3. Olivia
Olivia
“It's me all right,” I say, taking a few nervous steps forward.
Well, I'm cooked. Of all the people in Los Angeles to be interviewing for, it had to be him. Towel-man. The guy who I might or might not have gotten kicked out of my neighbor's apartment not even twelve hours earlier.
Why couldn't he have forgotten about me?
“So, this is what the bagels were for last night?” the man I can only assume is Drake Vance asks me.
He folds his arms in front of him at the desk and looks at me expectantly before gesturing to the seat across from him.
Even if he doesn't want to hire me, he still has to go through the motions. “I thought you just had the munchies.”
He looks even better clothed. Okay, that's a stretch, but he looks pretty damn good.
His business suit is perfectly tailored to his body and hugs his arms and chest. After previously seeing what he hides behind those clothes, the top button of his shirt leaves just enough to the imagination for those images to swarm back into my mind.
My cheeks redden, betraying any confidence I was projecting.
“I can't blame you for that,” I say, trying to laugh it off. By the look on his face, he has no interest in joining me.
Last night, he was more than happy to joke around before he was kicked out, but I can imagine he has a sour taste in his mouth now.
“I guess knocking on someone's door around midnight to use their oven isn't that common.
I've done it before with Rita. I know she's a bit of a night owl, and she never minds the company.”
“Do you always talk this much?” Drake asks, and I’m a little offended. “Does being this chatty have an impact on your work?”
Even though I take this as an insult, I keep a smile on my face. I need this job.
The chances of me getting it are slim but not non-existent. Where there's hope, there's a way forward.
At least, that's what my mom told me any time I planned on giving up. Mama didn't raise a quitter, and I won’t let one bad encounter ruin this for me.
“I pride myself on my ability to balance my personal and work life, so any conversations I would have with your staff would not impact my ability to cook,” I say, setting the tray of food on the desk in front of him.
I spent all morning analyzing every item I cooked, making sure I selected the best of the best. Drake looks down at the food, but he doesn't pick anything up just yet.
“I know it can be hard to judge a chef's skills based on a resume alone, so I made some items for you to sample.”
He looks down at the tray of fluffy, buttery bread and scowls. “I have a severe gluten intolerance; I can't be around these.”
“Oh, my God. I'm so sorry; I didn't know.” I pull the tray away from him, and every nerve in my body stands upright. This is off to a great start.
“That was a lie, but is that the kind of recklessness I should expect from you as an employee here? I won't have my employees going into anaphylactic shock because you're not paying attention to allergens.”
Okay, so maybe there is no hope.
I've watched enough body-language analysis videos on YouTube to recognize that he's closed off to me. After what happened last night, he is not willing to hire me.
I might as well just take back the tray I spent every last dime in my bank account buying the supplies for and try to sell it on the street to make enough money for rent this month.
I'm frazzled in front of him again, and that seems to please him. He's getting a sick pleasure from putting me on the spot and making me nervous. My potential boss is a sadist, great.
“I'm sorry about what happened last night.” I set the tray back on the table, watching him carefully to see what he does.
“I worked very hard to make a wide variety of things to impress you.
I had no idea Rita would be with someone, and I definitely didn't know she would be with someone who didn't know her name.”
A smile crosses his lips for the first time, but there is no joy in it. It's smug as he raises his eyebrows. Damn it, he somehow looks even better like that, and my heart plummets to my stomach and swirls around. “Do you want to know what happened to me after last night?”
I nod and wait for him to elaborate. If he's going to be an asshole, I won’t hold my punches anymore, either. “You mean after Rhea—I mean Rita—called you a silver-spooned womanizing fuckboy prick?”
He pauses, almost as if his mind is rebooting after I repeated the insult during a job interview.
“Precisely.” He takes a deep breath and leans forward while looking me deep in the eyes.
“Every entertainment news outlet is sharing pictures of me climbing into an Uber in only a towel.
I've lost investors because of that incident. You knocking on her door and getting me kicked out has cost my company millions of dollars.”
I raise my eyebrows as I listen. Does he expect me to feel sorry for him? I'm a little amused at his ability to blame anyone but himself. He doesn’t appear to be hurting for money, which makes the fact that he's as good-looking and muscular as he is even more obnoxious.
Instead of feeling guilty for dating so many women that he can't keep their names straight, he blames the person who inadvertently got him caught. I feel like I did Rita a favor. This man wasn't going to stick around, and I saved her a heartbreak. But to him, I'm the bad guy.
People like him are out of touch.
“I can tell you're hurting after all of this.” I look around at the obscenely large office space with a prime view of the city.
Luxury furniture and expensive commissioned paintings that I'm sure cost more than the potential salary I would have earned in the position I'm being interviewed for fill every possible space.
“You're obviously not going to hire me, so I'm going to get out of here. Thank you for the opportunity.”
He laughs and leans back again, but not before grabbing one of the butterscotch muffins off the tray. I roll my eyes and pick up the rest of the baked goods before he can try any of them. He doesn't get to be an asshole and enjoy the fruits of my labor.
I'm about to leave when he takes the first bite of his muffin, and his eyes widen as he moans. It takes everything in me not to laugh at his reaction. I know they're good, but come on.
Drake is obvious as he tries to hide the look on his face. He clears his throat and sets the muffin on the desk in front of him, looking at me with his eyebrows furrowed.
“They're good, aren't they?” I smirk and hold the tray in my hands, taunting him with the rest of the pastries.
“Leonard said you knew how to cook,” Drake finally says, gesturing for me to sit back down.
I hesitate, contemplating if I want this job even if he offers it to me. He's already treated me like dirt, and working under an employer like that sounds like a nightmare. But I'm also desperate.
“We got off on the wrong foot, and I'm genuinely sorry if my actions hurt you,” I say as I take a seat in front of him.
“I graduated with two associates degrees from The Culinary Institute of America, and I’m trained in baking and traditional cooking.
I've interned under Michelin Star chefs. Having me in your kitchen will be nothing but a benefit for you. I can bake fresh bagels and muffins for your staff every day, and any meal you want me to make, I can competently provide.”
I straighten my spine and make sure I don't come across as too needy. I'm confident I would be a good person for this position, and he’s a fool if he doesn't see that.
He stares at me for a few moments, contemplating whether to let bygones be bygones and hire somebody fitting for the position. Eventually, he takes a deep breath and leans forward, his light brown eyes glued to me.
“I'll give you one chance,” he says, and I'm shaking with excitement. “That was probably the best muffin I've ever eaten. Plus, if I don't do this, your dad is going to kill me. But I'm going to be watching you. Consider this a trial run.”
I hold my hand out to shake his, and he pauses before shaking it reluctantly.
“You won’t regret this,” I say before standing up and walking toward the door, leaving the pastries behind as a parting gift.
“I sincerely hope not,” Drake mutters as I walk out, feeling as light as the filling in my perfectly cooked muffins.