Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 31254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 156(@200wpm)___ 125(@250wpm)___ 104(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 156(@200wpm)___ 125(@250wpm)___ 104(@300wpm)
I was her first, and I’ll be her only. It’s not going to be easy. She hates me because she thinks I’ve lied to her. No one likes to be made a fool out of.
My fingers hover over the photos. It’s been three months since that night, and I haven’t been able to sleep since. I keep replaying the scenes of her naked, wild, moaning, and trembling. My own hand shakes a little as the memory of that night washes over me.
The photos show Slater getting groceries—she has her own recyclable bags; Slater buying yarn—I’ll have to keep her away from my friend Dylan who knits because I can’t have her liking one of my friends more than me; Slater going to the movies.
“She likes horror films,” the investigator shares when he notices my attention lingering on one particular photo of her swiping her phone against a kiosk. She has an excited look on her face, as if she’s been anticipating this film for some time.
I can take her to the movies and buy her yarn and carry her groceries. This is going to work.
“She doesn’t want to meet you in private.”
“But she will meet me.” I’ve spent an ungodly sum tracking her down, and then, when the investigator revealed her name, I spent an ungodly amount of time kicking myself for not realizing I knew her already.
“Yes. She laid out these conditions. A public place, middle of the day, with no one else. Specifically, she said no lawyers. Oh, and not at The Plate.” The investigator tacks on that last detail.
Too bad because that was my first thought.
“How about One Cup, Tea Cup?” I suggest. It’s a popular coffeehouse not too far from The Plate, and it’s always busy.
The investigator’s eyebrows shoot up. “She recommended the same place.”
“We’ll meet tomorrow at ten.” I stand up, but at the door, I turn back. “How did you get caught?”
The investigator’s cheeks turn a dull red under his tan. “One of my men was following her at the deli, and someone recognized that his glasses had a camera in the frame. He tried to run away, but other customers tackled him. When they reviewed the footage, they saw she was the target. I had to step in and bail him out. The police forced me to tell her who my client was.”
“I don’t feel like I should have to say this, but I will so there’s no misunderstanding. You’re fired.”
“I figured. I’ll send you a final bill—”
“The hell you will.”
I’m not good with people. It’s what I told the showrunners who pitched me a cooking show competition, wanting me to participate. I said no because it’s fan-voted and I know myself well enough to recognize my flaws. I’m a great chef with terrible people skills. If I ran the front of house, we would have only a handful of customers who stubbornly returned despite my temper and bad service. But that night Slater and I fit perfectly. We belong together even if she thinks we don’t.
The problem is that I don’t know shit about romance, shit about wooing someone. I’ve got the social skills of a toddler isolated from human contact. I’m the king of my domain, and I hate being told I’m wrong and that I can’t have things. I’ve got a million and ten flaws, and Slater running away from me was probably some inner preservation instinct, but it doesn’t matter.
I have to have her.
Slater Braxton is the food critic. According to the stats sheet that was provided to me by the showrunners of Plated, the cooking variety streaming show they were pitching, she has over a million followers. A recommendation by Slater boosts bookings by over one hundred percent. She could catapult an unknown and struggling business into fame. Conversely, a bad experience would basically mean you need to shut your doors. She primarily seeks out small establishments, eschewing chains and fine dining, which is why I’ve never seen her at The Plate. Mine is a Michelin restaurant, not because I set out to be, but I like to take ingredients and make them extraordinary. The Michelin people came to me, and once you have a star, it sets you on a certain course with a certain clientele.
Slater would call my food pretentious and not worth the wait to get in, the prices, or the fanfare around the whole concept of molecular gastronomy. She’d be right, too, but the prices mean that even the dishwashers at The Plate can afford to support a family, and the wait means job security for everyone. I don’t regret that. The fanfare? I could live without it.
But I get that everything The Plate, and by extension me, is something that Slater dislikes. Unfortunately, she needs to get over that because now that I’ve had a taste, I’m not letting her go.