Romance Impossible(9)

I would have died a thousand deaths before I applied to the Ritz, if I'd known I would get passed on to Chef Dylan, of all people.

"Well," I said. "I'm sorry to hear about your struggle."

Chef Dylan eyed me carefully, then looked back down at the paper. "Is this how you got your last few jobs?"

"No," I said. "Generally, they asked me questions in the interview."

"I just did." There was something about him. Something that didn't come across on TV, and something I hadn't noticed the last time we met. He was driven, which shouldn't have come as a surprise, but - it was almost a nervous energy. Like his motor had a few screws loose.

"Questions about my...job skills, and my strengths and weaknesses. You know." I laced my fingers together, resting my hands on the table. "Interview questions."

"I've never been a fan of the traditional interview structure," Chef Dylan said, rising and shucking off his coat. Then, he started to unbutton his shirt. I stood up so quickly I knocked into the table, stumbling over my chair as I backed up.

"I..." My voice shut down, somewhere about the time I saw his chest muscles tensing and stretching while he pulled off the shirt and tossed it aside. His torso was long and tan, with a dusting of golden hair. A tattoo snaked around his upper arm, but I didn't look long enough to tell what it was. A light scent of something sharp and masculine wafted through the air. Sandalwood? Something?

"Oh, relax," he called over his shoulder as he headed towards the kitchen. "I'm just changing. You should do the same. I'll be at the prep table when you're ready."#p#分页标题#e#

And with that, he snatched a white chef's coat off of a hanger by the door, slipped it on, and disappeared through the "STAFF ONLY" door.

I stood flabbergasted for a moment. There was another coat left hanging. Obviously, I was supposed to put it on and join him for some kind of cooking audition.

Just walk out. Just walk out now, before he has a chance to toy with you anymore.

But that was unfair. I had no reason not to believe him, when he said he was interested in hiring me. He seemed to have genuinely forgotten the incident at Giovanni's, and knowing me by reputation only, he considered me to be a viable candidate for...whatever position he was trying to fill.

"Excuse me," I called after him, walking to the door and pushing it open slightly. "Chef?"

He poked his head up, looking at me over the heat shelf. "You're not dressed for cooking."

"I have to ask you something," I said. "You never told me what position you have available."

Chef Dylan tossed a ball of dough down on the counter. "That depends."

Oh, this was just too much.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. "Excuse me," I said, letting him think I was going back out to change, or...whatever. I took in a long breath and let it out slowly as I pulled out my phone to look.

This is an account alert from Bank of Southsea. You have exceeded your maximum overdraft protection for your checking account ending in 5308. Please visit -

I squeezed my eyes shut for a long moment.

Chef Dylan had me between a rock and a hard place, whether he knew it or not. It was my pride - my stupid, ridiculous pride that was keeping me from groveling at his feet, no matter how badly I needed this job. Any job. Even if it meant working for a tyrant. And if it were just about me, I'd be willing to die on that hill. I guess that's why my mother always called me "stubborn like a mule." But I had to be able to take care of Heidi, too. I'd be happy to live off of free deli crackers and McDonalds ketchup packets, but it wasn't fair for her to suffer.

I was going to have to do the unthinkable - swallow my pride.

Hope I don't choke on it.

I pulled off my blouse and wrapped myself up in the other chef's coat. It was about five sizes too big, and as the collar brushed against my face, my nose was filled with that sharp, distinctive scent of Chef Dylan's cologne. It hadn't been overwhelming before, but now that my nose was practically buried in one of his backup coats, it was pretty hard to ignore.

My pulse hammered in my throat. What on earth was I doing?

I took a deep breath and thought of Heidi, snoozing back home, and her rapidly dwindling bag of food. And with that, I turned down the collar, rolled up my sleeves, and walked into the kitchen.

It was massive. On a busy night, every line cook would have their own prep area, bigger than the entire kitchen at most places I'd worked. And with Head Chef Dylan's reputation, every night would be a busy night. The main prep table in the center of the room was filled with mouth-watering ingredients. Big, juicy scallops, vibrant greens, bright purple fingerling potatoes, a wheel of cheese that looked like it had been shipped straight from the old country...