Chapter 2

Journey

Chef Richard at the Rubicon is twenty minutes late for the interview.

At first, I think it must be Dallas traffic. The gridlock on the so-called High Five was horrible this morning. But as I’m waiting, slowly losing my will to live, I see a red-haired man in a chef jacket exit the back office. He enters the dining room and glances down at me. Then he keeps on walking. That is clearly Chef Richard, and he clearly knows he’s supposed to be meeting with me.

But first, he goes to the bar and pours a gin and tonic.

Really? It’s nine in the morning. Do I really want to work for somebody who’s into power plays and morning cocktails?

Then again, I know from my experience at culinary school and internships that I’d better get used to a range of personalities if I want to be an executive chef one day.

Chef Richard finally comes to my table and sits across from me. “I lost your CV. Where’d you get your degree from again?” he asks.

I start, “I graduated from the Culinary Inst?—”

“One thing to know about me,” he interrupts, “is, I don’t give a fuck about where you learned how to chop onions.”

I stare at him, waiting for him to elaborate.

He thumps a thick, reddish fist against his chest. “I wanna know if you can cook from your soul.”

OK, this guy is a lot.

But I am ready. “Great. Let’s head to the kitchen and I can do a demo.”

He raises his hands to flag me down before I start. “We aren’t at that part of the interview yet, sweetheart. We’re just talking. So tell me, what about cooking speaks to you? So far, I’m not seeing the love.”

Is this guy for real? I haven’t had a chance to discuss what I like cooking. I haven’t demonstrated anything.

The rest of the interview goes a lot like that. Mostly, he talks, and I listen and smile during the pauses. I throw out facts about dishes that have earned me praise from one chef or another. But Chef Richard doesn’t seem interested in my knowledge or skills. I think he just wants a staff to feed his ego.

To my surprise, he reaches across the table at the end of the interview and shakes my hand. “I’ll have my people call you in the morning and we’ll see if we want you to come in and do a demo.”

Damn. I came all this way for what could have been a FaceTime meeting.

My anxiety spiking out of control, I head out to the sidewalk to get some fresh air. I should’ve known it would go like this when the company didn’t even offer to put me up in a hotel room. I wasn’t expecting the lap of luxury, but I also was not expecting to have to stay at a two-star hotel next to the railroad tracks in the saddest, farthest corner of Plano.

Damn, that bus ride’s gonna be pretty long and boring without Jay.

Jay. He did give me his phone number, fully expecting me to call him. And he’s pretty damn cute if you like soulful brown eyes, a scruffy chin, and longish curly hair on guys. Sigh. I do have a type and Jay is it.

My phone is out and I am dialing the number Jay kindly wrote on a scrap of paper. He’d said, “Call me about dinner. But also call me if you need anything, and I mean that.”

This is craziness, but I dial before I can think better of it.

It doesn’t help my anxiety when a woman answers the number. Crap.

“Hello?”

“Hi, I might have the wrong number. I’m calling for Jay?”

I say it like a question, because I’m so nervous.

“Oh!” exclaims the woman on the other end. “This is Mr. Riggins’ assistant. I know it’s confusing for me to answer that way, but he likes to keep to himself in case the media calls.”

The media? Who is he?

“I see. If you could tell him that Journey called, I would appreciate it.”

I have no hope that this call will get me anywhere, because he seems semi-important.

She perks up instantly. “Oh! Hold on, he’s been expecting your call.”

There’s a rattle of metal and what sounds like people shouting orders. Eventually that familiar voice picks up. “Journey. I’m glad you called.”

Jay’s voice is warm butter. My shoulders relax.

“Me too.”

“How was the interview?”

I sigh. “Interesting. How about I tell you everything over dinner?”

He must have moved into another room because there’s no more rattling or shouting. “How about right now?”

“Now?” I ask. “But you sound like you’re pretty busy at work.”

He clears his throat. “I…uh…make my own hours. I’m taking you to lunch right now.”

I hesitate. “You don’t have to do that. I can wait until tonight. Maybe I’ll go to the JFK Assassination Museum, or find a mall to window-shop. I’ve never been to Dallas before.”

Jay snorts. “Window-shop?”

“Or I can take a nap at my hotel.”

“Where are you staying?”

I tell him the name of the crappy motel I’m staying at in Plano, and he makes a choking sound. “Hell no, you’re not going back there. Where are you right now?”

“I’m outside the Rushmore Hotel in a little pedestrian plaza by the fountain,” I tell him.

“I’ll be there in five; hold tight.”

His words are assertive and commanding, sending a tiny spark down my spine, landing somewhere between my legs. My panties are starting to feel sweaty, and it’s only 79 degrees Fahrenheit, according to the sign at the bank across the plaza.

And so I wait, wondering if he knows what he sounds like when he says I’m simply not returning to my hotel. He means just for the moment. But the way he said it could make a girl think he’s never letting me go back there, ever.

Don’t I wish.

Right at the five-minute mark, a huge luxury SUV pulls up to the curb in front of me. I’m confused at first, because Jay is not behind the wheel. Then, the back door opens, and Jay exits the vehicle, his long legs loping toward me as I stand at the fountain.

Asking why he takes a bus when he can afford an Uber Black would be rude.

“Hi,” I say, hoping I’m not smiling too big. After that interview with Chef Richard, Jay is quite a sight for sore eyes. “It’s nice to see a friendly face again so soon. Are you sure you’re not too busy?” I ask.

“Friendly” might not be the best word to describe the face Jay is making right now. He exudes sternness and determination, like something is bothering him and he needs to do something about it. With one arm around my waist, Jay sweeps me off the curb and buckles me into the back of the Uber.

He says nothing more until the car pulls away, but he still doesn’t answer my question.

“How does sushi sound?” Jay asks, tapping away at the ride app.

My stomach rumbles. I laugh, “I think you have your answer to that.”

He stuffs his phone into his pocket and looks up at me, his arm resting on the back of the seat. Jay’s body is pivoted toward me, his eyes scanning my face.

“When did you last eat?”

I smile. “Breakfast. This morning. With you. Remember?”

Jay glowers at me humorlessly.

“An oat milk brown sugar latte with whip and salted caramel swirl is not a meal, shortcake,” he says.

I’d love to ignore that nickname, but some deeply problematic part of me loves it. Yes, I am shorter than him. Yes, he’s tall—dreamily so—but a guy can’t go around ascribing women nicknames, especially not dessert-related nicknames.

Too bad my delight outweighs my logical sensibilities. “You remembered my drink! You must wait tables,” I say.

He shrugs. “In a former life, yeah.”

“What are you doing now? “

“Journey. You still haven’t answered my question. When did you last eat a real meal?” He emphasizes the word “real.” I can tell now this man will not put up with my coy answers. Weirdly, Jay is much less lighthearted than he was on the bus this morning. Sigh. Leave it to me to attract a guy with a volatile personality.

I think back to last night when I arrived at my hotel. “I had fast food curly fries last night.”

“Good grief.”

“Who are you? My dad?”

This question provokes a mischievous grin that I remember from this morning. “Someone needs to look after you, evidently.”

I know I should not like a man I might be interested in to make analogies to my father. It is all kinds of wrong. But here I am, inhaling the spicy scent of Jay’s expensive aftershave, appreciating how he leans into me like I’m the only woman on the planet. His eyes land on my mouth, and my nipples harden.

Damn, I’m an easy lay for this type of guy. He just has to smell good and have pretty hair and I’m ready to open my legs. Still. Gotta make him work a little. “Not to get all Freudian here, but I wouldn’t know what to do with a daddy figure who actually encouraged me to eat,” I say.

Jay’s smile falters, and he blinks at me, studying my face silently.

Why…why did I say that? My excitement makes me overshare constantly, and I hate it.

“Journey, what the fuck happened to you?”

Shit. This is getting too personal.

I shake my head and smile bravely. “Nothing. Just starving to the point of speaking nonsense. Thanks for picking me up.”

Jay’s stony expression softens, and he reaches for me. I go completely still as he brushes his fingers over my hair, the pad of his thumb barely touching my cheek.

“We’re about to have a lot of fun filling you up, little girl.”

I try not to look like an innocent little lamb as blood rushes hot through my veins.

Oh god, my panties just got a lot sweatier.

Texas is too humid for my blood.