Jake nods glumly. “I know.” He lifts my arms and loops them around his neck. Pressing a hand into the small of my back, he pulls me closer until our bodies are flushed together. “Come here.”
The floor beneath us vibrates with bass music as his hands slide down to my lower back, the heat of his palms permeating the thin fabric of my dress. My breath hitches when he slides one hand beneath the hem, his fingertips brushing against my thigh.
“Let’s get out of here.” His breath is warm against my ear, and I can feel the baby hairs rise on my arms.
“Now?”
He pulls me closer to him, and I feel his hardness prod my belly. I close my eyes and breathe him in. The intoxicating mix of his clean scent is intermingled with sweat and hunger. The hand on my thigh continues to migrate north, and I intake a sharp breath when his fingertips brush against the damp fabric of my underwear.
“Yes, now,” he murmurs against my earlobe.
“Yeah, okay. Call the car.”
21
“YOU LOOKED STUNNING,” CHLOEsays when she calls me the following morning, just as I’m walking through the service doors at Olive & Pomegranate. I woke up this morning to a series of links she’d forwarded via text.Elite Daily. Us Weekly. Page Six. Every major media outlet covered the premiere.
“I mean, the way he’s holding your hand, smiling back at you on the red carpet. Honestly, it’s to die for. And the way you handled yourself was flawless.”
“Yeah, you can hardly tell that I couldn’t see a foot in front of me.”
I suppress a yawn. We hopped on a red-eye after the party and didn’t get back to the city until almost 5A.M.I was too wound up to sleep once we made it back to the apartment, the excitement of the evening compounded by the fact that I’d made the regrettable decision to check my phone after plugging it into my portable charger on the cab ride home. The moment it sprung back to life, it began vibrating incessantly, alerting me that I had over a hundred new text messages. Everyone I’ve ever had in my phone—and some I hadn’t—had reached out. Friends from camp, middle school classmates, my Bat Mitzvah tutor. People I hadn’t heard from in years. All of whom suddenly seemed to have a renewed interest inme. Jake’s words replayed in my head:Things are going to change after tonight.
The moment I step through the service doors, Oren calls my name. I poke my head into his office, and he gestures for me to step inside.
“Hope you’re not planning to take any more time off, because our reservation list is completely booked up for the next three weeks.”
“Oh, that’s great.” I pause. “That’s great, right?”
He crosses his arms, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe. Guess it depends on how many of them show up. Quite a few of the OpenTable reservations include requests to be seated next to Jake Taylor.” He raises an eyebrow. “Publicity is one thing, but teenage silliness is another. End of the day, we still have a business to run. You get what I’m saying?”
I nod, as I try to figure out what to say next.
“What are you going to do, Berman?” he asks after a minute, and I know he isn’t just asking about the reservations.
Biting the inside of my cheek, I straighten my white coat. “I’m going to get started on mymise.”
MIA IS ALREADY SETTINGup at our station when I arrive in the kitchen. She doesn’t bother to look up as she violently slashes her way through a cucumber. Her shoulders are so tense they’re practically touching her ears.
“Are you okay?” I ask tentatively as I begin to sharpen my own knives beside her.
“No,” she mutters as she scoops the slices into a metal bowl. “Did you hear about Stefan?”
I shake my head and she huffs a sigh before continuing.
“He just gave notice. Got a job as an assistant sous chef at some place in the Village.” She starts slicing faster, and a piece ofcucumber flies off the cutting board, landing on the floor a few feet behind us. It’s not clear if she doesn’t notice or simply doesn’t care.
“I told Oren that I want his job and the son of a bitch said it’s not gonna happen. Apparently, I’m ‘too green,’ and I’m ‘not ready.’ The usual bullshit.”
She drops her knife against her cutting board and turns to face me. Her eyes narrow as she crosses her arms across her chest.
“I’ve been working on garde-manger for two years now. I’m more than ready to move up to vegetables. The only reason he’s refusing to give me the job is because I’m a woman. Among other things.”
Guilt floods through me as I mentally fill in what she’s not saying. That the other reason she can’t leave the station is that I’m not ready to run it unsupervised. That maybe, if I spent more time in the kitchen and less at movie premieres, I would be better at my job, and she wouldn’t have to pick up my slack.
When I fail to say anything, she rolls her eyes and starts slicing again.
“I’m so sorry, Mia,” I finally say. “I know you must be frustrated. But you’re going to get there soon. It’s only fair.”
