Chapter 2
The crashing plates still ring in my ears as I stare down at the mess. Pasta and chicken and bread and salad are all scattered on the tile floor among shards of navy and white porcelain.
My last little bit of my confidence is scattered there as well.
So much for crushing it during my first week.
Well, I mean, I technically did crush it, but I didn’t intend to crush things literally.
No wonder I wrote articles like “Which Suitcase is Right For You” and “How Early Do You Really Need to Get to the Airport?” Who was I kidding thinking I could leave the desk and interview actual people?
The silence that follows the crash is too loud. Too uncomfortable.
“I am so sorry,” I say, the words whooshing out of me so fast I’m not entirely sure they’re understandable.
The man draws in a slow breath through his nose as if I’m a child he’s fighting himself from reprimanding. I pull my lips between my teeth as I nervously peer up at the looming figure next to me, cringing as I realize he’s wearing a white chef’s coat.
What are the chances he’s not the chef I’m here to interview?
My eyes catch on the name stitched into his coat with black thread: Chef Matthews.
Okay, so the chances are not good at all.
The man is still staring down at the debris across the floor, a muscle feathering in his sharp jawline.
At least I think I see a muscle clenching there.
It’s hard to tell with the dark stubble covering his face.
He drags his eyes from the mess to meet me and now I’m positive that he’s clenching his jaw because the look of rage on his face would pair well with that.
“Who are you?” he spits out.
“Oh, right.” I stick out my right hand, hopeful that the introduction will distract from getting off to a rough start.
“Jane Sinclair. From The Savory Standard.” He looks down at my outstretched hand then back up to my face before arching a brow.
A nervous laugh bubbles out of me, but I continue on, doing my best to salvage this very bad first impression.
“Terrible circumstances, I’m afraid, but a pleasure to meet you nonetheless.
” I extend my hand just an inch further toward him to punctuate the introduction.
Instead of shaking it or introducing himself back, he crosses his arms over his chest, his white chef’s coat pulling across his biceps.
“Do you often just barge into people’s places of work and get in the way for interviews?”
“I wasn’t trying to get in the way,” I mutter.
“Well, you did.”
“Aren’t you supposed to shout ‘behind’ or ‘door’ or something? How was I supposed to know you were coming out?”
“Well, for starters, you could let us know you’re here.”
I throw my hands up in frustration. “I tried! No one heard me.”
“So instead you were strolling around, making yourself comfortable—”
“I wouldn’t say I was making myself comfortable considering I got hit in the back by a swinging door—”
“While snooping.”
“I was not snooping. I was taking in the ambiance. Isn’t that what writers do?”
“Why are you asking me? Aren’t you the journalist?”
I flinch then glance away from his judgmental stare. It’s not like he said it to hurt me. At least I don’t think so, but with this less than rosy introduction, I can’t be entirely sure.
He doesn’t know me or have any clue that I was up most of the night panicking because how the hell am I here when I barely feel qualified to be a journalist at all? But it hits me all the same anyway that I am so out of my element here.
“This—” I clear my throat and shift on my feet, accidentally crunching on a piece of lettuce by my shoe. I’m not sure I should be admitting this out loud to him, but maybe he’ll be more understanding if he knows the truth. “This is my first story.”
He lets out a humorless laugh, finally unfolding his arms from his chest and dropping them to his sides. I realize my hand is still awkwardly outstretched and I finally accept defeat and pull it back in.
“Of course it is,” he says.
I rear back in surprise. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“First of all, you’re fifteen minutes early.”
I don’t want to admit that I didn’t get here fifteen minutes early on purpose considering I already shattered plates full of food.
So instead, I pretend like it was intentional.
Like I was supposed to be here early. I cross my arms over my own chest now, feigning a level of confidence I don’t feel at the moment. “It’s bad to be early?”
“Yes,” he says curtly. “We set a time for a reason. We have staging to do.” He breaks my gaze to look around the room pointedly before dragging his gaze back to me. “And I don’t see any camera equipment.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “The photographer is on the way. She was leaving another photoshoot.”
He gestures a hand toward the mess on the floor, exhaling a frustrated breath that makes me cringe with guilt. “Well you might as well tell her to take her time seeing as I’ll have to go remake all of this.”
How absolutely mortifying. Ducking my head to hide my burning cheeks, I drop to my knees and start picking up shattered glass and tossing it onto the now-empty serving tray.
There’s nothing I can do at this point to fix what happened, but at least I can make amends by helping clean up.
With a sigh, Chef Matthews crouches down next to me and starts to help.
“This is a really bad start to my journalism career,” I mutter to myself.
He pauses briefly, then asks, “Is today really your first day?” I nod, hoping he’ll show me some sympathy.
Instead, he tosses a shard of plate on the tray, the clatter seeming to echo in the room, and says, “Might as well be your last day if this is how you are going to introduce yourself to people.”
Wow, so much for compassion and giving people a second chance.
I scoff. “I obviously had a better introduction planned.”
“Oh yeah?” He sits back on his heels, resting his hands on his knees. “Let's hear it then.”
I toss another piece of glass onto the tray without looking at him. “Hear what?”
“Your better introduction. Tell me.”
I glance up, certain that I'll see some mocking look on his face, but to my surprise, I think he's serious. Maybe he's offering me a second chance—a window to turn this conversation around.
I clear my throat, wipe my hands down my skirt, and extend a hand. “Hi, Chef Matthews. My name is Jane Sinclair and I’m a writer with The Savory Standard. It’s so nice to meet you.”
His brows rise then knit together as he stares at me for a beat. Then, he says, “That’s it? That was your better introduction?”
Before he can reject my handshake again, I lower my hand and gesture to the mess around us. “You think it’s worse than knocking down plates and shattering them?”
“I don’t know, that was pretty lackluster.”
“Okay, sorry, you’re right. The shattering plate was much more memorable. I’d love to see you try to forget about me now.”
“I don’t think I will ever be able to forget about you.”
I lift my gaze from the mess on the floor to glare at him. If he weren’t so mean, he’d be pretty hot.
Oh who am I kidding? He is hot even if he is mean. Dark hair shorter on the sides, piercing blue eyes, an angular jawline covered in dark scruff.
I’m still watching him as I reach for another piece of the plate. I wonder if his eyes are naturally that blue or if he wears contacts or—
“Ow!” I hiss. I was so distracted by him that when I go to pick up another piece of plate, I end up slicing my hand.
I hiss, pulling my fingers back from the jagged edge of porcelain.
My stomach turns as I notice blood welling up on my palm.
His eyes dart to my hand. If I weren’t so convinced he already hates me, I would be sure that I saw a flash of worry on his face.
“Are you okay?” he asks. I truly can’t tell if he’s being sincere or just worried about a workplace report.
Not that I’d file one considering this is my fault anyway.
I yank my hand back and cradle it with my other, pressing it to my chest like I’m protecting it from him.
I don’t want him to see any kind of injury.
Or any kind of weakness if I’m being honest. Not after everything that’s already happened here.
I’ve already ruined his food, made a massive mess in his dining room, and wasted his time.
The last thing I need is to ask for medical attention and be even more of an inconvenience.
“Yep, totally fine.”
His eyes narrow. “Oh really?”
“Mm-hmm.”
He stares at me for another second before reaching forward and yanking my injured hand toward him.
A sharp pain zings through the slice on my hand.
“Ow,” I cry. He ignores me and examines my palm, turning it until it’s under the minimal amount of light from the chandelier above us.
When he sees the line of blood, he sighs.
“For God’s sake. Come with me.”
I pull my hand out of his grip, biting back another hiss of pain in the process, and shake my head. I have absolutely no interest in going anywhere with this man who very obviously hates me. I don’t think my ego can handle being in his presence any longer than I need to be. “No thanks. I’m good.”
“I’m not letting you leave here with an injured hand. Let me just disinfect it and put a Band-Aid on it. I can’t let anyone leave my restaurant with an injury.”
I crack a smile. “Yeah, I guess that would probably be really bad for your PR.”
He doesn’t smile back. “It would, yes.”
I sigh, the smile—my white flag of sorts—dying on my lips. “Okay. Fine.” He gets to his feet. I do the same and silently follow him.