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I sigh. “What were you thinking, Grams?”
She finally peels her eyes from the TV as the three guys bend over, touching their toes with their asses to the camera. What kind of show was this, anyway?
“I was thinking,” she says, peering up at me from above her readers. “My granddaughter is young and I don’t want our family line to die off with you. No offense, but that would be kind of disappointing. Don’t you think?”
“I’m not even thirty, Grams.”
“No?” she asks, squinting. “Might want to make sure you’re keeping up with the sunscreen, then. Good luck convincing a man of that, anyway. I could’ve sworn I just sent you a forty-second birthday card the other day.”
I scowl, but I’m also smiling a little. I know Grams is mostly full of it. She’s like an emotional vampire who feeds on the annoyance of others. It’s probably the secret to her inexplicable energy. When she’s not using her powers of mischief to mess with my personal life and my carefully laid plans, I usually just find her amusing.
“I’m not going to have children with Nolan,” I say. “I’m more likely to strangle him in his sleep.”
“Auto-erotic asphyxiation is a big thing in the kink world,” Grams says, nodding her approval. “Let me know how you like it.”
“I shouldn’t have bothered coming here,” I say.
“Mia?” she asks, stopping me as I’m getting up from the crinkly plastic-covered couch.
“What?” I ask.
“Good luck with your interview. Caroline told me it was today.” There’s finally a touch of genuine warmth in her face.
I eye her suspiciously. I know better than to fully trust Grams just because she looks genuine, though. “Thanks?”
“I know a few people who specialize in revenge. They’re sharp as marbles, of course, but they can get the job done. And they’re discreet. If they don’t hire you, just let me know.” She winks, and not in a just kidding kind of way.
“Uh, yeah. Thanks, Grams. I should get going to the interview.” I hug her and leave her to her weird VHS tape, which is now showing the three guys jumping in rhythm as music pulses.
I pull my coat tighter against the morning cold, adjust my scarf, and set off toward the commercial district.
My mind is on the interview I’m about to walk into. I run through the list of things I’ve rehearsed in my head again and again.
I’m Mia Calloway. I’m passionate about cooking and I just graduated from Escoffier in New York a couple weeks ago. I’m a hard worker, and my history as a competitive figure skater before my injury can attest to that. Oh, and my past with Nolan Saulters will not impair my ability to work at Taste in any way, shape, or form.
I run through the words again in my head, but this time, I change the word “past” to “history.” History feels more like something that’s finished. It feels distant and unthreatening.
I sigh, blowing out a puff of cold air in front of my face. I’m thinking harder about him than I need to. Chances are, we’ll wind up figuring out a solution to our double booking situation sooner rather than later. He’s probably not even going to be at the restaurant for the interview or care that I’m applying.
I feel a little better by the time I’m standing outside Taste. It’s still dark out, but the shop windows of Taste glow with yellow light as a lone figure inside is moving behind the counter.
The figure isn’t Nolan. The man is too slim and the hair is too dark. Caroline did tell me the head chef at Taste would be Zander Ross, a young, but well-known chef for his work in two Michelin-starred Boston restaurants. I wonder if the man inside is him.
I try the door and find it’s open. A little bell jingles over my head and Zander turns to look my way. For a second, his eyes light up and a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. I heard he was young, but he doesn’t even look like he’s quite reached his thirties. He’s athletically built in a way his black chef’s apron barely hides. He has straight, white teeth, dimples, and wavy black hair that falls in clean clumps around his handsome face.
“You must be Mia,” he says as he comes around the counter toward me, extending a hand. “I’m Zander. Thanks for coming in.”
His handshake is firm and his gaze is appreciative. Maybe a little too appreciative. But it’s not uncomfortable–just a little unusual for a job interview.
“Thanks for having me,” I say, pulling my hand back a little too quickly. Why did I do that? Am I feeling guilty for noticing he’s attractive because I know Nolan is here? Or am I just being sensible and not wanting to have the hots for a guy I’m possibly going to be working for all the time?
“Let’s talk as we walk.” Zander extends his arm toward the kitchen. “I want to show you what we’re working with, here.”
“Okay.” I try not to sound too hopeful, even though he’s already talking like I’ve got the job. I expected to be interrogated and quizzed. Maybe my resume convinced him I was a good candidate before I even stepped in the door, though.
I follow him behind the counter and into the kitchen–the heart of Taste. It’s gleaming stainless steel everywhere I look. Pristine countertops, state-of-the-art equipment, and plenty of space for prep and storage.
My heart swells when I imagine myself here with sweat on my brow and the scents of a fully running kitchen in my nose–with the pride in my chest of being part of a well-oiled machine that’s bringing people happiness out in the dining room. I think of the excitement I’d feel in creating new recipes or working with the chefs to improve our food.
