“What do you mean… a bug? How do you know this?”
His question is clipped with a trace of urgency. I’m pleased to see a restaurant owner so concerned with health regulations. Although the bug at the wedding wasn’t a restaurant problem. It was a venue problem. I should assure him it wasn’t roaches.
I take a breath, shoulders back, chin up.
“Well…”
“Wait. Don’t say anything yet.”
He flies from behind his desk to shut the office door, then darts around the office, running his fingers under the desk lamp and stacks of paper.
“Is there a bug in here?” he whispers.
Yikes. Maybe they do have a roach problem.
My eyes scan the room. No signs of insect activity that I can see.
“Not here,” I say assuringly. “It was at the wedding.”
“The wedding?” Now he’s properly alarmed.
“No roach, though,” I rush to add.
Chef steps closer to me, crowding my space. He looms over me with his intoxicating presence.
He sparkles with magnetic energy as he says, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
Is this some sort of test? Maybe he thinks I’m an undercover health inspector.
“I… I’m Olive Isaac. And I’m here to serve Mexican food to hungry customers.”
He steps closer, crossing his impressive arms over his chest. The polo shirt cuts off right at his biceps, directly at my eye level.
“Try again,” he says. “Who are you? FBI? Or did Churro send you?”
“I’m Olive Isaac. From New Jersey.”
He snorts. “What kind of fake name is Olive Isaac? What do you know about Francisco Ortega?”
He’s practically on top of me now. I can feel the warmth of his breath on my neck. A single strand of hair falls over his eye—but he doesn’t sweep it into place. He just stares past it with a menacing glare—like a hunky pirate. He’s frighteningly beautiful, and despite how odd this feels, what with talk of the FBI and whoever this Churro fellow is, my instinct to run for the hills has escaped me. I root my feet in place—and the sensation of my body gravitating toward this man instead of away from him is breaking all sorts of physics laws and feminist ideals.
Do I really need this job that badly?
Then reality sets in. I do. I really, really do. Sure, I could crawl back to New Jersey with my tail between my legs, proving to my dad this move was a mistake. I could let myself wallow in self pity while my ex boyfriend lives the dream. New job, new woman, new life. Olive, who supported him, dropped everything for him, and schlepped my things across the country for him, is nothing but an inconvenient memory. I can’t let him win.
I gulp audibly and channel my best inner Lady Gaga.
“I’m not from the Health Department, if that’s your concern. I only want to explain what happened at the wedding. That’s all.”
“Listen, if you have information, you need to tell me.”
“It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Bugs land on food. That’s the risk you take at an outdoor venue.”
“Listen, like I told Churro’s guys—“ He stops mid-sentence and studies me more closely. “Wait. What do you mean by ‘bugs land on food’?”
“Bugs land on food. I wanted to tell you at the wedding, but I didn’t think it would have made a difference. And I promise I wouldn’t have applied for a job here if I’d known you’re the owner. I mean, what are the odds? It must be serendipity. I have to admit, I lost a little bit of sleep over it, and I felt really bad. Wow. It’s so weird, though. Is the catering a side gig, or…?”
“Will you get on with it, please?”