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I realize that this is exactly what I’m doing. Staring at the poor guy.
“I’m sorry,” I sputter. “Sort of caught me off guard.”
I grab the napkin to start patting at my chin, noticing now that the man is wearing a white chef coat with a matching apron tied around his waist.
“Oh,” I start again. “I wasn’t going to order anything yet, I was waiting for someone.”
“Right.” He flashes a row of perfect teeth that my orthodontist would be ecstatic over, looking almost like he regrets having walked up to the table. Or maybe I’m projecting. “I think you’re waiting for me. Are you Cassie?”
“I—” Oh no. No, no, no. I did not spit water all over myself in front of the guy I’m trying to get to hire me. “Are you Mr.Reid?”
He makes a face. “Aiden, please. Mr.Reid makes me feel old.”
Which he isn’t. I don’t think. I mean, he’s older than me but notold. He can’t be any older than thirty, I’d wager. I’m still sort of gawking at him. “Right,” I say, trying to collect myself as I push away from the table and extend my hand awkwardly. “I’m Cassie. Cassie Evans.”
His mouth quirks at my extended hand, making me immediately regret holding it out like I’m doing an off-Broadway rendition of the Tin Man inThe Wizard of Oz, but there’s no taking it back now. He shakes it in what I can only assume is an attempt to be nice, gesturing back to my seat and waiting for me to sit before he takes the one across from me.
I clear my throat, trying to forget that a minute ago I almost spit water on the hottest man alive who I very much want to pay me a ridiculous amount of money to watch his kid.His kid,I remind myself. This is ajobinterview. Which makes it totally inappropriate that I’m still thinking about his massive hands. Handsthat my hindbrain actually notices aren’t sporting a ring of any kind.
Cut it out, brain.
I should stop staring at his hands, in any case. Even if they are large enough to make a girl mentally calculate when her last date was.
“So,” I try awkwardly. “You’re a cook.” I groan, instantly regretting my choice of words. “Sorry. I mean a chef. You’re a chef. Right?”
Miraculously, he doesn’t call to have me removed but smiles instead. “Yeah. I cook here.”
Oh, bless him for humoring me.
“That’s... awesome. Really awesome.” I nod appreciatively as I glance around us at the glittering chandeliers and the piano player somewhere behind us. “It’s a snazzy place.”
“It is,” he agrees. “I’ve been the executive chef here for a few years now.”
“No kidding? Fancy.”
“Fancy,” he echoes, looking amused. “Right. Sorry to ask you to meet me at work. I’ve been, ah... well. It’s been crazy lately.”
“It’s no big deal. I thought it was weird to do one of these things over dinner, especially at a place like this, but I figured...” It might have been nice if it had dawned on mebeforeI had started sputtering my nonsense, but nevertheless, it does hit me. The implications of what he’s said. My mouth snaps shut as heat floods my face, and I duck with embarrassment as I cover my eyes. “Oh my God. This isn’t a dinner interview. You wanted to talk to me on your break.”
“I should have... been more clear in my email.”
Oh God. He’s trying to defend me. Someone bury me.
“I’m unbelievable.”
“No, no,” he tries. “It’s fine.”
“God, I’m an idiot. I wore this dumb dress, and—”
“It’s a very nice dress.”
“You probably think I’m bonkers—”
“Really, I don’t.”
“I can be so dense sometimes, I’m sorry.”
He still looks amused. Like he’s finding my mental breakdown funny. I don’t know if that makes things better or worse.
