Chapter 14
Hallie
“That article was incredible.”
Janelle popped around the corner of my cubicle, eyes bright as she leaned in. “I was fanning myself by the end. I can’t imagine what your next date will be. Mr. Old Fashioned sure knows how to show a girl a good time.”
I laughed, heat rising in my cheeks.
After James had walked me to my door and said goodnight—leaving me far more affected than I cared to admit—I’d barely made it inside before Roxie called for the full post-date interrogation.
By the time I’d finished spilling every detail and finally kicked off my heels, I was so inspired I sat down and wrote the entire article in one go.
It was in Anthea’s inbox before midnight. To my surprise, I woke Saturday morning to an email from her.
SUBJECT: NOW THIS IS WHAT I HAD BEEN HOPING FOR
Posting tonight instead of Monday morning, so it gives this piece an extra day in circulation.
Coming from Anthea Sparks, that was practically a standing ovation. Early publication was almost unheard of—it had only happened to a handful of writers since she’d taken charge of Sophisticate .
So by Sunday morning, my article featuring Mr. Old Fashioned was at the top of the digital site for all to read.
When I opened my social media later that day and saw that nearly a thousand people had already shared the piece—far more than any of my previous columns—I knew I’d achieved something special.
Women everywhere were swooning over the wining and dining I’d got from Mr. Old Fashioned … and I mean, sure, it had been swoon-worthy. The food had been to die for. But I was mostly excited because it finally meant I had good material for my article.
The weekend only got better when I received a text from James on Sunday after brunch.
James:
The article was fantastic. Looking forward to your review of every course on your blog.
James:
2134 Center Street, see you at 7 on Friday. x Mr. Old Fashioned
If he kept choosing places like Crepitio , I’d have enough material to last me weeks. Because that was all this was. Another article. Another dinner. Another opportunity to show Anthea I could write something people actually wanted to read.
The fact that James had signed off with an “x” didn’t mean anything. Obviously.
A loud crash echoed from the break room—followed by someone shouting, “I’m fine!”—and I blinked, dragged back to the present with Janelle staring at me expectantly.
“Thanks, Janelle. Our next date is on Friday. Fingers crossed it’s as good as this past Friday.”
“It better be. I’m vicariously living through you.
I can’t even imagine being treated like that by a decent man.
” Janelle slumped against the wall of my cubicle, her long, dark hair falling over one shoulder in a messy braid.
She had that effortlessly chic style going for her, with a mix of high-end designer pieces and the kind of casual flair that always made her look like she belonged on the pages of Sophisticate .
She stared off into space, her deep-brown eyes narrowing as she sighed, clearly worn out by the New York dating scene. “Every time I strike up the courage to go on a date in this city, I’m dealing with a man with Peter Pan Syndrome or someone who’s married to their job.”
Before I could respond, a voice cut through the hum of the office. “Hallie!”
Anthea. Of course.
Interns scrambled to make themselves look busy, and a few writers exhaled in relief that it wasn’t their name being called. Janelle, not wanting to stick around for the storm, disappeared as quickly as she came.
I straightened up, trying to steady my nerves as I made my way toward Anthea’s office. I admired her more than anyone else at Sophisticate , but the woman was terrifying—like I might be devoured by the beast herself.
I hesitated in the doorway as Anthea studied the rows of magazine mock-ups on her wall. I knocked lightly, and when she waved me in, I took a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever was to come.
She couldn’t be telling me she hated the article. Not after she emailed me that she liked it, right? Right?
“Sit,” she said, gesturing to the chair in front of her desk, without waiting for me to say a word.
I lowered myself into the chair, feeling the weight of her gaze on me.
“The article has been a big hit,” she said, without preamble.
“This is exactly what I had in mind for this series. But now we need to up the ante. You know what they say, ‘sex and love are sticky’. I expect to see something hot in my inbox this weekend.”
I swallowed. Did she just say hot? What did she mean by hot?
Before I could form a coherent response, she was already waving me out of her office with a single flick of her wrist. “You’ve got the audience’s attention. Don’t waste it.”
Something hot?
As soon as I get one win in Anthea’s book, she moves the goal posts. Pushing my dreams just that much further out of my reach. Because not only was I asking James to take me on dates as fodder for my articles, it seemed like I might now have to kiss the man, too.
The only problem was, as much as I’d like to deny it, to me the idea was just what Anthea wanted, hot.
I followed my phone map to the address James had sent earlier in the week and found myself looking up at a newly developed warehouse in Upper Manhattan.
I buzzed the intercom; a moment later, the door opened silently, as if guided by an invisible hand.
No irritatingly handsome investment banker in sight.
Was this all some wild scheme to murder me once we got to the second date?
I wandered into a quiet, empty lobby, the only sound the gentle hum of the air conditioning, as a polite-looking receptionist sat at a desk, her fingers tapping lightly on a keyboard.
Her smile was bright, and when she looked up at me, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was one of the few people she’d spoken to all day.
“Are you Hallie?” the receptionist asked me. She stood up from behind her desk and circled around to shake my hand.
“I am,” I hesitantly responded.
“Great!” The receptionist’s cheerfulness struck me as odd; surely, serial killers weren’t this chipper. “They’re waiting for you right through those doors.”
They?
With a flourish, she gestured toward the gleaming double glass doors, revealing an expansive industrial kitchen beyond. The polished stainless-steel countertops were lined with vibrant ingredients, while two pristine aprons hung up on the wall.
“You found it,” a rich voice came from the opposite side of the room. Distracted by the kitchen of my dreams, I completely missed the seating area where James reclined in a plush chair.
I nearly did a double-take. I was so used to seeing James in a suit that the sight of him dressed down felt like catching a glimpse of a different person entirely—unexpected, and if I was honest, a little thrilling.
He was wearing worn jeans and a dark green button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his muscular forearms.
He looked impossibly good, so good, in fact, that if someone hadn’t walked in right at that moment, I probably would’ve kept staring like an idiot.
“You’re both here! Fantastic. Shall we get started?
” Melody Garrett, the world-famous restaurateur, entered in her chef whites, and I did all I could not to pass out right then and there.
I looked back over at James, eyes almost falling out of my head, to find him simply smiling at me, eyes sparkling.
“W-what’s going on?” I managed to ask.
“I know how much you love good food, so I thought what better way to experience it than to have a cooking class from one of your favorite chefs.”
He strode toward me in five long, confident steps and stopped just short of touching. The warm, spiced scent of cinnamon, cloves, and cardamom drifted from him, making my mouth water. Then—unexpectedly—his hand found mine. Just a brief squeeze, warm and solid and sure, before he let go.
I blinked, stunned. Since when was James touchy? He wasn’t supposed to be touchy. He was supposed to be all business and banter and well-planned reservations … not this.
And I wasn’t supposed to feel anything about it.
Except I did.
Which was a problem. A big, cinnamon-and-clove-scented, annoyingly charming problem.
“How did you know she was my favorite?” I asked, almost breathless. If the prospect of learning from a culinary legend in this incredible kitchen was surreal, then the simple touch of his hand was the thing that truly overloaded my senses.
“I noticed you reviewed quite a few of her restaurants on your blog.” James shrugged. “So, I took a shot in the dark.”
A wave of warmth washed over me, a feeling like sunshine on my skin.
I was already surprised by how personal our first date felt.
But this … this felt overwhelming. And yet, somehow, totally natural.
He hadn’t just picked another amazing restaurant. He hadn’t Googled “best date night ideas in Manhattan” or gone with a flashy scene to impress me. He’d chosen something thoughtful—intentional. He’d paid attention. The kind of gesture that made my chest tighten.
“Are you ready to learn how to prepare Chicken and Shrimp Laksa?” Melody asked, unaware of the thousands of other questions racing through my mind.
James shoved his hands deep in his pockets and arched an eyebrow at my frozen state.
He watched me, a mixture of amusement and anxiety in his eyes, waiting to see what I would do.
I reached for the apron, deciding to ignore my racing heart, and pushed forward, determined to make the most of every second we had with Melody. The Melody Garrett.
“Are you much of a cook?” James asked as he pulled his apron over his head and tied it around his waist with steady hands. Somehow, he managed to make that simple white fabric look like a designer brand.
“There’s a reason that I enjoy reviewing food that’s cooked by someone else,” I said with a crooked smile.
Cooking wasn’t exactly my strong suit, but the chance to watch Melody prepare her signature dish up close?
That was worth burning a few shallots for.
Her Chicken and Shrimp Laksa had put her on the map, allowing her to open her Asian-fusion restaurant that had sent waves across the food scene in New York City.
As Melody began walking us through the steps, I tried to absorb every word, every flick of her wrist as she added spices or stirred the broth. James, of course, took to it like he was born in the kitchen, while I mostly tried not to light anything on fire or accidentally julienne my fingers.
By the time we were plating, I was sweaty, flour-dusted, and maybe just a little more in awe of people who could do this professionally.
After thirty minutes of trying not to burn my fingers, I stared down at my bowl, a far cry from Melody’s incredible creation.
Next to me, James was putting the final garnish on his own dish that was a pretty much exact replica of what Melody had plated in front of her.
“How did you do that?” I asked, staring at the perfectly poached shrimp and chicken, perfectly fried shallots, and the rich yellow color of his broth. Even the handmade noodles were perfect. “Did you miss your calling?”
“I grew up rolling pizza dough at my family’s restaurant,” James teased as we carried our bowls to the table. We thanked Melody (probably a little too effusively on my part, given how long it took me to let go of her hand) and she left us to eat, just the two of us.
“You expertly managed to create a critically acclaimed dish, and you’re equating that to slinging pizza dough?” I asked as we took our seats.
“Hey, don’t let my Nonno hear you say that. Slinging pizza dough is an art form. Plus, I’m sure yours isn’t that bad,” James said, smiling as he quickly swapped our meals, taking my travesty and giving me his plate of perfection.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” I winced as James inspected my Chicken and Shrimp Laksa. As much as Melody had tried to guide me, the broth was the wrong color, the chicken and shrimp had been overcooked, and the fried shallots had come out more burnt than fried.
But James carefully spooned a bit of the suspiciously brown broth into his mouth, and I waited, my eyes fixed on his, for the expected grimace.
“Just needs some salt.”
“Oh, come on,” I said with a laugh. We both knew that the dish required significantly more than salt to be palatable. “You don’t have to eat that.”
James stuck a hand out, keeping his bowl firmly in front of me. “So, Hallie Woods, future restaurant critic of Sophisticate, review me. Tell me how I did.”
My heart did an annoying flip, which I promptly ignored. This wasn’t real. Not in the way it was starting to feel. This was about mutual benefit—an article for me, good press for his family’s restaurant. That was the deal. That’s all it was supposed to be.
But between the private cooking class with my favorite chef and the thoughtful way he kept handing me chances to shine, it was getting increasingly difficult to pretend I wasn’t swooning just a little.
I picked up my spoon, humoring him. The first sip hit like a revelation. The chicken and shrimp were juicy, the herbs were fresh, and the noodles were perfectly cooked.
“I really do think you missed your calling,” I said, moaning as I went in for another bite. “Split this with me.”
James was still attempting to eat my monstrous creation without flinching, bless his heart. I slid his bowl into the middle so we could share.
“In other words, a five-star review?” he teased, his signature smirk which I loathed playing on his lips.
“You’d get my most glowing review for this.” Little did he know, I didn’t just mean the dish in front of us.