Faking It (Catching Flights and Feelings #2)

Chapter 1

When I woke up this morning, I was sure this was going to be the best day of my life. But as I sprint down the sidewalk as fast as my backless block heels allow me with my phone pressed to my ear, I’m starting to feel like this entire week is cursed.

“Jane, I’m going to need you to take a breath,” my best friend says on the other line. I called Lola for a pep talk before my first in-person story interview ever, but now she’s having to coach me through surviving a jog through the city in heels.

“I’m confident you were not taking a breath when you were sprinting across Greece for your romantic work catamaran. Sometimes life requires sprinting in uncomfortable shoes.”

“At least take the shoes off. You’ll run faster.”

“Sounds like a good way to step on broken glass or in bird poop.”

“Or dog vomit.”

I grimace at the idea of that one. “Please stop.”

“Sorry.”

My lungs are burning as I gasp for another breath of air and my heels clack as I jog across the street, weaving in and out of bodies on the New York sidewalk until I finally spot the sign for the restaurant in the distance.

“Thank god,” I pant, my steps slowing as I approach the brick building with the black-trimmed windows.

“You’re there already?” Lola asks.

“Already? It feels like I’ve been running for a thousand years.

” My breath comes out in embarrassing gasps.

I stop just outside the building and press my back against it, trying to catch my breath.

I peer up at the sign and my heart suddenly beats a little faster than its already too-fast pace.

But now for a totally different reason than running a half marathon in a pleated skirt in an effort to be punctual.

I gulp down another breath of air, still staring at the sign, then ask, “Why am I so nervous?”

“Because it’s your first interview at your new job,” Lola says. “And you were more of a list writer at Travel Bug. You didn’t really have to interview people.”

“You’re not helping. That was a hypothetical question.”

“I just mean it’s okay to be nervous about something new.”

I pull my phone from my ear to check the time.

1:56. Four minutes to spare and try to sound like I’m not fighting for my life.

Perfect. Now I just needed a distraction to forget that I’m about to walk into my first interview.

I swipe my sweaty palms against my skirt as I mentally give myself the pep talk Lola was supposed to be delivering.

“What did your family say about your new job when you saw them yesterday?” she asks, breaking me out of my thoughts. “Were they encouraging?”

I scoff, nerves momentarily forgotten as I think about my siblings. “Be serious. It was obviously The Kate Show.”

“As usual,” she adds. Lola has been a wonderful beacon over the years.

An ear to listen to my complaints, a shoulder to cry on when I felt the crushing sadness of being left out or the impending stress of what to buy my sisters for birthdays or Christmases in an effort to get them to love me. “What was this week’s episode about?”

“Oh, you know, just the twins bickering about Kate stealing a pair of Lydia’s Louis Vuitton shoes for a wedding and then traipsing through mud in them.”

Lola gasps like she’s fully invested in this story when to me it’s a regular family dinner. “Were they ruined?”

I push loose strands of my blonde hair out of my face, wincing slightly at the dampness of sweat on my forehead. Pressing my phone between my ear and shoulder, I dig in my bag for my notebook and quickly fan my face with it.

“Do you not read the texts I send you? I gave you a livestream of the fight.”

As if on cue, she yawns, reminding me that she’s in a totally different time zone right now but still taking the time to talk to me.“I was on a plane all night. What do you want from me?”

“To check your messages from your poor, untraveled friend the second you turn your phone off airplane mode. Who am I supposed to talk to without you?”

“Your parents? Your brother? Your sister in law?”

“Lola, be for real.”

“Sorry, you’re right.”

I turn and stare at my reflection in the giant windows, making sure my blush pink sweater is still tucked into my skirt and my hair is still cooperating in the low knot at the nape of my neck.

My fingers still go through the motion of brushing the hair off my face out of sheer nerves. I exhale a breath.

“Okay. I’m okay. I can do this. I can do anything.” The words sound hollow, but I don’t have time to muster up enough confidence to make them sound real.

“That’s right! Crush this interview!” Lola replies on the other end. “Go in there and do a great job and send me the link to the interview the second it goes live so I can frame it for you.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Baby’s first big interview.”

“Oh my God.”

“Would you sign it for me? I want to get your autograph before you’re too famous for me.”

“I’m hanging up now.” Lola’s soft laugh fills my ear as I pull the phone from it and press the red button, effectively ending the call.

Then I turn and stare at the heavy wooden door in a deep, dark stain.

The restaurant’s name is painted in the center of the massive picture window beside it.

Cute little planter boxes rest on either side of the door, little green buds of flowers popping out of it and adding to the reminder of spring in the damp, April air.

With one last breath for courage, I pull open the handle and step inside.

The sound of my heels echo against the floor as I walk into the industrial interior.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimmer light in here and I realize it's because although three sparkly chandeliers hang from the ceiling across the space, right now, the room is only lit by the natural light streaming through the high windows along the cream brick walls.

Below the windows, the walls are covered with a mix of paintings and blown up black-and-white photos that give the room a sophisticated edge.

My eyes drag along them until they finally land on the dark-top bar at the far end of the restaurant, with empty wooden stools stacked on top of it.

"Wow," I breathe. Even empty, this is the most beautiful restaurant I've ever seen. “I can’t believe I get paid to be here,” I mutter to myself, stepping further into the space.

I think I’m really going to like this new job. Only one week in and it already feels like a better fit. Much better than articles like “Top Ten Must Haves for Your Weekend Getaway” and “Which travel products are worth the hype.”

“Hello?” I call out into the void. My voice echoes, but no one else answers. It feels illegal to be in a restaurant that is so obviously closed, but this is my job now, so I hold my head high and take another step into the room.

“Hello?” I try again. No response. Is it too much to hope that the chef or the restaurant’s marketing contact might just appear?

I tap my hands against my legs and continue walking through the room leisurely, my gaze still swiveling back and forth at the decor.

I pull out my phone again and check the most recent email from my contact.

That sounds great, Jane! I’ll have Chef Matthews meet you in the dining room at 2:15 p.m. on Monday. Talk soon.

My eyes slide up to the time on the top corner of my phone and I squeeze my eyes shut.

2 p.m. I sprinted all the way here thinking I was late for an interview and I ended up being fifteen minutes early instead.

Another notification pops up on my phone from the staff photographer and I slide it open, hopeful she at least knows the time to be here since I apparently didn’t.

Estelle: Just leaving another photoshoot! I’ll be cutting it tight, but I should be there by 2:15. Feel free to start without me if you need to!

Jane: Okay! See you soon!

Great, so she at least knows how to put the correct times in her calendar, unlike myself.

I might as well be patient then as I wait for her and the chef.

I open the camera app and start snapping photos of the place to use as descriptive inspiration for my article.

I snap a couple pictures of the silver tile ceiling, of the sparkling chandelier, and of the dark bar top.

It’s only as I spin around that I notice the accent wall in the room, a fake moss wall opposite the bar that was out of my view as I stepped inside.

I happily take a photo of it, half-wondering if I could put a wall like that in a house.

You know, if I had the money to build a house.

I start to back up to line up a panorama photo of the restaurant, but only make it two steps before I bump into something warm and incredibly sturdy.

“Son of a—” someone mutters under their breath, but the end of the phrase is drowned out by the loud symphony of a number of plates shattering on the ground.

I stiffen. And then I slowly turn around and as the last crescendo of the shattering plate meets my ears, I lift my head and my gaze meets the bright blue-gray eyes of the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.