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“Well, I also have a fiancé,” I said.
“The famous architect. I got it.” He pointed at his wedding ring. “I just want to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“Your optics.”
“My . . . what?”
“Red Hook. Young and pretty . . .”
He tilted his head like he was convincing himself.
Was this guy kidding me? I pushed my hair behind my ears, defensive. It was the Danny effect. I’d historically never paid too much attention to my looks (maybe it was growing up without a mother), but Danny made me feel like I was stunning: my long blond hair suddenly sexy, my uniform of tank tops and cargo pants, effortlessly stylish in his eyes. Who was this guy to downgrade me?
“The right amount of pretty,” he said, like the issue was settled. “I can definitely work with this. Girls won’t feel threatened, especially because you’re an outsider. Born and raised in the South. Farm country.”
“I’m from Montauk.”
He shook his head. “Nah, makes you sound rich. Can’t start off rich. We’ll pick somewhere in Florida or Texas. We’ll make your dad a tomato farmer.”
I looked at him, confused.
“What’s your name?” he said.
“Sunny,” I said.
“Short for . . .”
“Sunshine.”
He laughed, thrilled. “Seriously? That’s too perfect. I can definitely, definitely work with this. Sunshine Mackenzie. A farmer’s daughter! Keeping it real in the Big Apple.”
“That’s not my last name.”
“It’s a star’s name. A food critic eating at the restaurant tonight had that name. She had a way about her. That’s what we’re going with. You’ll be my Justin Bieber. For the cooking world.”
He was, at this point, talking to himself. I looked at him. “Who?”
“People love the discovery narrative. That’s how we’ll play it.” He paused. “A chef for the next generation. That’s what they don’t get. That’s what they never fucking got. How to do fucking modern.”
I pointed toward Carla and Austin, who looked dangerously close to undressing each other. “I’m going to check on those guys.”
Then I started to walk away.
He called out after me. “I’ll give you a month’s salary if you’ll have a cup of coffee with me tomorrow.”
I stopped walking. “Why would you do that?”
“The job opportunity I’m telling you about.”
“You just told me you were fired. You don’t have a job to offer.”
He smiled. “I think I just might.”
I leaned across the countertop. Did he not understand? “I make a pretty good grilled cheese,” I said. “That’s it.”
“A certain TV personality who just opened his fifth Tex-Mex restaurant made a SPAM taco when I found him. Nothing to do with anything.”
