romance?
I stare at it a moment, trying to wrap my mind around the words. “Sorry, how is this good news?”
“Well, there’s no picture of you. Not yet at least. The bad news is that it doesn’t take a genius to figure out they’re talking about Jake, and it’s only a matter of time before someone identifies you. And when they do, the paparazzi are going to be all over you like a Republican senator on abortion rights.”
“Shit. How many people do you think have seen this?”
“How many people read DeuxMoi?!” Ali asks. “Do the words ‘Armie Hammer’ and ‘toes’ mean anything to you?”
“Shit,” I say again. “Okay, what should I do?”
Chloe straightens her shoulders, and I can see her shifting into business mode. “Okay, step one: start keeping a low profile. Set allyour social media to private and avoid being seen in public with Jake. The press will lose interest if you don’t give them anything to write about.”
I take a minute to consider her words. “Don’t you think that’s a bit of an overreaction? It’s not like we’re together.”
She gives me one of her patented, no-nonsense looks. “Keep telling yourself that.”
“I’m serious! We’re just friends!” I protest. But as soon as the words leave my mouth, I wonder if they’re even true. Something has shifted between us recently. We aren’t together, but it doesn’t feel like we’re just friends either. To be honest, I’m not quite sure where we stand.
“Just admit it,” Ali says. “You want to bone him.”
“I will admit no such thing.”
Chloe kicks me under the table. “Lexi, you can pretend not to be in love with him all you want, but at least have the decency not to lie aboutthat.”
“Meanwhile,” Ali interjects. “While you’re shacking up with a rock star, I’m fielding DMs from strangers on Instagram requesting photos of my feet.”
She turns her phone around to show me her screen. “Check it out. This one guy is offering fifty bucks per photo.”
My jaw drops open. “You’re not going to actually do it, are you?”
She shrugs. “Might be the easiest money I’ll ever make. It’s not like I’m rolling in dough as a line cook in a hotel restaurant.” She takes a sip of her iced coffee. “I hate being poor. Chef life sure isn’t what I thought it would be.”
“Tell me about it,” I sigh. “I thought my job would be so much more creative. I always imagined myself inventing new recipes and making someone’s night with a hot meal. But what I actually do is chop salad greens for sixteen hours a day.”
“We have made a terrible mistake. We should have gone into waitressing. At least then we’d make tips.”
She’s joking, but I can’t shake the impact her words have on me.Have I made a mistake?Ali can joke all she wants, but we both know that she feeds off the fast-paced energy of the kitchen like some sort of emotional vampire. But try as I might, it’s getting harder and harder to ignore my lack of excitement when I head into work each morning. I love cooking, but I’ve never enjoyed it as much at work as I do at home. Making that matzah ball soup for Audrey was the most exciting thing I’ve done in the kitchen in weeks.
I’m still mulling it over as I head over to the counter to order my usual, a sesame bagel with vegetable cream cheese and a coffee. But when I get back to the table, both of my friends are waiting, their arms crossed. I even have Chloe’s full attention, and frankly, it’s kind of disarming.
“We’re serious about Jake,” Ali says quietly. “We know you don’t want to acknowledge the way you feel, but as your best friends, we can’t let you continue to pretend like nothing is going on between you two.”
“The way I feel”—I pull off a piece of my bagel and chew it thoughtfully—“is highly wronged, because you have been working at The Carlyle for months, and I have yet to benefit from its sophisticated wine list. What is the point of you working glorious hotel hours if I can’t occasionally enjoy some free Sancerre?”
Ali brushes crumbs into her paper wrapper and pitches it into the trash can across from our table. “We aren’t finished with this conversation,” she says. “But you are getting off the hook for now because I have to go to work.” I know she’s right—it’s getting harder and harder to pretend that Jake and I are just friends—but for now, I’m not ready to explore my feelings for Jake. Maybe it’s because I know that once I venture down that thorny path, there’s not a chance in hell of finding my way back.
I expect Chloe to follow Ali out the door, but once she’s gone, Chloe opens her navy Goyard tote and extracts a laptop.
“You take meetings at the bagel shop now?” I ask with amusement.
Chloe groans. “I’ve scheduled an appointment with Chad. He got banned from the office after the day he pushed every button in the elevator.”
Right on cue, the door to Manhattan Bagel swings open, and a tall man with spiky blond hair and the most punchable face I’ve ever seen steps inside. He’s wearing a tight gray V-neck that shows off his considerable muscles and a pair of basketball shorts. Even from a ten-foot distance, the smell of his AXE body spray is overwhelming. When he spots us, his face splits into a grin, showcasing a matching set of dimples.
