I Kissed Her First

Chapter One. Riley

Chapter One

Riley

As I shell the lobsters, the hum of my constant nerves from the past few days fades away, and suddenly it’s just me and the food.

And food, I know. I dump the lobster claws and tail meat into one of the mixing bowls, and then turn my attention to the scallops.

I need to time everything perfectly so that the lobster slider buns are freshly toasted and the scallops have just finished searing in time for plating.

Back home, my cooking never needs to be so time sensitive, but instead of intimidating me, the challenge feels invigorating.

I place the lemon-and-crushed-almond-crusted asparagus in the oven, then focus on the scallops.

Most people overcook scallops because they’re cooking them too long at too low a temperature.

I add butter to two pans, one at low heat to toast the buns, and the other at high heat, to foam the butter before I sear the scallops.

I turn to my right, expecting to have a sink, but there’s just three more feet of countertop that’s completely empty.

Because I’m not back at You’re My Lobster, my dads’ seafood shack in Provincetown.

I’m in a random Airbnb in NYC, and sitting on the couch is a pop star’s manager, notating who knows what on her iPad as she watches me cook.

I don’t know who I’m cooking for, and I have no idea what their taste is, so I stuck to what I’m best at.

Seafood that’s so fresh, all I need to do is bring out the flavor.

I look up for a moment too long and catch the woman’s eye.

Pam? Deb? I forget her name. She doesn’t smile, just makes another note without breaking eye contact.

I smile winningly anyway. If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to charm a disgruntled customer.

In the summer, Provincetown’s population swells from three thousand to sixty thousand, and with that comes plenty of hot, cranky tourists who want to get a lobster roll and get irritated by the line that always winds around the block at You’re My Lobster in the summer.

But once they try the food, all is forgiven.

I don’t wait to see if she smiles back at me, though.

There’s too much to do. I lovingly place the scallops that my neighbor caught yesterday—and I flew here with in a cooler on the tiny Cape Air plane—on the pan and cover it, then set a timer for two minutes, flip the buns on the other pan, and start separating the lobster meat and coating it with just the slightest bit of lemon pepper mayo.

The timer goes off in what feels like no seconds, and I flip the scallops, assemble the rolls, plate the asparagus and scallops, then take the raspberry cheesecake slice I prepped in advance out of the fridge and clap mint over it.

I arrange the three plates on the tray and clear my throat.

The woman looks up. Ashley. That’s her name. “Um, dinner is served,” I say awkwardly. She frowns, and I straighten my posture and pick up the tray. “I hope they like it.”

She glances at her watch. “You have another hour.”

“I don’t need it,” I say. I felt so incredible while I was cooking, but suddenly I’m doubting everything. Should I have prepped a more elaborate meal? A paella? Or homemade sushi and kimchi?

“All righty then,” Ashley says with a nod. Hopefully being fast is a good thing. She takes the tray from me and carries it to a room down the hall in the Airbnb, where presumably the most famous person I’ve ever almost met is waiting to try my cooking.

Once I hear the door of the back bedroom close, I drop my head and let out a heavy exhalation.

I can’t believe I’m here. I told my dads I was visiting a friend from my MBA program in the city, and then hopped on the first flight to New York when I got the call from Ashley.

She said one of her clients, a singer, followed my social accounts, where I show off the elaborate meals I cook, and was looking for a private chef.

The videos started as a reason for me to still be in the kitchen while I did my five-year MBA, but as the recipes I tackled became more complicated and I got better at filming the process, my followers ballooned.

Each passing summer my account has almost doubled in size, as I show off all the seafood recipes I cook after hours at our shack.

You’re My Lobster is a Provincetown institution that doesn’t need any help getting enough business, but since I started posting, it seems like our fan base has grown exponentially and we can’t catch enough lobsters to keep up.

I looked through my followers to see if I noticed any singer with a blue check after their name, but there was no one.

Whoever this is, they must be watching from a fake account.

I glance toward the room that Ashley hasn’t emerged from, then pull my phone out of my back pocket and dial my sister, Liv. It rings, then goes to voicemail.

“What’s up? This is Liv. You know what to do!” She laughs at the end, and my heart pinches. My dads are still paying her phone bill, two years later.

“Hey. I miss you,” I whisper. “I’m at the private chef audition.

I still haven’t told Dads … but I think it went okay.

Maybe even good. I just feel horrible that I’m so happy I’m here.

Like, I know I won’t get it. But even if I did, I can’t do it.

They’d be screwed at the shack, and I know cooking is literally the one career they said I couldn’t do and here I am.

But also … it’s the coolest thing I’ve ever done.

” I hear the door open. “Anyways, I really wish you were here,” I finish, then rush to put my phone away.

Ashley pops her head out of the hallway. “Can you make a few more sliders?” I can see the shine of butter on the edge of her mouth and her fingers, and the stern set of her lips almost tips up into a smile.

I grin. “Coming right up.”

I pull two more of the lobsters my dad caught yesterday morning out of the fridge and start boiling them.

I could just use the leftover lobster meat I already shelled, but they’ll be better fresh, and if they like my cooking enough to ask for seconds, I’m not going to hold back now.

I take my time and make four perfect fresh sliders, using only the best pieces of meat, then plate them and carry them down the hall.

I knock on the door and put the tray on the floor, then retreat quickly.

It’s clear whoever this singer is wants privacy, and I’m not about to mess with that.

I hear the door open as I walk away, but I don’t look.

Back in the kitchen, I start furiously cleaning so that when Ashley returns, everything will be spotless.

When Ashley returns, I’m packing up my knives.

She surveys the kitchen and nods to herself.

I want to ask if they liked the meal, who they are, what this job would look like.

But instead I make myself stay silent. I know I don’t have the training that the other chefs they’re testing do, and I don’t want to seem green.

Ashley walks over and sits on one of the counter stools. “So, Riley, how old are you?”

I hold her gaze. “I’m twenty-four.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “I’m impressed. Where did you train? CIA? Le Cordon Bleu? That cheesecake felt French.”

Suddenly my armpits are damp. I’m glad my hair is slicked back so it can’t stick to the sweat that’s beading on my temple. “I went to Brandeis for a five-year MBA.”

Ashley tilts her head. “No culinary training?”

“My dads own a restaurant,” I offer, my heart pounding.

I notice that I’m gripping my knife so hard that my knuckles are turning white, and I force myself to put it away and close the case.

I shouldn’t be so nervous, when I’m just auditioning for fun anyway.

It’s not like I can take the job. But I want them to like me.

“What’s the name? Maybe I’ve heard of it. I’ve vacationed on the Cape a few times.”

“You’re My Lobster.” I take care to say it clearly, even though I know it’s not the answer she’s looking for.

It’s a seafood shack, not fine dining. But it doesn’t matter since I can’t take this job anyway, and I’m proud of where I came from.

“A lot of my videos are filmed in that kitchen. The shack is very popular.” I can hear the hopeful—and maybe slightly desperate—lilt in my voice.

Ashley is already looking it up on her iPad. Her friendlier expression is turning neutral fast. She gives me a tight You’re not getting this job smile. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

She retreats to the back bedroom, and I waste no time packing my equipment into my suitcase.

When she returns, I’m hovering by the door, waiting to be released.

I’m ridiculously underqualified, I don’t have whatever training a fancy culinary job like this must require, they probably just invited me because the singer’s a fan and wanted to try my cooking, not because I was a real contender. I can’t do it anyway and—

“You’re hired.” Ashley’s brusque tone interrupts my spiral.

It takes me a minute to wipe the disbelief off my face, and she narrows her eyes.

“Shocking to me too, don’t worry. You’re too young and inexperienced for this, which I told Luna, but she loves your food.

So please, don’t mess it up. If you do, we have last season’s Top Chef winner ready and waiting to fill the position. ”

Luna. Luna Leya. Holy fuck. I’d be cooking for Luna Leya. I have a poster from when Luna Leya opened for Smith Squad in my bedroom at home, right now. “Thank you,” I manage. I should be saying no. But it’s Luna Leya.

Ashley looks skeptical. “We leave for her European tour in four days. Get your mobile kitchen ready, and I’ll send you a list of her nutrition goals. You’ll have a runner in each location. I’ll reach out with your salary and travel information.”

“That sounds amazing,” I say weakly. “Thank you.”

Ashley softens slightly, as though she can sense how overwhelmed I am. “Your food really was the best. Good work today.”