I ran a hand through my hair, tapping my foot impatiently until the train came to a stop. I was the first one off and soon I found myself on the stree
ts of the upper east side, looking for a restaurant called “Jamison’s Place”. The name was unoriginal, bland and said a lot about the man who owned it. How could a playboy be so boring and uncreative?
Finally, I turned the corner and laid eyes on the large, three story stone building. The sandstone was beautiful and the architecture had a touch of old New York, even though the building was brand new. The sign looked like something from an Irish pub and my curiosity was piqued. This certainly didn’t look like the postmodern monstrosity I’d been expecting.
I walked inside, checking my watch as I wandered through a tall archway that led into a dimly lit restaurant. 8:30. Shit. Was I really an hour late? I sighed and looked up, taking in the metal tables and industrial décor. This wasn’t what I was expecting, but it was nice.
“You’re late.”
I jumped and spun around when a voice spoke up from behind me. As I turned I came face to face with a tall man with sandy blonde hair and eyes the color of honey. He smirked and stared down at me as I took in his sculpted jaw, solid frame and fitted suit. He was…Perfect. At first I couldn’t speak. His full lips and well tripped beard made my knees weak and I had to clear my throat, to regain my composure. Maybe I should have been concerned with how familiar he seemed with my name, but then again, he had my full resume so it wasn’t all that alarming.
“Ah…Yes. My plane came in very late last night and I fell asleep without setting my alarm. I’m so sorry, Mr. Whittle” It was only a little lie, right?
He nodded and motioned towards one of the booths in the corner. “That’s perfectly fine. And please, call me Jami. Please, sit.”
I nodded and glanced over my shoulder before going to the booth he’d pointed at and settling in. I glanced at him, chewing my lower lip unconsciously as he slid in across from me. “I’ve read a lot about you.”
“Hopefully good things?”
“Only good things. You’re said to be the world’s best up and coming chef.” He had a light accent, though I couldn’t quite place it.
“Well, that was kind of the publication.”
“Luckily it’s a publication I trust.”
I nodded and sat still, glancing around and waiting for the questions to begin. He didn’t say anything, though. He just sat across from me, his meaty, but well-manicured hands threaded together and his eyes focused as if he were in deep thought.
“Are we going to continue with the interview?” I squirmed a little. I was afraid that if I didn’t say anything, neither would he.
“Oh, this isn’t an interview.”
“What?” I sounded more alarmed than I meant to.
“Well, I suppose it is, but I’m not going to ask you questions. Anyone who can read knows you’re a good manager and a good chef. I trust your reputation, but I wanted to taste your food for myself.”
“Oh?” I was intrigued again. I’d never had an interview where I was asked to cook. “And why have you decided to conduct this kind of interview?”
He smirked and leaned forward. “Because I want someone who can make good, southern comfort food.” His accent was stronger now, and I suddenly realized it was the same accent I’d fought so hard to get rid of.
“Comfort food?”
“Sure. This place doesn’t have anything like that. You ever try and get chicken and waffles in New York? It’s impossible.”
I was shocked at the request, but nodded. I could make comfort food. Hell, I’d been cooking it since I was a kid, but I’d never had anyone ask me to do it, especially not since I’d become a professional chef.
“Can you do that?”
“I could do it in my sleep.”
He slapped the table and grinned, standing and offering me his hand. “Let’s get crackin’ then.”
I paused but took his hand, my face heating up when he pressed a tender kiss to the back of it. What was this? Some kind of romantic comedy? I brushed the gesture off as a quirk and followed him back to the kitchen. It was one of the largest I’d ever been in and I couldn’t help but whistle as I walked through the swinging doors.
“This is swanky. You don’t see Southern food restaurants with kitchen like this.”
“If I’m going to bring Southern food to New York, I’m going to do it in a big way. Go big or go home?”
After doing some research about Jami on the train ride, I’d quickly learned that was his mantra. Everything he did big. He owned the biggest properties, the biggest stock shares and the biggest night clubs in New York. If I didn’t know better, I’d assume that he had something to prove.