Romance Impossible(15)

Assuming I survived my first week, of course.

"...and you should get your new ID cards and benefits booklet in the mail within a few weeks." Lydia was still talking. I forced myself to pay attention, until she was done going through all the important information. But my head was swimming. By the time we'd gone through it, all I wanted to do was curl up into a ball, preferably in a hot bath.

"Anyway," said Lydia finally, "I think that's about the worst of it. Just get the forms emailed back to me as soon as you can. And about your new position - let me just say, I've worked for Chef for a very, very long time. I know you've probably got your concerns. Most people do, when they first start. But Chef's not that difficult to work for, if you just pay attention. Keep your eyes open, and your wits about you. You've already got past the hardest part. He liked you enough to hire you, now it's just a matter of keeping it going."

"Uh huh," I said. Between the interview and this conversation, my brain was leaking out of my ears. I had no idea what she was talking about. How was I supposed to stay in Chef Dylan's good graces when his whims made about as much sense as Heidi chasing her own tail?

"And if you ever need anything, just call."

"Sure," I said. "Thank you."

I didn't really know what that meant either.





***



"So," said Shelly, popping the cork on my seven dollar bottle of sparkling wine. "Is he as hot in real life as he is on TV?"

She'd insisted on celebrating, and I wasn't really in the mood to go out. Instead, we sat on my sofa with some Thai takeout and turned on the American Horror Story marathon. But of course, she wanted to know all the gory details about the interview. I normally told her everything, but for some reason, I didn't really feel like rehashing the whole experience.#p#分页标题#e#

I shrugged. "Not really my type," I said. "But, I guess, no...he looks different."

"How does he compare to before, when you met him? Different worse?"

Different better. Much, much better.

Outwardly, I just shrugged again. "He wears cologne," I said. "Smells expensive."

"Of course it's expensive. The guy must be a billionaire."

"I don't know about that." I downed half my glass in one swallow.

"We'll see about that!" Shelly picked up her phone. "Siri, what is Maxwell Dylan's net worth?"

The mechanical voice answered after a few moments. "Maxwell Dylan's net worth is one billion, one hundred and thirty-three million, four hundred and eighty-nine thousand, one hundred and two United States dollars."

Shelly smiled at me triumphantly.

"He made me cook for him," I said, unthinkingly.

"What, like an audition?" she asked, looking as confused as I was at the time.

"Yeah, kind of." I shrugged.

"What'd you make?"

"Just a pasta dish, with your favorite - scallops."

Shelly made a face. Growing up, her father was a fishmonger - still was, in fact - and I theorized that excessive early exposure to seafood had caused her an aversion later in life.

"The point is, did he like it?" she wanted to know.

"Guess so." I shrugged.

"Whoa," she breathed, picking up the last egg roll. "You got to cook for Chef Dylan? And he didn't scream at you? You're a rockstar."

I twirled the stem of my glass. "He was pretty intense. But no, he didn't scream at me."

"So he liked it. I mean, he must have. He hired you." She crunched a bite of egg roll, thoughtfully.

"Sort of. He said my pasta was anemic."

Shelly's forehead creased. "I don't even know what that means."

"Yeah, well, I'm not sure I do either."





***



The next morning, I got to work half an hour early, wearing my own chef's coat this time. The door was locked, but Chef Dylan came as soon as I rattled the handle.

"Come on," was his greeting to me. "Let's get started."

He seemed impatient, and irritated, but not at me. Still, the kitchen was tense and quiet as he pulled down some pans and prepped a few ingredients. I assumed he was about to take me through the menu, so I stood patiently by the stove and waited for his instruction.

"Are you planning to work anytime soon, or just stand there?"

He didn't even look at me when he said it. My ears burned.

"What would you like me to do?" was all I could think of to say.

He gestured impatiently towards the chicken breasts that he'd just laid out on the prep table. "Pound those out," he snapped. "I hope I'm not going to have to hold your hand like this every day."

"Yes, chef." Fuming, I pulled the tenderizer down off the wall. Was I supposed to read his mind? Thankfully, the cutlets took my abuse without complaint, and I was able to pound away my frustrations until I felt calm enough to look at him again.