Prologue
Alice
They say you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. Or, as I like to say, just because two chocolate cakes look equally tempting on the outside, doesn’t mean they taste the same on the inside.
I learned that lesson the hard way in culinary school. And it seems I’m about to learn it all over again with my new boss, who has quickly become the sexy, tattooed god of my taste buds. The first man to literally make me drool. Not even his brother managed to do that.
Oh, yeah. Did I mention my hot new boss, Ethan Thorne, is my ex-boyfriend’s twin brother?
Ethan Thorne. Prickly beast that he is.
What else can I say about him? Deliciously mouthwatering on the outside, ridiculously cunning and put-together on the inside. But something tells me his tantalizing lips—and the things he wants to do with them—are going to leave me with a distinctly bittersweet aftertaste.
Chapter 1
ALICE
The matte-black frame on the storefront windows of the corner restaurant makes it look like any other shop in Manhattan. The signage hasn’t been installed yet. My only indication this is the right location is the paper covering the inside of the glass, emblazoned with the words: FORKED RESTAURANT opening soon!
What kind of person names their restaurant Forked? A pun? Really? It’s probably owned by an edgy, tattooed culinary school dropout who managed to secure some barely deserved venture capital funding for the latest gastropub knockoff serving deep-fried cheeseburgers slathered in their signature peanut butter and jelly barbecue sauce.
Hmm. That sounds kind of good.
Anyway, whatever Forked Restaurant in Chelsea is, it’s probably not going to be my next place of employment.
This is my thirty-first job interview in six months. The first nineteen were painful. Numbers twenty through twenty-six were depressing. Twenty-seven through thirty were a snore, as they went exactly as expected: arrive for my appointment, ignore the side-glances and excited whispers, thank the interviewer for my latest rejection, and leave another piece of my dignity at the door on the way out.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
Just because my father is the one who secured me this interview, doesn’t mean the outcome will be any different.
I attempt to push open the front door to enter the restaurant, but it’s locked. Accustomed to this scenario, I scan the steel frame and find a doorbell. Pressing the round button, I take a step back and wait.
The unmistakable sounds of construction and chatter float through the paper-lined glass door. But a few minutes later, I’m still standing outside Forked feeling like a habitual truant sent to the principal’s office.
Why do I even bother?
This interview is going to end badly. Why am I here?
Shaking my head, I turn around and set off back to the subway. No more taxis and Lyfts for this unemployed girl. But I make it less than three steps before the sound of a young, shimmery voice calling my name stops me.
“Alice?”
I spin around and find a cute, androgynous woman, early twenties, close-cropped bleach-blonde hair with pink tips, and black, square-rimmed glasses smiling at me.
“I’m Alice,” I reply, putting on a hopeful grin.
She flashes me what looks like a genuine smile as she takes in my appearance: my olive skin concealed with my best no-makeup makeup look; my long, dark hair pulled back into a neat chignon at the base of my neck; a crisp, white T-shirt tucked into the most professional-looking pair of black jeggings I own and also don’t ride up my ass; a thigh-length, mustard-yellow cardigan to hide my wide hips and ample bottom.
“I’m Ollie, short for Olivia. Come on in,” she proclaims, holding the door open for me. “Excuse the mess. We’re three weeks out from opening, so naturally, everything that could go wrong has gone to absolute shit.”
I let out a puff of laughter, then quickly press my lips together to stop myself. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. That just sounds…very familiar.”
She waves off my apology. “I’m sure you know what it’s like,” she says, leading me along the edge of the chaotic dining room currently in various stages of construction.
I can’t tell if her comment is meant to imply I’m familiar with how hectic it gets when you’re opening a new restaurant—I do—or that I understand what it’s like when everything has gone to absolute shit. I also know a thing or two about that.
Pushing aside these thoughts, I take in the orderly chaos of my surroundings. A man on a tall ladder is installing recessed lights in the twenty-foot ceiling. A crew of two men is installing a wooden frame for a dining booth in the corner. Brown paper and masking tape cover the floors from wall to wall. Near the bar, a few people stand over a long table covered in blueprints.
“Everyone here is dying to meet you,” Ollie says as we approach a set of swinging doors, which I assume lead into the kitchen.
My stomach drops at her choice of words. Everyone here is dying to meet you. I’ve heard similar proclamations before.
Behind those double doors, I’ll probably find a large group of servers and cooks who are itching to witness the moment I’m rejected for yet another job. I’m pretty sure it’s become a rite of passage in the Manhattan restaurant scene to see me get my hopes and dreams crushed. All it took was one messy breakup to turn me into a foreigner in the city where I was born and raised.
I stop a few steps short of the swinging doors. “You know, I actually have somewhere else I need to be. I’m so sorry.”
Ollie looks confused. “I’m sorry, did I say something?”
I shake my head as I let out a soft sigh, suddenly unable to fake my enthusiasm. “I’m just not in the mood to be publicly humiliated today.”
Her mouth drops open. “Oh, my God. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like for you since…well, you know,” she says, once again surprising me with how genuine she seems. “Personally, not that my opinion matters, but I think you’ve been vilified for no reason. And believe me, you weren’t brought here to be paraded around like some kind of sacrificial lamb. That’s not our style.”
I force a smile. “Forgive me if I’m a bit skeptical, but this is my thirty-first rejec—I mean, my thirty-first interview. I’m just so over it.”
She looks me in the eye for a moment, empathy radiating off of her in beautiful waves. “Well, I have a feeling this is going to be your thirty-first and your last,” she says with a wide grin. “Come on.” She pushes the double doors open, and I follow her in. “So, your dad got you the interview?” she asks politely.
A twinge of shame stirs in my belly. “Yeah, using my dad’s connections was kind of a last resort.”
She shrugs. “Nothing wrong with working the Daddy’s girl angle. I would if my dad worked at a venture capitalist firm.”
I want to refute the Daddy’s girl comment, but I can’t. It’s true. I’m a Daddy’s girl through and through. Always have been and probably always will be.
When I was six years old, our first-grade teacher asked the class what we wanted to be when we grew up. Without skipping a beat, I blurted out, “my daddy!” Of course, the room exploded with laughter. That was my first indication I was different from everyone else.