Chapter 25
Hallie
SUBJECT: THE SOCIAL EATERY—DUE BY EOD FRIDAY (YOU’VE GOT ONE CHANCE)
An email from Anthea sat at the top of my inbox Thursday morning.
The subject line alone was enough to make my heart rate spike.
The body of the email was even more cryptic—just a link to an article about the opening of a new restaurant in Soho that night, followed by a reservation for two that Sophisticate had already pre-booked.
No message. No instruction. Nothing else.
I stared at the screen for ten minutes straight, wide-eyed and unmoving, as if even the slightest movement would make it disappear.
After our last conversation, I’d written off any hope of landing the food critic position.
But maybe, just maybe, this was Anthea’s way of throwing me a bone. A chance to prove myself.
Hallie:
Please tell me you’re free tonight for a dinner in Soho?
James:
A dinner in Soho sounds much better than the box of Mac & Cheese I was thinking about.
Hallie:
Mac & Cheese, James? That’s not very Italian of you. What would your Nonna say?
James:
She’d hit me on the back of the head with her spoon. But I can’t resist the cheesy goodness.
Hallie:
So what I’m gathering from this is that you’re free?
James:
… yes.
Hallie:
One catch.
James:
Is this where you tell me you’re inviting the other Wall Street guy you’ve been dating this entire time so the two of us can compete for your affection?
Hallie:
No?
James:
This is a sacrificial dinner?
Hallie:
No.
James:
Am I meeting your parents? Are you surprising me with a parental meeting?
Hallie:
Will you just let me tell you?! Anthea wants me to review a new restaurant and got me a reservation for opening night tonight.
James: So, we’re eating on Sophisticate ’s dime? That’s not a catch, Hal. That’s a benefit.
Hallie:
… I’ll send you the address. See you there at seven.
James:
As long as you add my review of their Old Fashioned in your coverage. You won’t even have to credit me for the quote.
Hallie:
You really are sooooo generous, Mr. Old Fashioned.
Did hanging out with someone for three consecutive days count as serious?
I wasn’t sure. Maybe I could ask the random man who’d ridden all the way from Midtown to Soho with me on the subway.
He wore a gold wedding band, and his screensaver was a photo of his family at what looked like Coney Island in the summer.
You can learn a lot about someone when you’re crammed next to them on the subway for five stops.
And surely someone in what appeared to be a successful marriage would know when a relationship started crossing into the land of serious.
Normally, New Yorkers don’t talk to each other on the subway—it’s practically blasphemy to do so.
I’d rather line up for a bagel at Dunkin’ Donuts than strike up a conversation with a stranger on public transit.
But between the strange new confidence I’d been walking around with and the emotional spiral I currently found myself in, I was willing to break protocol. Desperation does that to a girl.
“When do you think a relationship can no longer be considered casual?” I asked the man once I’d worked up enough courage.
He startled, blinking at me like he wasn’t sure if I was speaking to him or into the void. “Uh,” he said, clearing his throat. “Have these two people been dating for a while?”
I shrugged. “Actually, dating for just about a month but have known each other for a couple of months.”
He tilted his head thoughtfully. “And did hanging out multiple days in a row come on suddenly?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Popping by the other’s place if they’re in the neighborhood. Grabbing lunch or dinner just because.”
The man snorted. “Then I’d say that yes, it’s becoming serious.”
The subway began to slow as a female robotic voice announced my stop.
“Thanks for your input,” I said as I stood to leave.
“Does he treat you well?” the man called after me just as I stepped toward the doors.
I paused for only a second before answering. “Yes.”
“Do you like spending time with him?”
“I do,” I said, nodding solemnly.
“Then I’d say go for it.” He gave me a wink as the subway doors slid shut, whisking him off to somewhere else in New York City.
Fairy godfather? Subway sage? I wasn’t sure what to call him. But somehow, he knew exactly what I needed to hear.
I wasn’t sure why I needed confirmation from a stranger about my relationship with James. Deep down, I already knew everything he pointed out. James treated me better than anyone I’d ever met, and the second our date ended, I was already counting down the hours until the next.
People swarmed around me as they moved toward the stairs, and I paused for a second to watch the train disappear into the tunnel.
This was my favorite part about living in the city.
Getting lost in the sea of strangers, all headed somewhere, all chasing something.
New York truly was the city that never slept—constantly moving, living, thriving .
I fell in line with the crowd and let it carry me up the escalators and out into the hustle and bustle of Soho.
With its cast-iron facades and cobblestone streets, the neighborhood felt like a beautiful contradiction—equal parts polished and gritty.
Tourists flocked here for designer boutiques and high-end art galleries, but it was also the perfect place for a brand-new restaurant that, according to the article Anthea sent me this morning, could be a contender for a Michelin star by the end of the year.
Just a few weeks ago, I would’ve felt completely in over my head.
But spending time with James when he made me feel seen, valued, and genuinely cared for had changed something in me.
That, paired with the buzz around my recent articles and the subtle nods of approval from Anthea, had become fuel for a kind of confidence I hadn’t felt in a long time.
I was still figuring things out, sure, but I was willing to take the shot I was being given.
And if the last few weeks were any indication, I had a pretty strong feeling I’d nail it.
The Social Eatery was more than a restaurant, it was a communal experience.
Long tables designed for twelve meant you were sharing more than just food.
You were sharing space, stories, and bites with strangers.
Dishes came out family style, with overflowing bowls and plates to share and pass around.
It was a bold concept, especially in New York City.
I’d been a little nervous that James might have imagined a white-table-cloth dinner for two accented with candlelight. But when I saw him looking through the arched windows with awe on his face, my worries vanished. And, okay, I had to fight off the overwhelming desire to kiss him.
“Maybe I should have said the catch was that we would be forced into conversations with strangers,” I teased.
“Definitely not a catch,” James said, leaning down to brush a kiss against my cheek. “How was your day?”
“Honestly?” I smiled. “Just standing here with one of the most sought-after reservations in the city makes it a pretty good day.”
The line of people stretched around the block, all hoping to secure an unreserved table. A few weeks ago, I’d have been one of them. Now, walking past them to give my name to the hostess felt surreal, like stepping into someone else’s shoes … or maybe finally into my own.
“Anthea’s giving you a taste of what your future will be,” James said, his hand warm and steady against my back. The simple gesture anchored me. This time, I didn’t flinch or overthink it. I leaned into the calm it gave me, acutely aware of my body’s response to his touch.
“She said this was my one chance to prove that I deserved the position or else she’ll saddle me with a permanent column on relationships.
” I tried to keep my tone light, but we both knew how much that possibility weighed on me.
Writing about love was never supposed to be more than a temporary assignment.
The idea of turning it into a full-time identity made my skin itch.
What will James think if that happened?
What would it mean if my entire professional identity became date me for a living ? Would he end whatever this was before it truly began because he felt like he was just another installment in a never-ending column?
A whisper in the recesses of my mind spoke something I never thought would cross my mind. Maybe it’s time to leave Sophisticate.
That thought vanished the second the hostess, recognizing my name, seated us prominently at a table in the front. In a restaurant like The Social Eatery, the spotlight was the prize. Being seated at the central table on opening night meant influence. Reputation. Power.
Without Sophisticate ’s reputation, securing this would require years of brand development on my part.
A waiter appeared almost instantly. I didn’t need to scan the room to know we were surrounded by names people dropped at parties—people who didn’t wait in lines outside or worry about splitting rent.
The woman next to me was wearing this season’s Vivienne Westwood and the man across from her was in Gucci, the subtle kind that still screamed money if you knew what to look for.
I recognized the woman at the end of the table from real estate billboards all over Manhattan, and my heart actually skipped when I spotted Nola Simmons, an up-and-coming pop star just nominated for her first Grammy, sipping a cocktail like this was just another Thursday.
“In honor of The Social Eatery’s opening night,” the waiter announced, his gaze lingering on me before sweeping the table, “the chef will treat you all to a taste of his entire menu.” He paused just long enough to let it land. “Tonight’s meal is on the house.”
Some guests whispered to each other about the revelation, while others clearly thought it was preferential treatment directed toward them. But when the waiter cast a look at me once more after taking drink orders, James raised an eyebrow like he was putting the pieces together too.
This was what it meant to hold the critic title at Sophisticate .
With every new tasting that landed on the table, the beauty of this style of dining became the focal point of the night.
James, a true socialite, had gathered all the information about the couple next to us before the main course arrived.
I think I even saw them exchange business cards after James mentioned exactly which firm he worked for in the financial district.
Meanwhile, I took my time enjoying every flavor, every texture, every experience that the chef was delivering for us. Trying to pin down the words that would bring it all to life in print.
But for the first time … nothing came.
Even after everyone had scraped their dessert plates clean and the last of the wine had been poured, my mind was a blank page. Empty. Me, who could usually write three headlines by the second course—I was coming up short.
“What’s on your mind, Hal?” James asked me as we made our way out.
“I’m at a loss for words.”
He nodded, his eyes flicking to the restaurant’s wooden doors behind him. “That was quite the experience. I’m not sure I’ve ever had a dinner like that before.”
“No, I meant literally,” I said, exasperated. “I’ve been trying all night to form how I want to showcase this for Sophisticate and I just … can’t. This has never happened to me before.”
This was supposed to be what I was best at.
I spent my free time and passion on my own blog, reviewing restaurants just like this one.
Sure, it wasn’t usually on opening night, but I always knew precisely how to highlight the brand and soul of each restaurant or chef.
But now that I had the weight of Anthea’s expectation looming over me, and her terrifying stare behind those red-framed glasses etched into my mind, all my inspiration had dried up.
James held out his hand. “Let’s get out of here, then. We’ll find you some inspiration.”
I hesitated. “I should really get home so I can try to start on this article. Anthea wants it by the end of day tomorrow.”
He raised an eyebrow. “With what words?”
“I’ll find them,” I said stubbornly.
“Sure. But there’s no sense in banging your head against a wall by yourself while you figure it out.” His hand was still there, open and waiting. “Come on, Hal. I’ve got an idea of how to get those words flowing again.”
“Are you trying to get me drunk, Rossi?”
He answered with a cocky smirk—a slow, deliberate curl of his lip that sent a shiver down my spine. There was no mistaking it … he wanted me.
But the look in his eyes, full of unspoken promise, did something to me. It made me feel bold. Excited. Alive. And for the first time in a long time, unafraid.
I closed the distance between us, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne. There was nothing more than a mere breath between us, and the slightest movement of our heads would have his lips on mine.
“Then take me home, James,” I said softly, looking up at him. “And help me find the words.”