“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 cutthroat. 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 barhopping 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, and (3) through the window, I can see some guy in a salmon-colored shirt two sizes too big for him slide up on the barstool 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.
“I need a little more time to think about it,” I say to Noah.
He lets out a sigh, and I can picture him running his hand through his thinning hair. Because that’s what this business we are in does to a man who’s only in it for the love of money—takes your hair and leaves you with a unique eau de cologne called Le Douchebag Suprême. And although the life of a chef and a restaurateur are different, they have a few things in common: long days that often bleed into the next, high-stress work hours, and the constant need to please the unpleasable. It’s all worth it if you love what you do.
I’m just not sure that I do anymore…
“Fine. Tell you what, I’ll give you until the end of the week to decide. But I can’t keep the investors happy for long. I’ve heard them mention Martin’s name more than once. They’re planning to offer him the position if you pass it up.”
“End of the month,” I counter.
“What?”
“I want until the end of the month to decide.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me? We both know you’re going to take it, so what do you need to think about? Is it salary? Because we’re already offering you an obscene amount of money, but I can go back to the investors—”
“It’s not the money. I just need some time.” My voice sounds clipped and final. I’m annoyed that he’s trying to talk like we’re buddies and I’d confide in him. We’ve brushed elbows over dinner a few times with mutual acquaintances, but we’re not friends, and I’m not about to pretend we are. In fact, the only friend I have is in that bar right now doing flaming rum shots with his fiancée.
My eyes shift from Logan and Stacy over to the bar where June is sitting with another cocktail in her hand. She shouldn’t be drinking any more. The woman was already tipsy two bars ago. I wonder if it’s my presence that’s making her knock ’em back? Is it because I still get under her skin? That thought makes me smile.
Because she still gets under mine.
“Tell your investors they’ll have my answer by the end of the month. And don’t go behind my back and make a deal with Martin, because we both know he’s not as good as me and his name won’t carry the restaurant nearly as far as mine will.”
“Ryan—”
I hang up before he gets another word in. And yeah, it might seem like I’m a bit of a cocky jerk, but that’s because I am. It comes with the job description. You don’t climb as high in life as I have by kissing everyone’s feet. I’ve learned that if I want to be successful in my industry, I have to make people respect me.
Which is why I’m not sure that I want that job. I’m just the slightest bit tired of being an a-hole.
The door to the bar opens, and Logan sticks his head out. “Ryan! I didn’t bring your sorry butt all the way to Charleston just so you could talk on the phone all night. Get in here!” His words are all slurring together, and I know that tomorrow he’s going to be hating life.
I put my phone in my pocket and go back inside the bar. The minute I step foot inside, nearly every woman’s head turns to look at me. Well, all but one.
Logan hangs his arm over my shoulder, and his breath rams into me like a four-hundred-pound linebacker. “Fun party, right?! I’m having a killer time, bro.” Anytime Logan is drunk, he talks like an eighteen-year-old frat boy who sneaks watermelon wine coolers. He raises his glass into the air. “Best bachelor party ever!” he yells and then woooos at the top of his lungs right beside my ear. I’m deaf now.
He continues to hang on me as we make our way around the bar. “Where’s Stacy? I think we need to get you back on that leash of yours.”
“She went to the bathroom.” Logan then abruptly stops and catches my arm to get me to stop walking. His face is so serious now I’m worried he might be about to hurl all over me. “Ryan, bro”—he never calls me bro—“have I ever told you how much you mean to me?” Oh, good. We’ve entered the heartfelt portion of his drunkenness. I need to get him home before the next phase hits: Naked Logan.
“Yeah, yeah, we’re besties. Let’s go get you some water.”
He shakes his head. Clearly, he’s not said all that was in his heart. “I’m serious, man. If there’s ever anything I can do for you. Just name it. Seriously. Like, do you need my shirt? It’s yours!”
And yep, he’s unbuttoning it. I guess “Naked Logan” is already in motion.
“Stop taking off your shirt.” I grab him by the shoulder and start dragging him toward the table where a few of the other groomsmen are huddled and drunk-swiping through Tinder together. One guy is about to send a message to a woman that he will most definitely regret in the morning, so I snatch his phone and pocket it. He frowns and protests, saying something about me being a killjoy.
I spot Stacy’s bridesmaids across the room, all writing their numbers on the bar’s wall in Sharpie. This is not a “draw on the wall” sort of bar, and I’m pretty sure they are seconds away from being kicked out.
But I knew this would happen. That’s why I cut myself off after one drink. Someone needs to be the voice of reason in the group. That, and because I haven’t partied since I was in my early twenties. Life hasn’t exactly given me any downtime to go out late with friends. I’m not even sure I know how to let loose anymore.
“Sit,” I say, depositing Logan in a chair. He looks up at me, and now he’s a pouty toddler who’s just had his lollipop ripped from his hand. “I’ll go find Stacy and then call you two a ride.” A few of the guys at the table boo me. “Looks like I’m calling everyone rides.”
In the next moment, the music cuts off, and I hear someone blowing into a microphone. I turn around and spot June up on the karaoke stage, mic clutched between both her hands, smiling like her mouth is numb from dental surgery and she’s halfway under the effects of anesthesia. She still looks every bit as cute as she did at the beginning of the night, though. If not a little more, because now she’s taken off her high heels and loosened up. She looks more like the girl I secretly crushed on in high school, and it’s making my stomach twist.
“Helllloooo, ladies and gentlemen! Who wants to have fun tonight?!” she yells into the microphone. My ears bleed when a sharp whine tears through the speakers. Everyone else in this bar is so far gone, though, that they don’t notice. They hoot and catcall like Lady Gaga herself has just stepped onto the stage.
“Good!” June rips the mic from the stand and paces. She actually looks pretty natural up there. “ ’Cause we’re gonna party ALL NIGHT!”
No, we’re not. The bar closes in thirty minutes.
“But first”—her eyes cut right to me for the first time since the beginning of the night when I removed the toilet paper from her shoe—“I want to introduce you all to my friend, Ryan Henderson! Come on up here, Chefy!”
