“Thanks for the job offer, June Bug, but I think I’m good. Oh, and by the way”—his voice drops into a gentle whisper—“you have toilet paper stuck to the bottom of your heel.”
I cut my gaze down just in time to see Ryan use his fancy leather dress shoe to pull the toilet paper out from beneath the stiletto I was supposed to crush him under.
Chapter Three
Ryan
“What did you say?” asks Noah Prescott, the restaurateur on the other end of my phone who’s trying to get me to sell my soul for the next three years. “I can’t hear you over all that noise. Where are you?”
“Hold on. Goin’ outside.” It’s amazing and frightening how fast an accent rushes back to a person when they go home.
I push my way through the crowded sports bar to the front door, disliking how the people keep bumping into me, sloshing their drinks onto my shoes. It’s around 1:30 AM, and we are at our fourth (and last) bar of the night. The air smells like sweat, tequila, and regret. And let’s just say that everyone in our party is less than sober, but none less sober than June Broaden.
To be honest, I had come into town with the full intention of making a fresh start with her. I planned to bury that hatchet and put the water under the bridge. We haven’t spoken since high school, which I thought would have been plenty of time to let our old animosity fade.
I was wrong.
When June’s green eyes locked on me, I saw her hatred burn brighter. Nothing has faded. It’s somehow intensified. And just like that, I was eighteen again, faced with the woman who drives me insane—but mostly from how much I want her. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes narrowed, and I could see she had no intention of burying the hatchet. Nope, she threw down the gauntlet. This old flame between us is still kindling, and I want to kiss her now more than ever.
After our high school commencement ceremony, I almost did. I came within an inch of June’s perfect lips before reality crashed over me. I couldn’t kiss her on graduation day—not after all our years of dueling. Not when I knew I would pack up later that night and catch a redeye flight to France, beginning my stint at Le Cordon Bleu. It would have been a cruel form of torture finally tasting June’s lips and having to leave them behind for good.
It was better to leave things as they were and part as enemies rather than lovers.
What sucks about all of this is that, even after all these years, my situation hasn’t really changed that much. June still hates me, and I’m still only in town temporarily. After this wedding, I’ll head back to Chicago and either sign a contract to be the executive chef in the new gourmet restaurant Noah is opening, or I’ll go bury myself in the other ritzy kitchen I’ve already been working in for the past four years.
“Can you hear me now?” I ask Noah, feeling a little too much like the guy from those cell phone commercials.
“Yeah, that’s better. Where are you?”
“At a friend’s bachelor party in Charleston.”
“Ah, that explains why I was hearing so many female voices in the background.”
I shove my hand in my pocket to keep it warm. Wintertime in Charleston is nothing compared to winters in Chicago, but it’s still chilly enough right now to make me want to hike my shoulders up to my ears to hide my neck from the cold.
“Nah, it’s not like that. It’s a joint bachelor and bachelorette bar crawl with his fiancée and her bridesmaids.”
Noah makes a sound of disgust. “That sucks. She’s already taking the poor guy’s freedom away; did she have to take his
bachelor party too?”
Yeah, I don’t like Noah either.
“Were you calling for something specific, Noah?” I don’t even bat an eye at the fact that he’s calling at this time of night, because I’ve heard that Noah works hard all day and night. He doesn’t need sleep and seems to think the rest of us don’t either. Which, in his defense, is mostly true. The restaurant industry is cut-throat. Gotta stay ahead to stay alive.
“Oh, yeah. I was just wanting to let you know I’ve officially secured the investors for Bask, and they all agreed you are the chef they want running the kitchen. We’ll center the whole dining experience around you and your culinary style. So, all that’s left is for you to sign those papers, and we can get the ball rolling with marketing.”
I pinch my eyes shut because 1) I’m exhausted from bar hopping all night, pretending I’m the kind of guy who does this all the time. 2) I’m not sure I even want this job. 3) Through the window, I can see some idiot in a salmon-colored shirt two sizes too big for him slide up on the bar stool beside June and strike up a conversation. She’s been ignoring me all night, but she’s awfully attentive to Mr. Izod right now.
I turn my back to the window so I can focus. I know Noah is offering me the job of a lifetime (I know it because he’s reminded me of it at least fifty times since offering it to me) and that I’d be a fool to pass it up. He’s started three other restaurants in various parts of the country similar to the one he’s trying to get me to sign onto in Chicago. Those other three restaurants have all won Restaurant of the Year awards, and I’m sure this one will do the same. Noah has turned the restaurant business on its head by reinventing the way people view their eating experiences. Because that’s exactly what his restaurants are—an experience.
And apparently, my silence is tipping Noah off to my hesitation. “Ryan, don’t pass this up. Bask will launch your career into a whole other realm.”
“I thought that’s what the Michelin stars were supposed to do.”
He scoffs. “Those are only the tip of the iceberg.”
I hate when people say phrases like that. What does it even mean? If you want me to sign the next three years of my life away to work grueling hours in a high-stakes restaurant game, give me a Powerpoint presentation of the exact ways it will benefit me. Don’t hit me with frilly meaningless answers like “tip of the iceberg” because I’m not a freaking glaciologist. And yeah, I’m grumpy. It has nothing to do with me looking over my shoulder and seeing Izod Man touching June’s shoulder. Just a coincidence.