Page 2 of The Interception
“Awesome. I’m praying you get the job, honest.” Even Lottie can’t fake that she’s not so sure I’ll nail the position, but a girl can try. Savannah is filled to bursting with fine dining, but there isn’t much need for a chef with zero management experience. And banks aren’t exactly chomping at the bit to loan me the money necessary for such a risky endeavor as opening my own place.
“I know you are. Keep praying because if I don’t get this one, there is every reason to believe I’ll have to move back in with my parents or live in my broken car.”
“Stop, you know we’ll give you a room if you need it.”
“You say that like moving into your house is better. Your dogs live in the guest room, and I’m pretty sure Goblin would eat my soul before letting me take it away. Anyway, I gotta go. It’s an hour drive, but I’ll let you know how it goes.”
Lottie and Andrew offer a few supportive words and I hang up with the tiniest thread of hope that Imightactually get the job at one of Savannah’s most exclusive restaurants. With a can-do spirit, I head to brush my teeth, ready to take the world by the horns.
Vino Uptown is about as upscale as it gets, so scoring an interview alone is an achievement. Inside, the heavenly aroma of beautiful Italian cuisine still hangs in the air from last night’s dinner service. Right now, the restaurant is closed but will open for lunch soon, probably after my interview. I can only hope I’m wearing an apron and getting to know everyone by then.
“Chef Aiello’s office is just this way,” a perky, well put-together woman says. She didn’t mention her name, but judging by her sharp dress suit and pinned hair, I’d say she’s the office manager. She knocks twice on a heavy wooden door and steps back, clasping her hands in front of her.
A grunt emanates from the other side.
“He’ll see you now.” She offers me a forced smile while I try to decode the grunt.
A sense of foreboding fills me head to toe as I turn the door handle. The woman skitters away in a hurry, almost as if she’d rather be anywhere but in the blast zone—and make no mistake, I have no doubt things are about to get very…explody.
A stream of expletives in Italian surge toward me the second I enter the office. My grip on the handle tightens while my gaze takes in the room. It’s decorated with dark, solid wood bookcases and a center desk, dark draperies, and a pricy rug. Along the right wall is a plush leather sofa, a massive potted plant that nearly reaches the ceiling, and a coffee table boasting several copies of High Culture Cuisine, all bearing Chef Aiello’s image on the front cover. Chef Aiello turns away from his window that overlooks the Savannah River and takes me in. Every inch of me is scrutinized under his unwavering dark-eyed gaze. When he reaches my eyes, he chuckles.
“Uh…Chef Aiello, I’m—”
“I know who you are.” He waves me off and scoffs. “You are more ridiculous in person than in your application. Be gone.”
I blink for a moment before realizing I have been dismissed in the harshest, rudest way imaginable.
“I’m sorry, what do—”
A small hand grasps my wrist and yanks me out of the chef’s office. “Don’t question him, just go.” It’s the woman who brought me to the office, and her forced smile is now a frown that pulls her eyes and brow down until she looks like an angry pit bull.
“I don’t know what happened,” I admit, too dazed to do anything but follow her out. The office door slams closed, startling me.
“You’re the tenth interview of the day, Miss Rossi, and you will be followed by at least a dozen others. If you want to maintainanygood standing as an amateur chef in this town, you’ll go without argument.” Her tone softens and she turns to face me when we reach the front door. “Listen, you seem like a sweet woman. You don’t want to work here anyway. It sucks out your soul until all that’s left is a vast wasteland of emptiness thatcan only be filled with cat snuggles, a fake book boyfriend, and copious cannoli. Run from this place while you can.”
I blink a little more.
Her frown deepens. “He’s beenhiringan assistant chef for a year, Miss Rossi. He’ll never settle for anything less than himself, and thank the good Lord above, there is onlyoneof him. He makes delicious food, but otherwise he’s a monster.”
“Uh…good…good to know, I guess. I’ll just…run.”
She hands me my resume that is suspiciously splattered with red sauce, forces another smile, and unlocks the door for me to make my escape.
I should not have tried to take the world by anything, let alone the horns. That’s the pointy part that gets you every time. My can-do determination has dissolved into little more than basic survival instinct as I bite my lip to hold off tears. I can officially say I have never been more humiliated in my life. My desire to even look at a kitchen has been beaten down to zero, and there is no chance I will ever see the inside of one in the city of Savannah, maybe not even in Georgia as a whole.
Fortunately, I paid my driver to sit in the parking lot so I could get a ride back home.
“That was quick,” she says as I slide into the back seat. “How did it go?”
I take a breath and let it out slowly, connecting with her gaze.
“That bad?”
With a nod, I turn my head and look out the window. “Can you take me to 432 Sycamore Avenue, please?”
“Sure thing.” The driver hands me a tissue before putting her car in gear and merging onto the main road.
The whole drive, all I can think about is how rude Chef Perfect was, and how I will never eat at his second-rate restaurant again. Who am I kidding? Second rate? There is already a line forming for lunch, and there is no doubt they made their reservationsmonths to a year in advance. Just getting into the door toeatis a prize, so expecting him to hand me a job was complete insanity on my part. Sending in an application alone was idiocy.
