Chapter 23
Hallie
Returning to work after a long weekend was always awful, but coming back from the paradise that is the Hamptons? That was a new kind of torture.
“Hallie!” Anthea’s voice rang through the office, silencing the easy chatter of the other staff. She was a god among us mere mortals, and we waited with bated breath for her next move. “Come to my office.”
Janelle gave me a thumbs up from the cubicle next to me.
My article went live on the magazine’s website this morning and it was already the most shared of my entire series.
Apparently, the idea of being taken to a mansion in the Hamptons for the weekend, learning to sail and eating at some of the hottest locations on the east coast really got all the matcha latte girls going.
Anthea glanced up from behind her computer when I knocked on her door. “Please, come in.” She gestured toward the chair across from her.
I tried my best to sit as gracefully as possible. Being in the presence of Anthea made my brain short-circuit—all confidence leaked from my body the second that she looked at me from behind her red-rimmed glasses.
Anthea leaned back in her chair and steepled her fingers underneath her chin as she studied me. The weight of the silence had me shuffling in my seat.
“The last time we spoke, I told you that you had a genuine gift for these kinds of columns.” Somehow, Anthea sounded graceful even when she spoke. “Have you considered our conversation since then?”
Oh, yes. The conversation where she crushed my hopes and dreams?
“I’ve thought about what you said.” I chose my words carefully.
If Anthea was now leaning toward giving me a permanent column on the topic of relationships instead of the restaurant critic position, the last thing I wanted to do was encourage her.
“I would still prefer your original proposition of writing these articles for the end goal of obtaining the food critic position.”
Anthea’s eyes narrowed.
“You know how many people would kill for your assignment—going on dates and being treated well by a nice, rich man? Women across the globe would sign on the dotted line for that experience. And just think, you could duplicate this experience and make a living off it. It could be all about dating in New York City. So many women would love to be back in their mid-twenties and have the freedom to date around this city. But you would rather spend your time reviewing food?”
I fought to keep my jaw from hitting the floor.
Sophisticate ’s food critic was widely respected in the industry.
The kind of writer whose presence could make chefs drop their knives in panic.
That position had launched careers, transformed neighborhood joints into global sensations, and helped restaurants earn Michelin stars in cities across the world.
And now Anthea wanted me to give up ten-course meals, the best hole-in-the-wall diner food, and the people that made the magic happen back in the kitchen—for dating commentary?
Before I could muster another response in defense of my aspirations, Anthea started again.
“Have you seen the response to this week’s article?
I’m not sure I remember the last time a piece delivered this much foot traffic to the website.
Marketing were saying something in our morning meeting about how it’s started some sort of internet trend among women in the city trying to find their very own Mr. Old Fashioned. ”
“Has it?” I asked, caught off guard. “I haven’t been on social media much lately.”
I startled as an unfamiliar sound omitted from Anthea’s mouth.
Was that a laugh? From Anthea Sparks?
“Of course, you haven’t had time to be on social media when you’ve been dating Mr. Old Fashioned. My goodness, Hallie.” Anthea pressed a hand to her chest and … swooned? “I’m not sure how you keep yourself from falling for him. He sounds like he’s the perfect man.”
If someone had told me two years ago that I would sit in Anthea Spark’s office gossiping about boys, I would have assumed that they’d suffered a head injury.
Yet here I was, watching one of the most intimidating women in journalism light up over a man that I’d grown real feelings for—and something in my stomach twisted.
Was that jealousy?
No. That couldn’t be right. Yes, there was attraction— God , was there attraction.
But there was a chance that James was still just …
keeping up appearances. Fulfilling his end of the deal.
Fancy dates, charming conversation, the perfectly packaged Wall Street boyfriend for “Love on Wall Street”.
Just because he kissed like he meant it, like I meant something, or planned nights that felt tailor-made for me didn’t necessarily mean … anything. Did it?
Except, it kind of did. At least to me.
And that was the problem.
Because we hadn’t talked about it. Not once.
Not after the night I told him to stop. Not after I told him I didn’t want him to stop anymore.
Not after he kissed me like I was the only person in the world worth touching.
I didn’t know if this was just some extended bit of method acting for the sake of a column that was going viral.
And I was scared to ask.
Because what if I already knew the answer?
James Rossi was the kind of man who belonged in penthouses and boardrooms. Who grew up ordering market-value items off menus and said things like “my family’s estate.” I was a girl from Ohio who still used coupons and knew how to stretch leftovers into four different meals.
Maybe that’s why it was easier to push away. To pretend I didn’t want more. Because just like the critic position, he felt like something I could almost touch, but never really hold.
“I’m not sure how you’re going to do it—or should I say how Mr. Old Fashioned is going to do it—but I expect the next date to top this past weekend.
Let’s really strike while the iron is hot.
We’ve got the attention. Readers are returning weekly for the next update.
They’re sharing their own attempts at finding their Mr. Old Fashioned online.
This is a great opportunity for us to take advantage of a potential viral moment. ”
I nodded numbly. A single breath swept away the dreams I’d let myself believe over the past few months.
“Do you have any idea where you’re going next?
” Anthea leaned forward, excitement and something I could only describe as cunning in her eyes.
Every piece of me felt pulled in a million directions at that moment.
If I insisted Anthea held up her end of our bargain and considered me for the critic position, would that risk eliminating any chance I had at a career with Sophisticate —whether that be writing a dating column or reviewing food?
That didn’t even address the reservations I had about putting pressure on my dates with James.
Dates that filled me with joy. Dates that had made me feel seen .
Dates that made me reconsider everything I thought I knew about James Rossi.
“I do not know where we’re going next.” My phone screen lit up in my hand, screen flashing with a message from James asking to grab lunch. I stared at it, momentarily thrown. “He hasn’t told me yet,” I muttered, more to myself than anyone else.
The timing was freakishly perfect. Or maybe fate had a twisted sense of humor. Either way, it was like he knew I was talking about him.
“Well, I’m sure it’ll be somewhere spectacular. A man like that is on a mission.” Anthea sat back in her chair. “That’s a man who knows what he wants and it’s a wife. Why else would he spend so much time and effort trying to impress you with extravagant dates?”
Because he’s trying to save his family’s restaurant.
“Well then, you can look forward to next week’s article, it seems. Maybe it’ll surprise everyone.” I stood from my seat, even though Anthea hadn’t dismissed me yet. A sour taste filled my mouth. “I have another appointment I need to get to.”
Anthea glanced at her computer and must have realized that she had spent more than her normal five minutes conversing with me because she waved a hand dismissively toward her office door.
“I look forward to what Mr. Old Fashioned has in store for us next,” Anthea said as I texted James back, letting him know to meet me at a bistro that would be midway between our two offices.
James:
Can’t wait to see you :)
I stared at that text message all the way through my office and in the elevator to the lobby.
Not once did the fact that we were meeting once again outside of our agreed-upon five dates cross my mind as I jumped on the subway to head south toward James.
Only my growing giddiness as I emerged from the subway and headed toward the bistro was present in my mind.
After the fireworks on Sunday night, the two of us had wished each other good night once we arrived back at the house. Neither of us attempted to sway the other into either of our bedrooms, we just gave each other a shy smile and went our separate ways.
Not even during the car ride home did either of us mention the kiss—or kisses—we’d shared in the ocean.
Roxie sat in the back seat wearing oversized sunglasses, grumbling about her hangover the entire time.
Thankfully, Sebastian had taken his own car back to the city, sparing us any bickering between the two of them.
Besides Roxie’s complaints about the brightness outside and the volume of the radio, the car was steeped in silence. Not tense exactly, just unresolved. Neither of us dared to bring up our multiple close encounters in the Rossi family house over Memorial Day weekend.
The bistro I was due to meet James in was busy, but not packed, as I checked in with the hostess.
“I believe your date is waiting for you,” she told me. “He said he was meeting a ‘cute brunette that would most likely be a regular here’. That must be you. I’ve seen you in here pretty much every week over the past two years.”