Unfortunately, Rory couldn’t propose anything to Bayli without consulting his partner—and there was no time for that at present—so he simply told her, “I’ll be in touch.”
He loaded up his second round of salads, bread, and a cracked pepper mill.
“Wait. I’m sorry,” she hastily said. “What does that mean? Should I still sit down with Pierre?”
“No need. You’ll hear from me personally.” He lifted the tray high. “Thank you for stopping by, Miss Styles.” He breezed past her to get on with his business.
Though the image of Bayli was burned into his brain and thoughts of their disastrous, though fortuitous, meeting continued to simmer …
* * *
Bayli stood outside of Davila’s NYC, fuming. She hit the speed dial number on her phone for Scarlet, who conferenced in Jewel.
“You guys are not going to believe this.” Bayli jumped right in. “I was kicked in the hip and then dismissed!”
“What?” Jewel shrieked. “At your interview?”
“Oh, there was no interview! There was a loud crash and a gruff chef and then an ‘I’ll be in touch.’” She huffed. “Yeah, right. He’ll be in touch when he goes vegan with his next restaurant—which is the equivalent of hell freezing over for this man. Shit!”
It’d all happened so fast. And she’d let it.
What the fuck?
“I don’t understand,” Scarlet said as Bayli stalked down the crowded sidewalk toward the subway, a bit too far away for a woman in five-inch heels, but she didn’t really notice the strain on her feet, in her current agitated state.
Jewel told her, “You’re perfect for the job! You’re attractive. Friendly. Professional. Smart. What more could they possibly be looking for in a hostess?”
“Beats the hell out of me,” she grumbled. “But His Royal Culinary Highness Rory St. James tripped over me, his tray went sailing, and two minutes later he was like, ‘Bye-bye, baby.’”
“What an ass,” Scarlet scoffed.
“I don’t know,” Bayli lamented as she came to an abrupt halt, miraculously not interrupting anyone else’s flow so that they slammed into her. She whirled around and stared in the direction from which she’d come. She considered marching back into the restaurant and demanding an actual interview. But what good would that do? If Rory and Pierre agreed, it’d only be to humor her. Then they’d promptly toss her application in the trash.
On the other hand, they’d probably already done that, so what the hell?
Except that she still had a hand to play.
And if Rory St. James was the type who wanted an interviewee to “sing for their supper,” then by God, she’d start warming up her pipes.
She hadn’t come all the way to New York to be stonewalled. She’d put her heart and soul into freeing herself from shackles and heartbreak, and Bayli Styles would not give up so easily!
Her enthusiasm returning, she told the girls, “I have a modeling job of sorts on Saturday night. Some uber-exclusive fund-raising event. The organizers had me familiarize myself with the guest list—Christian Davila is on it. I might be able to turn this whole thing around with one good impression.”
“You really want to work for angsty chef guy after today’s debacle?” This from Jewel.
“It’s suddenly become more personal vindication than survival tactic,” Bayli said. “I’ll keep you posted.”
She disconnected the call. And plotted her next encounter with the famous duo.
TWO
Christian Davila was completely engrossed in Dr. Gene Eckhart’s latest research findings on cardiac ablations and advanced technologies that could significantly alter structural heart problems when a flash of red caught his attention.
That flash of red being an insanely short hem of a tight skirt that ended at the tops of tanned and toned thighs.
Glossy, golden skin made Christian’s mind instantly shift gears from the scientific discoveries that he’d always found fascinating while catching up with his Columbia University roommate.
With his attention now divided, Christian watched the woman in red out of the corner of his eye as she worked the after-dinner crowd on the expansive terrace of a private estate outside of Manhattan. She offered cigars from a fancy humidor and was followed closely by a twentysomething sandy-haired male in a tux who carried a portable stand he snapped open when the leggy brunette needed to set the box down. Her assistant would then hand her the selections made by the guests of this extravagant event so that she could ceremoniously unveil and prep the cigars.