She covers her stomach. “I think once is enough.”
I laugh, even though she’s dissing my passion. “Even Ruth Reichl wouldn’t write an article without giving a restaurant three tries.”
Cecily shakes her head. “Who’s Ruth Reichl?”
“Ask your sister.”
I can’t help but notice, something changes in Cecily’s face when I mention her sister. A hint of pink in her cheeks. Her eyes take on a wilder look, like she might put a hex on me. “Listen,” she says, closing in, pointing one finger at my chest. “You stay away from my sister. First of all, Cherise has a boyfriend. Second of all, she’s a fun-loving, friendly girl and people fall in love with her all the time because they think she’s flirting. She was just networking. So just stuff that idea back into your jeans. Got that?”
I hold up both palms in surrender. “Yes, ma’am. And that’s not what I’m trying to do. It’s you I’m interested in, not your sister.”
I could be wrong, but I believe I hear clucking and tsking from the bank of cubicles in the corner. Where there once was the sound of typing is clearly the sounds of people listening. Whispers, titters, scoffs. I see Cecily’s eyes cut in that direction, and when I follow her gaze, I see three pairs of female eyes looking at her like she’s the devil.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause drama by coming here,” I say.
Cecily snorts. “Okay.”
“But my offer still stands. And for the record, I wasn’t flirting with your sister. I was curious about the resemblance, which is why I kept looking back at you last night.”
She nods. “Oh.”
Continuing, I add, “I understand you ordered the chicken breast. Which is good, very good. But you should have the prime rib.”
Cecily lifts one cute, bare shoulder. “Couldn’t afford it.”
“The thighs then. The Jamaican rub—”
She interrupts me, “Listen. I’m a college student. I can’t afford your restaurant as it is, and I can’t accept free food for a freaking review, so it seems we are at an impasse here.”
I laugh. “An impasse that you imposed. You have some stringent ideas about what you can and can’t do.”
She laughs, turns away, and grabs her backpack. “I have to go.”
“Great, I’ll walk with you,” I say.
More verbal noises from the peanut gallery.
“Suit yourself. Not like campus security is going to stop you,” she says, breezing past me, hoisting her bag over her shoulder.
I follow her out the door. “I’ll walk twenty paces behind you in total silence if you wish, but I feel like you should be accompanied.”
Cecily hesitates but keeps walking, her two loose braids sliding back and forth across the backs of her shoulders. “Fine.”
I follow her all the way home on foot, watching her enter a basement apartment under a small ranch house. Not the best neighborhood but not the worst. I don’t like that she appears to live alone and below street level where anyone could break in, peek in windows. Anything.
My manager texts me. “When you get to Mexico City, let us know, and we’ll arrange for the camera crew to meet you at Mango.”
I text back, “No can do. I’m in Charlotte.”
Seconds later, my phone rings, and when I pick up, my manager lights into me. “What the fuck? You’re supposed to be on a plane to Mexico to film travel vlogs for the book tour.”
“I already called the producer there. They were fine to reschedule a week.” It’s true. I’m very familiar with how that crew operates, and they have no problem rescheduling for me.
“The publisher is going to be pissed.”
“That’s fine.”
“What the fuck is holding you up that’s so important, if I may ask?”