Page 41 of I'm Looking for a Man in Finance
I hesitated in the doorway as Anthea studied the rows of magazine mock-ups on her wall. I knocked lightly, and when she waved me in, I took a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever was to come.
She couldn’t be telling me she hated the article. Not after she emailed me that she liked it, right? Right?
“Sit,” she said, gesturing to the chair in front of her desk, without waiting for me to say a word.
I lowered myself into the chair, feeling the weight of her gaze on me. “The article has been a big hit,” she said, without preamble. “This is exactly what I had in mind for this series. But now we need to up the ante. You know what they say, ‘sex and love are sticky’. I expect to see something hot in my inbox this weekend.”
I swallowed. Did she just say hot? What did she mean by hot?
Before I could form a coherent response, she was already waving me out of her office with a single flick of her wrist. “You’ve got the audience’s attention. Don’t waste it.”
Something hot?
As soon as I get one win in Anthea’s book, she moves the goal posts. Pushing my dreams just that much further out of my reach. Because not only was I asking James to take me on dates as fodder for my articles, it seemed like I might now have to kiss the man, too.
The only problem was, as much as I’d like to deny it, to me the idea was just what Anthea wanted,hot.
I followed my phone map to the address James had sent earlier in the week and found myself looking up at a newly developed warehouse in Upper Manhattan. I buzzed the intercom; a moment later, the door opened silently, as if guided by an invisible hand. No irritatingly handsome investment banker in sight.
Was this all some wild scheme to murder me once we got to the second date?
I wandered into a quiet, empty lobby, the only sound the gentle hum of the air conditioning, as a polite-looking receptionist sat at a desk, her fingers tapping lightly on a keyboard. Her smile was bright, and when she looked up at me, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was one of the few people she’d spoken to all day.
“Are you Hallie?” the receptionist asked me. She stood up from behind her desk and circled around to shake my hand.
“I am,” I hesitantly responded.
“Great!” The receptionist’s cheerfulness struck me as odd; surely, serial killers weren’t this chipper. “They’re waiting for you right through those doors.”
They?
With a flourish, she gestured toward the gleaming double glass doors, revealing an expansive industrial kitchen beyond. The polished stainless-steel countertops were lined with vibrant ingredients, while two pristine aprons hung up on the wall.
“You found it,” a rich voice came from the opposite side of the room. Distracted by the kitchen of my dreams, I completely missed the seating area where James reclined in a plush chair.
I nearly did a double-take. I was so used to seeing James in a suit that the sight of him dressed down felt like catching a glimpse of a different person entirely—unexpected, and if I was honest, a little thrilling. He was wearing worn jeans and a dark green button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his muscular forearms.
He looked impossibly good, so good, in fact, that ifsomeone hadn’t walked in right at that moment, I probably would’ve kept staring like an idiot.
“You’re both here! Fantastic. Shall we get started?” Melody Garrett, the world-famous restaurateur, entered in her chef whites, and I did all I could not to pass out right then and there. I looked back over at James, eyes almost falling out of my head, to find him simply smiling at me, eyes sparkling.
“W-what’s going on?” I managed to ask.
“I know how much you love good food, so I thought what better way to experience it than to have a cooking class from one of your favorite chefs.”
He strode toward me in five long, confident steps and stopped just short of touching. The warm, spiced scent of cinnamon, cloves, and cardamom drifted from him, making my mouth water. Then—unexpectedly—his hand found mine. Just a brief squeeze, warm and solid and sure, before he let go.
I blinked, stunned. Since when was James touchy? He wasn’t supposed to be touchy. He was supposed to be all business and banter and well-planned reservations … not this.
And I wasn’t supposed to feel anything about it.
Except I did.
Which was a problem. A big, cinnamon-and-clove-scented, annoyingly charming problem.
“How did you know she was my favorite?” I asked, almost breathless. If the prospect of learning from a culinary legend in this incredible kitchen was surreal, then the simple touch of his hand was the thing that truly overloaded my senses.
“I noticed you reviewed quite a few of her restaurants on your blog.” James shrugged. “So, I took a shot in the dark.”
