Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
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.
I take a slow turn, drinking it all in as I bite my lip. “Wow,” I say. “They didn’t spare any expense, did they?”
Zander chuckles, nodding. “Not bad, right? When he asked me what kind of gear I wanted, I aimed high. I was fully expecting him to come back with cheaper options, at least in some areas.” He puts his palm on a gleaming cooktop, lips curving up in a smile. “The guy just signed off and bought every single thing I asked for.” He shakes his head, as if he’s still wrapping his mind around it.
I idly run my fingertip across the handle of a Japanese chef’s knife polished to perfection. Him. He means Nolan, and for some reason, that makes my skin prickle.
“So,” Zander says. He crosses his arms, which draws my eyes to his tattooed forearms and slender fingers. “I gave your resume a long look last night. I’m impressed. Your references from Escoffier were glowing. Creative. Complex palette. A knack for unexpected flavor profiles and an ability to improvise. I do value an experienced staff, but I also believe in bringing fresh eyes and new talent. I think we could use someone exactly like you here.”