Page 2 of The Sweetness of Life

“I know! I don’t get it at all.” It’s not that I’m interested in dividing my time between work and a guy—I prefer the work hands down—but I do enjoy their company every now and then. Bending over, I unclasp the straps of my heels, slide them off, and toss them in my bag. A groan escapes me as my feet flatten to the floor.

In the last year, I’ve cooked for a guy here at the restaurant who was vehemently against vegetables, so he wouldn’t do, and I found another taking photos of my recipes on his phone when I left the room—thief!

“You know, it all started with that wine guy Lexi tried to set me up with last fall at the Feeding America charity event.”

“Oh, that guy was the worst! What was his name again?”

“Zachary Wolff.”

Just saying his name heats my blood to a near boil, and my mind drifts back to an image of him and his haughty, disapproving glare. Lexi, who we met at culinary school, set us up on a blind date and pointed him out to me shortly after we arrived, so I saw him before he saw me, and my breath caught at how incredibly handsome he was. For the first time in a long time, I thought, Maybe, just maybe. But, once introductions were made, he immediately frowned and looked away. Talk about a self-confidence crusher.

“That’s right. Too bad, too—he was hot. Wasn’t he a football player or something?”

“Yeah, he was hot, and he knew it, too. Lexi did mention that he was ex-NFL. I’ve never met a man so stuck on himself. How or why she’s friends with him, I’ll never know. Whatever. He barely gave me a second glance, which was so rude since he was supposed to be my date. Plus, he thought he was God’s gift to the wine world, looking down his nose at everyone at that event—and his wines aren’t even that good!”

“How do you know? We don’t stock them here,” Meg asks as she emerges from the office.

“Well, technically I don’t know. I’ve never tasted them, but don’t you remember that article I stumbled across and showed you shortly after the event? The one that talked about the mediocre table wines? That’s his winery.”

“Now that you mention it, I do remember it. They rated those wines with four wilted grapes. Well, karma’s a bitch. Someone needs to remind him you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”

“Seriously. I almost felt bad for him after reading it. Almost.” It’s too bad, though. I’d never seen eyes as blue as his. They were an intense ice blue, cold—just like his personality. “It’s all right, I really don’t have time to deal with a guy right now anyway. I want these articles to be so good that the editors of the magazine want to work with me year after year. Plus, between the restaurant and the blog, I’m way too busy. Career first, guys later—remember?” I lift my bag onto my shoulder and tuck it under my arm.

Meg turns to face me with an understanding look. “I know you’re worried about the articles, but don’t be. They’ll be amazing—no, they already are.” She smiles, and it’s so genuine I almost believe her. How crazy different would life be if I’d never met her?

“I hope so,” I mumble.

Last year, a representative from the magazine contacted me to see if I was interested in writing for a special edition magazine, All About the South, and I about died. Someone had seen my blog and thought I would be perfect given my thorough knowledge of restaurants in the region. Meg and I celebrated for a solid week by eating, drinking, and splurging on new shoes.

My assignment was simple. They were constructing four magazines for the four regions of the United States, and I was asked to recommend twenty-five different restaurants across the southeast with the theme focusing on seafood: Gulf shrimp, crawfish, crab, grouper, et cetera. Meg and I changed OBA’s operational hours to four days a week and traveled Monday through Wednesday for three months, eating our way into a complete state of bliss.

I mean, why not? Both of us are young and single, the restaurant is ours to open and close when we want, and—best of all—we got paid. So, when they called again this year, I was over the moon. I now have two consecutive years of work for the magazine to add to my resume, and I know I have to make my contribution super spectacular.

This year the focus is farm-to-table. Each regional issue will highlight restaurants that use locally grown food. They want another twenty-five recommendations where I mention impressive farmers markets and family farms. Personally, I think it’s a great idea. The fresher the better.

“You headed home?” I ask her. Meg and I are also roommates, but occasionally she sleeps at her aunt’s just to keep an eye on her.

“Yeah, after I drop this off at the bank.” She waves the zippered envelope at me and flips the lights off.

Together we walk out the front door then she locks it and hits the remote alarm app on her phone. From inside my bag, my phone starts ringing. I drop it on the sidewalk and start digging until my fingers find it.

“I’ll see you in a bit,” Meg says, taking a few steps backward. “I’m thinking it’s a wine and a hot guy dancing kind of night.” She drops her arm and does a bad version of the robot.

A laugh bursts out of me and echoes down the sidewalk.

“Sounds perfect!” I grin at her before turning my attention to my phone. It’s my editor from the magazine, Teddy Carothers. Every time his name flashes across the screen, my heart skips a beat—half excitement and half nerves. I’ve wanted to be a part of the Food Network family for so long, and there’s always this slight fear that with one phone call it can all go away, just as simply as it arrived.

“Hi, Mr. Carothers. How are you?” I stand and grab my bag, trying to keep my voice calm and my hand steady. Ever since I started working for him last year, I’ve had to remind myself to show no fear. I’ve worked hard for this, and I deserve it.

“I’m great, Shelby, thanks for asking. Is now a good time?” It’s after eight—he never calls this late—and my hand tightens on the phone. Part of me wonders if he was contacted about the studio job, but I’ll never ask.

“Yes, now’s a great time. We just locked up OBA, and I’m about to head home.” I make my way across the street to my car, barely feeling the inconsistencies of the cobblestone and fallen oak pollen under my bare feet.

“Very good. So, I’m curious, how’s the assignment coming along?” Last year, he never asked me about the assignment. I had three deadlines, with the twenty-five recommendations broken up into sections of nine, eight, and eight. I submitted on time, he said, “Great job,” and that was the end of it.

Sliding into my car, I toss my bag onto the passenger seat, and when it tips over, I frown as all my things spill out onto the floor. “I’m almost done with it. Would you like me to send you what I have?” Nerves flit through my stomach and I grip the steering wheel. I glance to my laptop, which is standing on its side. The article isn’t ready yet, but I could spend all night on it if I had to.

“No, that won’t be necessary. You can send it all once it’s done.” There’s a pause in the conversation. I can hear the shuffling of some papers on his end, him swallowing, and a glass hitting the table. Anxiety takes off and my hands start to sweat. “But listen . . . turns out, I have another idea to run by you.”