Page 76 of I'm Looking for a Man in Finance
“Maybe I should have said the catch was that we would be forced into conversations with strangers,” I teased.
“Definitely not a catch,” James said, leaning down to brush a kiss against my cheek. “How was your day?”
“Honestly?” I smiled. “Just standing here with one of the most sought-after reservations in the city makes it a pretty good day.”
The line of people stretched around the block, all hoping to secure an unreserved table. A few weeks ago, I’d have been one of them. Now, walking past them to give my name to the hostess felt surreal, like stepping into someone else’s shoes … or maybe finally into my own.
“Anthea’s giving you a taste of what your future will be,” James said, his hand warm and steady against my back. The simple gesture anchored me. This time, I didn’t flinch or overthink it. I leaned into the calm it gave me, acutely aware of my body’s response to his touch.
“She said this was my one chance to prove that I deserved the position or else she’ll saddle me with a permanent column on relationships.” I tried to keep my tone light, but we both knew how much that possibility weighed on me. Writing about love was never supposed to be more than a temporary assignment. The idea of turning it into a full-time identity made my skin itch.
What will James think if that happened?
What would it mean if my entire professional identity becamedate me for a living? Would he end whatever this was before it truly began because he felt like he was just another installment in a never-ending column?
A whisper in the recesses of my mind spoke something I never thought would cross my mind.Maybe it’s time to leaveSophisticate.
That thought vanished the second the hostess, recognizing my name, seated us prominently at a table in thefront. In a restaurant like The Social Eatery, the spotlight was the prize. Being seated at the central table on opening night meant influence. Reputation. Power.
WithoutSophisticate’s reputation, securing this would require years of brand development on my part.
A waiter appeared almost instantly. I didn’t need to scan the room to know we were surrounded by names people dropped at parties—people who didn’t wait in lines outside or worry about splitting rent. The woman next to me was wearing this season’s Vivienne Westwood and the man across from her was in Gucci, the subtle kind that still screamed money if you knew what to look for. I recognized the woman at the end of the table from real estate billboards all over Manhattan, and my heart actually skipped when I spotted Nola Simmons, an up-and-coming pop star just nominated for her first Grammy, sipping a cocktail like this was just another Thursday.
“In honor of The Social Eatery’s opening night,” the waiter announced, his gaze lingering on me before sweeping the table, “the chef will treat you all to a taste of his entire menu.” He paused just long enough to let it land. “Tonight’s meal is on the house.”
Some guests whispered to each other about the revelation, while others clearly thought it was preferential treatment directed toward them. But when the waiter cast a look at me once more after taking drink orders, James raised an eyebrow like he was putting the pieces together too.
Thiswas what it meant to hold the critic title atSophisticate.
With every new tasting that landed on the table, thebeauty of this style of dining became the focal point of the night. James, a true socialite, had gathered all the information about the couple next to us before the main course arrived. I think I even saw them exchange business cards after James mentioned exactly which firm he worked for in the financial district.
Meanwhile, I took my time enjoying every flavor, every texture, every experience that the chef was delivering for us. Trying to pin down the words that would bring it all to life in print.
But for the first time … nothing came.
Even after everyone had scraped their dessert plates clean and the last of the wine had been poured, my mind was a blank page. Empty. Me, who could usually write three headlines by the second course—I was coming up short.
“What’s on your mind, Hal?” James asked me as we made our way out.
“I’m at a loss for words.”
He nodded, his eyes flicking to the restaurant’s wooden doors behind him. “That was quite the experience. I’m not sure I’ve ever had a dinner like that before.”
“No, I meant literally,” I said, exasperated. “I’ve been trying all night to form how I want to showcase this forSophisticateand I just … can’t. This has never happened to me before.”
This was supposed to be what I was best at. I spent my free time and passion on my own blog, reviewing restaurants just like this one. Sure, it wasn’t usually on opening night, but I always knew precisely how to highlight the brand andsoulof each restaurant or chef. But now that Ihad the weight of Anthea’s expectation looming over me, and her terrifying stare behind those red-framed glasses etched into my mind, all my inspiration had dried up.
James held out his hand. “Let’s get out of here, then. We’ll find you some inspiration.”
I hesitated. “I should really get home so I can try to start on this article. Anthea wants it by the end of day tomorrow.”
He raised an eyebrow. “With what words?”
“I’ll find them,” I said stubbornly.
“Sure. But there’s no sense in banging your head against a wall by yourself while you figure it out.” His hand was still there, open and waiting. “Come on, Hal. I’ve got an idea of how to get those words flowing again.”
“Are you trying to get me drunk, Rossi?”
