Chapter 4
FOUR
Sadie
M y fingers tapped on the keyboard while I sat at the desk in my home office, but not a single one of those letters appeared on the screen. Because I wasn’t actually pushing the keys. I was just gently clicking my nails against them, hoping that the article would miraculously write itself.
Next to my monitor, my phone sat on a holder, showing the most recent article that had been written about Horned, describing it as delectably ingenious. Whoever the writer was, they were creative. I swiped my thumb across the screen to toggle to the other three articles I’d found on the restaurant, hoping they would inspire something for me to write. Each one mentioned the cuisine was divine, the space was modern and inviting, the cocktail list was original.
What could I write?
That I had seen the entrance and a little of the vibe of the bar—most of which I hadn’t paid attention to since I was too focused on Lockhart—and I finished half of my old-fashioned before I was swept into his car.
But this article was due yesterday, and I was avoiding my boss at Seen —LA’s most-read publication—like the plague, and he’d already emailed me twice.
How could I write this though?
I hadn’t eaten there. I’d done nothing more than smell the food, and even that hadn’t stood out because my nose was too mesmerized by Lockhart’s cologne. Giving my opinion on anything that related to the restaurant—something I did for a living—wouldn’t be fair. Or honest.
And I prided myself on writing the most genuine, unbiased food reviews.
I’d email my boss back once I thought of a way to tell him the truth. An excuse that could only be encouraged by an extremely strong martini, which meant I needed to text Bryn and convince her to go out with me tonight.
And just as I was about to, I caught a glimpse of the far side of my office, where I filmed some of my content, and stared at the neon sign that hung on the wall, showing a name that was famous in this city.
Dear Foodie .
The name of the most popular food critic from Santa Barbara to San Diego. She had her own weekly column in Seen and an online following of over five million, where she showcased her brand deals, food-related traveling, cooking, and love of eating. She was a woman with an eclectic palate and a desire to consume all cuisine.
With a face no one had ever seen, she was as mysterious as she was in demand.
And not a single person—other than my boss, Bryn, my parents, and my sister—knew she was me.
Beneath the white neon sign was a very tall, very unsteady pile of boxes, and I scanned the exterior of them, trying to locate the one that housed the cookware I would need for today’s shoot. A brand had sent me their pots and pans with a six-figure check, and contractually, I was obligated to post their cookware at least four times over the next month.
On today’s agenda was an instructional cooking video, using two of their frying pans that I needed to have shot, edited, and uploaded for tomorrow’s morning post.
I walked over to the stack of boxes, the cookware most definitely on the bottom, given the size of the cardboard, and I moved the top one, going box by box until I reached the last one. They’d sent their full line, so there was no way this could be the only box. I checked the other four stacks in my office, and as I was about to go into my living room, where there were another five mountains of boxes, my phone rang.
Shit.
He was going to murder me for not responding to his emails.
Can I send him to voice mail?
How horrible would that be?
It would be horrible, considering he was already furious with me, and if I didn’t answer, that would only make things even worse.
Bracing for impact, I held the phone up to my ear. “Hi?—”
“Oh. You’re alive. I was wondering if my next call was going to be to the local hospitals to find out if you’d been admitted.”
I winced. “I know. I wanted to reply to your email?—”
“But you didn’t.” He exhaled loudly. “Sadie, when I email you, I expect a response. When I email you twice, you either need to be admitted somewhere where they’ve confiscated your phone or you’re too ill to look at it, you’re on a silent retreat in a town I’ve never heard of, or you’re in the morgue. ”
I deserved that and said, “Understood.” I swallowed. “And I’m sorry. It was so wrong of me. It’s not because I couldn’t make my deadline—you know how I am about turning things in on time, I’m always the queen of rocking every deadline.”
“Which is where the confusion comes in. This isn’t like you. So, what’s going on?”
I took a deep breath, thinking of that evening. “I went to Horned … but I didn’t end up eating. I left after having a cocktail. And I didn’t see enough of the restaurant or engage with the staff or even sample the food, therefore, I don’t feel qualified to write the article.”
“And you didn’t know how to tell me.”
My head dropped. “Yes, and I feel terrible about that. I’m sorry.”
He sighed. “You know we’ve promised our readers that Horned was getting reviewed this week. We’ve been building it up, teasing it. Our readers trust us. And because they trust us and they know we deliver on our promises, they’re loyal.”
I wrapped an arm around my stomach. “Which is another reason I didn’t reach out.”
“Is there a reason you haven’t gone back to Horned to eat? You didn’t mention why you’d left, so I’m unsure if something happened in the restaurant or?—”
“No, nothing like that. I left”—I glanced around my large office, trying to think of what to say—“for personal reasons. Reasons that had nothing to do with the restaurant. And I haven’t been back because I’ve been slammed. I had an event last night, and I’ve been filming content and …” My excuses sounded weak, but they were the truth.
I needed an assistant and to stop saying yes to everything and to find a balance; work was dominating almost every part of my life. Even though it should have been a priority, driving back to Laguna Beach was the last thing I wanted .
“Sadie, help me out here. What am I going to tell our readers when your column is one extremely glaring section of emptiness?”
Silence ticked between us.
“I’ll go to Horned tonight,” I told him.
“What?” He laughed. “You’ll never be able to get in. They’re booked out for months.”
“Then I’ll eat in the bar. Or I’ll find another way in. Trust me, I’ll get it done.” I waited, and he said nothing. “Please, let me fix this. I messed up, I was wrong, and I want to make it right.”
“If the article is in my hands by tomorrow morning, I’ll forget we even had this conversation. I won’t forget that you didn’t respond to my email—don’t let that happen again—but you’ll be forgiven.”
“Deal.”
The phone went dead, and I continued to hold it in my palm, staring at the home screen, my brain reeling with everything I needed to accomplish tonight. Dear Foodie could get into any restaurant in the state within a second. Sadie? Not so much.
But I would figure this out. I had to.
My weekly article in Seen had been the start of my career in the food business, and it began the foundation of my social media following. Without them, I wouldn’t have grown into what I had today.
I would never forget that.
I pulled up my Contacts and my Favorites, hitting the number for my best friend, and as soon as it started ringing, I returned the phone to my ear.
“She’s calling me midday rather than texting,” Bryn said as she answered. “Which tells me this is going to be major. Hold on. I need to sit down.” She paused. “Okay, I’m ready. Hit me with it.”
I laughed. “I love you.”
“I love you more. Are you all right?”
My stare wandered over my office as I calculated how much time it would take to film the cooking video and have it edited, and then wash and dry my hair for dinner because the way I looked at the moment was terrifying. “Do you have plans tonight?”
“Sounds like I do now. What kind of trouble are you going to get me into?”
I rolled my eyes. “Because I’ve got Miss Trouble written all over me.”
“Miss Bad Girl is more like it.”
“Oh God, stop. We’re not going there again . We’ve talked out the whole Lockhart night forward and backward and sideways.”
“And I could hear it one more time, and it would feel like the first.”
And I could repeat it over and over, and it would never be enough.
I wondered if Lockhart thought about that night the way I did. If he wished I’d woken him up before I left.
If he regretted not getting my number before we fell asleep.
“Moving on,” I groaned. “So, because I was a bad girl that night, I didn’t get enough info to write my article on the restaurant, and my boss isn’t happy with me. That’s why I’m calling. Do you want to go there with me tonight?”
“You know I’d never say no.”
“Well, you need to know what you’re getting into. You might just rethink that answer.”
“Okay …”
I moved back to my desk and took a seat. “I don’t have a reservation. We could be waiting there all night and still not get in.”
“Nonsense. We’ll get in. I’ll pull out some sorcery if I have to.”
I shook my mouse, watching my inbox refresh with brand deals and social media notifications. “I’m afraid to ask what kind of sorcery you’re talking about.”
“Just make sure you have cash on you. Like a hundred-dollar bill. You know, in case we have to tuck it into the hostess’s hand.”
“Good thinking.” I smiled. “So, what you’re saying is, you’re still in?”
“Babe, I was never out.”
I danced in my chair. “I’ll pick you up at five. Mwah.”
Is Horned worth the three-month waiting list to get in? Is their signature filet, served Pittsburgh-style with a charred exterior and a medium rare interior, worth twelve dollars an ounce? Is the old-fashioned as sinful as I’ve heard?
Yes, yes, and absolutely yes.
Sinful on the tongue and heavenly all the way down. And I’m not just speaking about the old-fashioned. That’s the way I would describe Horned.
An exquisite meal, flawlessly executed and wickedly satisfying.
Make your reservation, Foodies .
I’d written the two-hundred-word article and let it simmer on the screen while I went into my en suite and got ready for bed, returning to my computer to make sure the last few paragraphs were as strong as they needed to be. I was always hyper-fixated on the conclusion of every piece. Since it was the summary that mattered most—the wrap-up of my final thoughts and whether I believed my readers should take the chance—I normally rewrote it several times before I submitted it to my boss.
I read it one last time and emailed it to my boss, relieved that I’d made things right and this whole incident would be behind us.
Before I could go to bed, I had to confirm that tomorrow’s video was scheduled for the morning across each of my channels. Pleased with everything I saw, I returned to Instagram and loaded a new post, choosing one of the photos I’d taken tonight that showed my fingers wrapped around an old-fashioned. My followers knew I tested out the restaurant at least a week before I posted about it, so no one would suspect I was just there this evening; most importantly, Horned’s staff wouldn’t try to piece anything together. My anonymity was as important to me as the authenticity of my reviews.
I stared at the picture until a caption came to me, and I began to type.
Horned: Is it sinfully delicious? Or overpriced and overhyped? My full review will be in Friday’s edition of Seen. See you there, Foodies.
Within seconds, hundreds of likes began to flutter in and the comment section exploded. The hype was already there, and come Friday, the readers would be too.
I hoped to hell this made my boss a happy man.