Betrayed (Dark Desires 2)

I fell into bed and was asleep before my head hit the pillow. It had been a long day and I had a feeling the next day was going to be even longer.

Lena

I’d expected to wake up to the urgent sound of my phone’s alarm, but instead I heard the sounds of birds singing and felt the warmth of the sun kiss my face. It wouldn’t have been a nice way to wake up, if I hadn’t had to be awake before the sun came up.

I sat straight up in bed, my long hair a tangled mess, curling around my face. I cursed as I kicked the blankets off and grabbed my phone to check the time. It was 7:30 and my meeting with Jami was at 8. I cursed to myself and jumped out of bed, running to my suitcase and pulling out the only real professional outfit I owned. I worked in a chef’s uniform and when I wasn’t working I could be found in sweaters and leggings.

I wiggled into the fitted black dress and stumbled into the bathroom, hastily applying the bare minimum amount of makeup. The dress as riding up as I ran through Miguel’s living room, grabbing my purse and waving to him as he told me good luck, seemingly confused by my rush.

By the time I got out of the house, it was 7:50 and I still had a thirty- minute train ride. I ran as quickly as I could in heels, stumbling through the crowds and brushing past people who gave me annoyed looks, but I didn’t really care. I had somewhere I needed to be.

When I finally got on the train I slumped into one of the seats and leaned my head back against the window, closing my eyes and panting as I tried to catch my breath. I had a few moments to relax, even though I knew I’d be stressed until I got to my interview. I knew this wasn’t the only job offer I had, but I just didn’t like being late.

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 streets 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?”