“Excuse me?” I blurt out.
He shakes his head. “No, no. You’re here for the hostess position, remember?”
His words are like a punch in the gut. I’m interviewing for a hostess position?
Wait a minute. No, that can’t be right. I specifically remember my dad saying the interview was for a sous chef position.
“What are you talking about?” I reply angrily as I glance around the kitchen at the rapt expressions. “Did you bring me here to humiliate me?”
He narrows his eyes at me. “I brought you here to offer you a job as a hostess at the hottest new restaurant in New York, with the potential of a promotion to sous chef in six months.”
I open my mouth to curse him, then stop myself when his words register in my mind. “Potential?” I sputter.
He chuckles. “A bit entitled, are we?”
“Excuse me!”
His use of the royal “we” reminds me so much of Edward it makes me want to tighten my fingers around his sexy neck.
Ethan’s smile disappears. “You came in here looking for a job after being out of work for, what, six months. After what you did to my brother—”
“What I did?”
“What you did to my brother—”
Letting out a loud huff, I spin around and make for the door. “I won’t stand here and listen to you gaslighting me. I got enough of that from your brother!”
I shove the swinging doors open. The two people working in the pastry kitchen are now staring at me. Rushing past them, I glance over my shoulder at the sound of the kitchen doors whooshing open behind me.
He’s following me.
“Are you seriously walking out of an interview after six months of unemployment?” he shouts as I push my way through another set of doors into the dining area.
“You’re very observant!” I shout back.
He jogs and quickly catches up to me. “Okay, okay. I reckon we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. Can we please discuss this calmly?”
I stop in the middle of the dining room, steps away from the enormous ladder I saw earlier. “Calmly? You insult me in front of thirty strangers and you want me to be calm?”
He looks as if he’s going to explode in expletives, but he somehow gets a grip on himself and releases an exasperated sigh. “I’m sorry. I really think most of this is just a huge misunderstanding. But—” He shoots me a look to stop me from interrupting him. “Look, I obviously know who you are.”
“I wish I could say the same about you,” I reply snarkily, trying not to think about how I know Edward’s body so well, and how this technically means I’ve already seen this complete stranger naked.
Don’t think of his penis!
His smile returns. “You’re right. Let’s start over,” he says, extending his hand again. “Ethan Thorne. Pleased to meet you.”
I shake my head. “No.”
He tilts his head disapprovingly at my defiance.
I glare at him for a moment before I finally reach forward and take his hand in mine.
His handshake is firm but not crushing. The heat of his skin sends a soft chill coursing through me. It’s been more than three months since I’ve been touched by a man—since my best friend Minka’s housewarming party.
That night ended with me going home with the guy who had the hottest moves on the tiny living room dance floor. He turned out to be a complete flop in the sack. Guess that proves the old adage wrong. Good dancer does not always equal good in bed.
I wonder if Ethan is good in bed.
Stop! I scream at myself in my head.
At least, I thought it was in my head.
“Stop what?” Ethan replies, barely stifling a laugh at my strange reaction.
“I’m sorry,” I reply. “I must have blurted that out unconsciously. I didn’t mean…” I trail off as I recognize the dimple in his cheek. It’s exactly the same as Edward’s. “Oh.”
“What?” he asks, reaching up to touch his cheek. “Do I have something on my face?”
Does beauty count?
I shake this thought from my mind before I accidentally blurt it out. “No, I just noticed—nothing.”
He glances down at our hands. “Can I have my hand back?”
“Oh! Of course,” I say, releasing my grip on him. “I’m so sorry.”
He waves off my apology. “Don’t worry about it. I get that a lot.”
I cock an eyebrow. “You get what a lot?”
“Women…clinging.”
My jaw drops.
He rolls his eyes. “It’s a joke, love. So, are you going to introduce yourself?”
I draw in a deep breath as I try not to imagine other women clinging to him in bed. “Alice Lopez,” I say, ignoring the heat rising in my cheeks.
He tilts his head. “See, that wasn’t so hard now, was it?” he says, ignoring how I respond by also rolling my eyes. “Can we crack on with the job interview now?”
I take another deep breath to give myself time to think. “Actually, I’m not so sure Forked is a good fit for me.”
“You’re rejecting a job offer I haven’t even made?”
I manage to keep my expression impassive. “We both know this is probably a terrible idea. You obviously hate me though we’ve never met.”
“I don’t hate you,” he replies, but there’s uncertainty beneath the incredulous expression on his face, similar to that brief look of recognition I saw earlier.
“You don’t hate me? Oh, how generous of you,” I reply sarcastically.
“No, I don’t hate you. I loathe you,” he says with a cocky grin, but this time I don’t misunderstand the joke. “Seriously,” he continues, “I heard through very reliable sources you were in need of a job, and your father seemed like a good bloke, so I brought it up with him. But if you don’t, in fact, need this job, feel free to walk out that door. No hard feelings.”
I think about this for a moment, but the more I consider his words, the more confused I feel. “No hard feelings?” I begin. “No hard feelings? You’re offering me the opportunity to be a hostess when I graduated with honors from Le Cordon Bleu and have worked as a sous chef in some of the most demanding kitchens in New York for almost a decade? I’m not supposed to have any hard feelings about that? Especially when I was told I was interviewing for the sous chef position, and it was never mentioned I would be interviewing with a man who looks exactly like the man who ruined my life. No hard feelings?”
His features soften for a brief second before his cocky smirk returns. “Look, Alice, the hostess job is basically a paid internship. It pays seventeen qu—dollars an hour and comes with a promotion to sous chef in six months, assuming you can keep it together that long.” Ignoring the shock on my face, he presses on. “The promotion comes with a pay rise to $145,000 a year. If you want the job, you have until noon tomorrow to get back to me. I don’t really give a toss one way or the other. There are plenty of wom—other chefs who would jump at this opportunity.”
He turns around and heads toward the kitchen, leaving me to contemplate what the hell just happened. Did he just offer to make all my troubles go away if I can withstand six months of whatever just transpired over the last few minutes? Or is this some kind of setup?