I’m Looking for a Man in Finance

Chapter 1

Hallie

I was in love.

I moaned.

The bagel to cream cheese ratio … perfection. The smoked salmon … delightful. The addition of capers … genius. The flavors exploded across my tongue with every bite. The rumors were true, and I knew my review of this place would get a lot of attention on social media.

This cute bistro had popped up in the West Village over the weekend and there were whispers they could be contenders for one of the best bagel spots in Manhattan.

With such high praise already, I knew I needed to be one of the first to review it for myself.

I snapped a photo of the bagel with my perfectly manicured fingers framing the logo of the bistro.

A beautiful stoop of someone’s house added just the right vibe to the shot.

As soon as I hit post my phone started to buzz as the likes and comments flooded in.

I’d carefully crafted my food review page on social media over the past few years, which now reached nearly ten thousand followers and counting.

Not exactly influencer status, but not nothing either.

I watched the notifications pile up and wondered, not for the first time, if one viral post could tip me from underrated to undeniable food influencer overnight.

My blog started off as a way to stay sane during my intern days at Sophisticate , the magazine I’m so proud to still work at nearly three years later, now as a full-time journalist, but it had become something more—my creative playground.

I covered hole-in-the-wall dumpling shops, farmers’ market pop-ups, boozy brunch spots in Williamsburg, and everything in between.

I never missed a chance to pair my bite with the perfect backdrop.

Maybe in another life it wouldn’t be just a hobby.

The bustle of NYC continued around me as I stared at my phone, bagel still in hand.

The West Village was a brunch-stained love letter to chaos.

Flower carts spilled tulips onto the sidewalk.

I dodged a golden retriever in a raincoat, sidestepped a painter dabbing at a canvas on the sidewalk, and nearly collided with a guy on a Citibike who yelled, “Nice fit!” before vanishing down Bleecker.

Just another day.

I started walking again, weaving past a man in a three-piece suit as he argued with a pair of twenty-somethings that were filming something in the middle of the sidewalk in front of a vintage bookstore. This was my neighborhood. Messy, vibrant, loud, and beautiful.

The rumble of the subway vibrated up through the ground as I hurried down the stairs to catch my train.

I swiped up on my lock screen to look through the incoming notifications when a new post on my feed caught my eye.

Victoria, the food critic for Sophisticate , was posing on the streets of London with Big Ben in the background.

I am so excited to dive into the food scene of London, well known for its variety of old and new flavors over this upcoming year …

I stopped walking mid-stride, barely registering the curse words flying toward me from the person behind who narrowly missed plowing into me. My finger hovered over my screen as my brain took off at light speed.

It couldn’t be … That meant …

With barely any time to spare, I slipped into the subway, my eyes locked on the phone in my hands.

Victoria was gone . Not just on vacation.

Gone-for-a-year kind of gone. That post was more than her career update—it was a shining light for me.

A slow hum of realization started in my chest and spread through me like a tidal wave.

If she was moving to London for the year …

her job—the job I’d dreamed about since freshman orientation at NYU—was officially open.

My heart stuttered. The rattling subway car faded into the background.

I’d studied Victoria’s reviews like gospel, analyzed her tone, the rhythm of her critiques, the way she made even a side of roasted carrots feel profound.

And now … could I be the one to fill that role?

Could Sophisticate even consider someone like me?

I didn’t go to Le Cordon Bleu. I certainly hadn’t spent my childhood in Michelin-star restaurants that my parents ate at on a regular basis like Victoria.

I was a girl from a small town in Ohio who ate cereal for dinner more often than I’d like to admit.

I’d moved to Manhattan with a dream of living in a place where dreams came true and where I could dine at the kind of places I used to read about in blogs growing up.

I’d also built something from scratch—my social media account, all ten thousand followers and counting.

Reviews that people trusted. A voice. A perspective. Maybe it wasn’t fancy, but it was mine.

But was that enough?

The train lurched forward, and I gripped the pole next to me, the phone still in my hand, screen glowing with Victoria’s smile frozen beneath Big Ben.

My world had just shifted—and I wanted it badly enough; this could be the moment everything changed.

I glanced up at the looming skyscraper across the street from the subway station as I climbed the stairs back out into the city.

The building housed Sophisticate , a women’s magazine known for covering any topics from sex and relationships to health and politics.

It had become a part of the very fabric of American culture, devoted to the concerns of women and their lives.

From the moment NYU’s journalism program accepted me, I dreamed of working for Sophisticate and still felt grateful every day to walk through those glass doors. There was only one piece of the puzzle missing from my dream—writing as Sophisticate ’s food critic.

When I applied to the magazine out of college, I knew it would take some time before I was qualified to apply for a position that wielded such power within New York’s food scene.

So I worked myself nearly ragged for two years as an intern, fetching coffees and teaching my boss how to convert a PDF, before I finally landed my column—“Overheard in NYC”.

It was a tiny column at the back of the magazine, barely two-hundred words per week.

But it was a step toward my dream job, covering the most exquisite cuisines across the city.

My notes app was full of one-off comments I’d heard from people around me—on the subway, in my favorite coffee shop on a Sunday, or on my morning run through Central Park.

I covered anything from the juiciest celebrity sighting to the newest sex position I overheard some girl telling her friend she’d tried with her partner.

I was grateful to even have “Writer at Sophisticate ” on my résumé, but my passion was to write about food.

A text message from my best friend, Roxie King, popped up across the top of my screen.

Roxie:

What does this evoke for you?

Attached was a photo of a rounded sculpture that looked nothing short of phallic. Roxie worked at a famous art gallery on the Upper East Side where she sold art and sculptures just like this one to people that had more money than they knew what to do with.

Hallie:

Confusion? Of the penis-shaped kind?

Roxie:

I should have known better than to ask a sex magazine columnist …

Hallie:

Hey! I write about more than just sex … speaking of which.

I sent her the link to Victoria’s post and stepped off to the side to avoid the morning commuter rush on the sidewalk.

Roxie and I were roommates during our freshman year in college and bonded over our mutual love for food—with my dreams of becoming a critic and hers of photographing the most beautiful plates of food in the world.

But neither of us had cracked the code of the restaurant scene yet, relying heavily on our own social media accounts to make a name for ourselves within the industry.

Now we were roommates once more, living together in our tiny apartment in the West Village, as we tried to chase our career dreams.

My phone dinged with Roxie’s reply.

Roxie:

Are you going to apply?

Hallie:

Why? So they can smile and say “how cute”?

Roxie:

You know exactly why. You’re just as qualified to apply for the position as the next person. So why the hell wouldn’t you?

The lobby of Sophisticate was always buzzing—sleek black-and-white marble floors, artfully arranged florals, and a rotating collection of cover stories displayed in gold frames near the elevators.

Roxie’s words rang in my head as I stepped through the revolving doors.

I was immediately greeted by the scent of espresso and expensive perfume, the hum of heels on tile, and the distant ding of the elevator arriving.

There was a certain magic in walking into a building that felt like the nerve center of modern womanhood.

I rode the elevator up with a group of writers and staff, all in various stages of caffeine dependence. One of the girls from the fashion team complimented my boots, and I made a mental note to text Roxie a thank-you—she’d convinced me to splurge on them during a sample sale last month.

When I reached our floor, the open-concept office hummed with energy.

There were half-eaten croissants on the community kitchen counter, mood boards pinned up on the walls, and a fashion assistant dragging a rolling rack of outfits behind her like it was her oxygen tank.

Someone in editorial shouted about a missed deadline while another person ran past holding three coffee cups like a juggler in the circus.

It was a chaotic, caffeinated dream, and I loved every inch of it.

I dropped my tote on my desk and booted my computer, sipped the last of my bodega coffee and snacked on the last few bites of my bagel.

My desk was small, tucked between two other junior writers, but it was mine.

A framed photo of Roxie and me at graduation sat beside my monitor, next to a stack of colorful notebooks and a candle I wasn’t technically allowed to burn.