FOUR
- Mingling
I had been in a deep text conversation with Evan for three hours. Mostly because he had a fifteen or twenty minute return time thanks to slinging adult sippies all night.
Most of it was about my wardrobe.
Me, insisting that what I wore to work was fine since, well, it was work.
Him, telling me to stop being so stuffy and repressed, and put something that wasn't boxy and unflattering on.
Feeling insecurity surge through my system, I marched into my bedroom to the giant mirror leaning against the wall - last year's Christmas present from none other than the reflection-obsessed Ev - analyzing how my outfit fit me.
Maybe it was a bit boxy. But it was a blazer. It wasn't supposed to fit like a cocktail dress.
And even if I were to change, what could I possibly put on that would be appropriate to wear to something work-related, but also not look like I was trying too hard to fit into his world or impress him or whatever other undesirable things that could be gleaned from a woman's wardrobe.
On a sigh, I threw myself into the shower, getting out after standing under the spray, turning the handle hotter and hotter as my tolerance grew until my skin was red all over, deciding that if I left my hair down and maybe put on a simple sweater instead of a blazer and maybe flats instead of heels, I would look passably professional, but also comfortable enough.
After sending snapshots of my jewelry choices, I had simple golden fancy earwires at my lobes and a delicate tennis bracelet on my wrist - possibly the only real piece of jewelry I owned - courtesy of my parents on my eighteenth birthday.
I spritzed on a tiny spray of perfume, but grabbed my oversized purse that could - and did - house my handy notebook full of, well, everything important for the previous three parties as well as the New Year's Eve one.
With that, and only ten minutes to grab a cab to get there on time, I left my place, trying to psych myself up for what could, possibly, be an incredibly tense night. Not just because we might argue over the food selections. But because, once all the chefs were gone, we'd be alone. Alone alone. With no diners nearby, no Evan in the backseat, no secretaries a holler away. Just us. Alone in his apartment. Where maybe things would get heated. In one way. Then turn heated. In another way altogether.
But there was nothing to be done about that.
I expected extravagance.
From a man who wore suits each day that cost more than my monthly rent. Who owned a car that cost more than my dream yearly salary.
I wasn't disappointed in that front.
Grant Calgary lived in a penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side where the doorman helped me out of the car, had been expecting me, knew me by name, led me to the elevator, all but pushed the button for me.
As I rode the elevator up, a weird fluttering of nerves coursed across my belly; tension coiled itself around my neck and shoulders.
The ride was just long enough to work me into the perfect amount of knots to make me actually jump when the door dinged open.
Right into the apartment.
Windows.
That was the first thing you noticed about the expansive, open space. There were floor-to-ceiling windows on three of the walls, something that likely blanketed the space in light and warmth in the daytime hours, even in the chilly December weather. Now, though, the sky inky dark, all you saw were the bright lights of the city. Whites and yellows and reds and blues. Some steady, others flashing around.
I thought - a bit unkindly, I will admit - that maybe he liked the place because he liked to look down on the rest of the city, that he liked feeling higher up than everyone else.
I pushed the thought away, though, seeing it for the bitterness that it clearly was, deciding instead to look at everything else I could from where I stood since I hadn't, technically, been invited in, and the owner of said home was not in sight.
There were two seating spaces, one with two straight-backed beige armchairs facing each other with a small table between. A book and an old coffee mug sat there. I found myself oddly wondering what the title might be since it was face down, a slip of paper that almost looked like a check wedged between the pages.
It was odd to see his home, to see personal details about him. It made him more human in a way.
The other seating area was a few feet away - a couch and two chairs of the same style and color around a white-topped, metal-legged table strewn with newspapers and magazines.
Tidy, it seemed, was only something Mr. Grant Calgary was in his office.
I found myself liking that information, tucking it away to make myself feel better about the pile of towels and discarded clothing in my bathroom that had overflowed the laundry bin and settled on the floor.
Across from the living area on the only non-window-filled wall was the kitchen with the biggest island I had ever seen cutting it off from the rest of the space. White. Everything was white. Save for the stainless steel appliances and the collection of pots and pans that had been set up on the counter beside the sink for easy grabbing when the chefs arrived.
To the right of the kitchen was the dining space. It was smaller than I had expected, maybe simply because the man who lived here wasn't the sort to host lavish parties in which he might need a dozen chairs at his - again - all white table. Instead, there were only four seats. Small, intimate.
And just on that thought, Grant Calgary emerged from somewhere down the side of the kitchen, a hall or something that must have led to the master suite since he was walking out of it not fully dressed, his hands reaching for the lowest button on his crisp white shirt.
I didn't want to look.
Okay, fine.
I wanted to look.
I didn't want to want to look.
But look I did.
As you might expect of some multi-millionaire, most eligible bachelor with the cockiest attitude I had ever encountered, he was fit. And cut enough that it was sexy without making you grimace at the idea of him at the gym grunting while trying to lift those giant barbells in some grotesque display of somewhat fragile masculinity.
The muscles of his abdomen were defined, but not overly deep, the skin taught, with a smattering of hair across the chest and, well, a small trail leading down.
I tried not to think of down.
But that was exactly what I happened to be thinking of - and possibly looking at - when he finally noticed my intrusion in his personal space.
"Oh," he said, stopping short, his hands dropping to his sides before rising again to finish his buttons at a faster pace, leaving the top two open. No suit jacket. But shoes on. Casual, but not. A lot like me, I guess. I felt a bit better about my wardrobe change knowing that he'd had one too. "I didn't hear the elevator," he told me, shrugging. "Have you been there long."
"Just came up."
"And it sounds like we have company," he told me, waving me to the side, making me aware of the whirring of the elevator behind me. "Chef Alexander Nichols is first," he told me quickly. "From NicoNichole," he added just before the bell chimed.
And then I got to see another side of Grant Calgary.
The charming side.
I even felt comfortable calling it that seeing as there was no other way to describe it. He schmoozed and praised and, well, charmed a smile out of Chef Nichols who was a perpetually pouting, ruddy-faced, angry sort who slammed around while he cooked, making me jump almost constantly.
"Here," Grant said, seeming to notice my edginess. My head turned to find him holding out a glass of deep red wine from a bottle I hadn't even seen him opening. My hand reached out automatically even if a small voice whispered that I wasn't supposed to drink on the clock. "He cooks like he's mad at the food," Grant added in a low whisper down by my ear as he pressed into my side, keeping the words between us instead of the man a few feet away grumbling at the mushrooms he was steadily chopping in a way that both made me envious and worried for his fingertips.
With that, he turned, and I was perhaps a bit too aware of the brush of his arm on mine, walking over toward the first, more intimate, seating area, holding an arm out as he sat in one of the chairs.
"What are you reading?" I asked, motioning to the book on the table between us, wanting some topic of conversation, knowing it would be awkward to sit with him silently watching a stranger cook for us.
"I Am Pilgrim," he told me, reaching to flash the cover with a large fingerprint on it.
"Thriller?" I asked, taking a wild guess. When I had time to read - which was maybe not more than six or eight books a year - it was generally of whatever literary fiction book that was high on the charts at that given time.
"Mhm."
"Do you read a lot of them?" I asked, looking down at the wine I still hadn't sipped. There was a slam and curse a few feet away from us, making me finally taste the red liquid, finding it surprisingly sweet. And sweet was not something I would think Grant Calgary would like. But, I realized, he didn't have a glass for himself.
"I work twelve hour days most days of the week," he told me, making my gaze finally lift and turn in his direction, catching his profile. I hadn't exactly figured him for a workaholic. When you had a corporation as large as his, it seemed to often enable less than devout work from the higher-ups. "I have to get my action somewhere," he said, putting the book back down on the table, his gaze finally catching mine. "You work a lot too."
It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. "Yes. Mostly out of necessity, though," I added, a little pointedly as I waved my wine glass hand around the room.
"I had to fight for my position," he told me, giving me more detail than I could find in a rather in-depth hate-fueled Google search I had done of him. He'd always been incredibly vague in interviews, always steering the conversation away from anything too personal. He was a master of spin. But he wasn't turning me in circles. He was being straight with me. "This was my father's business. And he didn't want to let go of the reins. Not to me anyway."
"Why not to you?"
To that, he snorted a bit.
"My old man was self-made. He thought I didn't deserve it."
"Well, that would be true if you didn't work for it. But it sounds like you did. You do."
"It was all I ever thought I'd do. I went to college for business. I worked in every department, getting to know how everything worked. But when it came time for him to retire, he didn't plan on even considering me."
"Tense relationship," I murmured, nodding, taking another sip.
"Know a thing or two about it?" he asked, turning to watch me, waiting for the answer.
"My father doesn't think my job is a real job."
"Right. Because I'm paying you in Monopoly money," he said with a head shake.
And just like that, this man and I, from such vastly different worlds, with personalities that clashed more than they got along, we found some common ground.
"How did you get the position?"
To that, his gaze slid away. Maybe embarrassed? Ashamed? I wasn't sure.
"I got the shareholders together behind his back, pushed him out, and took his place."
"Oh, ah... wow. That couldn't have gone over well."
"He sold everything, bought a villa in Tuscany, shacked up with a woman almost a third his age, and refused to acknowledge my existence."
"How long ago was this?"
"About a decade," he told me, shrugging away what was clearly something that bothered him.
"Why did you have him pushed out?"
"He was losing focus, making bad decisions. He would never admit it, but I was pretty sure his memory was faltering. It was making him a risk. The whole company - thousands of people - depended on the CEO's judgement being sound. His wasn't. It wasn't personal. It was business. But regardless of him doing similar things to hundreds of people in his tenure, he didn't appreciate it being done to him. The higher a man climbs in the world, the more pride they have to drag around with them. I bruised his. He will never forgive me for that."
I didn't realize I had reached out until his gaze flew down to where my hand was clearly closed over his wrist in sympathy, touching the skin where his sleeve had slid up slightly.
My hand flew back, curling into a fist on my thigh.
But there was no taking it back.
And something had to break the tension.
"What about your mother?" I asked, taking a sip of wine to settle my nerves for an entirely different reason.
I mean, I wasn't a touchy-feely person. That wasn't me. I didn't reach out and offer a sympathetic touch to family or even close friends, let alone men I barely knew, claimed to dislike entirely.
Grant's smile was utterly lacking any actual amusement. "She was the first person my father shouldered out of her position. Last time I saw her was in Paris about five years back. She moved there after the divorce when I was four. Got herself a new husband and three step-kids. Picked up a French accent and everything."
"You have no family?" I asked, hearing a bit of thickness in my voice. My family may not have supported my career choices, but I knew they would be there for me if I genuinely needed them. Even if I got a lecture.
"It's just me," he said, still avoiding eye-contact, choosing instead to watch the chef's back as he made a somewhat alarming fire dance around in a pan while he sprinkled some sort of seasoning on it.
Just me.
There was something broken in those words, a little boy without his mother, a young man trying to prove himself to a father who refused to see his worth, an adult man who had no one to lean on but himself.
Just like that, I could almost forgive the colder parts of him, the unfeelingness, the arrogance, the way he wanted everything his way because he didn't need to compromise for anyone else.
"It's their loss, I'm sure."
This time, when his lips tipped up, there was real humor there. And when his head turned to face me, it was lighting up the dark depths of his eyes as well.
"You don't mean that."
"You don't know that."
"Babe, all we've done is hiss and scratch at each other. You no more like me than a dumpster cat that clawed up your arm when you tried to offer it kindness."
"You're not a dumpster cat."
The smile quirked up even higher. "You know, that might be the nicest thing anyone has said to me all week. Hell, all year," he added with a low, rumbling little chuckle that shivered its way through my chest, down my belly, lower.
Oh, God.
Lower.
This was a mistake. Coming here. To his place. Seeing him in his own environment. Seeing him as a person with a past and pains and a bit of self-deprecating humor.
It was making it harder to deny the need coursing through my system.
"Food!" Chef Nicolas barked with an accompanying slam, making both of us - yes, even unshakable Grant Calgary - jolt in our seats, our heads swiveling in his direction. "I'll leave now," he added, wiping his hands on a dishrag then doing exactly that.
The pile of dishes was impressive.
And there was another chef on the way in half an hour.
"I say we hoover the food. Then I wash, you dry."
Had you told me even just a few hours before that my night might involve quickly shoving down expensive, top-chef created food before washing dishes with Grant Calgary, well, I'd have had a much-needed laugh at your expense. Hell, even the idea of the man knowing how to use a sponge would have been amusing. But there he was with his shirtsleeves rolled up, efficiently scrubbing even stubborn charred-on oil and spices like a pro.
We'd barely managed to clear off the small plates of samples we had tossed into our mouths when we heard the whir of the elevator.
"And here comes Chef Angie Miller. Of Cert," he added when I clearly was not in-the-know enough to recognize the name. "She opened her own five-star place just two years after leaving culinary school. A bit of a prodigy in a way."
"And she was free to do your New Year's Eve party because..."
"Because she doesn't do private parties outside of her restaurant."
"You got her to agree to do yours how?" I asked, and maybe my voice was a bit pointed.
"Much as I appreciate your feelings on my virility, I didn't use sex to get her to agree. Not that I'm above it or anything. But she bats for your team, not mine."
The ding of the elevator cut off our conversation. I found myself disappointed about it too as I moved out of the kitchen to greet Angie who was, indeed, a couple years younger than me, her long, spindly arms covered in various tattoos that she claimed all had personal significance when she caught me looking at them.
"I know you like to have quiet when you cook, so Miss Walters and I will be in the living room. What did you think of Chef Nicolas?" he asked.
How do you tell someone who likely had a more refined palate that you thought a renowned chef's food tasted bland and burnt?
"Honest opinions?"
"I don't think any of your employees are going to enjoy that," I told him, trying to remove myself from the equation.
"I agree," he surprised me by admitting. "I think Angie is going to char everything a little less. She's known for more fresh foods."
She was, too.
A little too fresh, if you asked me.
"It's rabbit food," I told him when he demanded to know my honest opinion when the chef in question was out of earshot. "This is what you eat on a diet, not at a New Year's Eve party."
We hadn't even gotten finished loading up the sink to wash when the elevator whirred for the last time.
"He's early," Grant said, casting a worried look at the clock then his messy kitchen.
"Hey hey," a voice called, making my head turn to find someone who couldn't have been more than twenty-one or two with a long, lanky build, his black hair covered by a backward baseball cap, his red flannel shirt left open to display some sort of emblem for a taco place. "Oh, nah, man. I got that," he said, waving Grant out of the way as he moved into the kitchen, not even taking a second to absorb the general grandeur of the place. "I'm early. This is on me," he insisted, grabbing a clean and dry rag, tossing it over his shoulder, then moving in at the sink. "So, pretty lady, are you the Big Guy's woman?"
I all but choked on my wine.
Grant snorted. Though I wasn't sure if it was at the question or at my reaction to it.
"No. I'm the event planner. Sage Walters," I added when he looked over his shoulder at me.
"I'm Aiden Cooke. Yes, ha ha," he said, likely having heard it all. "I'd shake your hand, but I'm elbow deep in suds. So are you dudes in the mood for some bomb ass finger foods?"
"Is he high?" I whispered over at Grant who, surprisingly, just shrugged.
"Probably," he told me in a similar whisper, then raised his voice to speak to Aiden. "Yeah, we could use something good. We haven't had the best luck tonight."
"Yeah, no doubt. All that fancy ass shit. Looks great on a plate, but has no taste. And certainly no soul. You guys go chill. Let me whip up some amazingness."
"'Fancy ass shit,'" I repeated in a hushed tone to Grant as we moved this time toward the windows, both of us looking out at the city.
"If we pick him, he'd be in the kitchen where no one will overhear his colorful commentary."
"Where did you find him?" I asked, wondering what kind of five-star restaurant would hire a kid like him with a mouth like his.
"Taco truck."
"Wait... what?" I asked, feeling the smile pull at my lips as I watched his profile for a second before he turned to face me, making me all-too-aware of just how close we were standing, a realization that made my chest start to feel tight.
"Yeah. His parents forked over his college savings to him when he was eighteen. He decided he didn't want to go to college. So he bought a food truck and all the supplies and licenses. And now he owns a taco truck."
Which explained the logo on his shirt.
"How did you find him?"
"His taco truck," he said with an expression that very much said Duh.
"You eat at taco trucks?" It almost came off like an accusation.
"Sometimes. I'm not exactly a fan of fancy ass shit either."
"But you..."
"Know all the chefs?" he cut me off. "Yeah, it's part of the business. I have also seen all the shows on Broadway, know who is playing at Madison Square Garden, am always up-to-date on what exhibits are going on at the Met. You need to know for the people who expect you to know."
"That makes sense even if it sounds like a lot of work doing things you don't like doing."
"Do you like doing all those babies showers and gender reveals and all that?"
"Not as much as I used to."
"Yet if another one came up, you would do it."
"I see your point."
"So where do you like to eat?"
"Home?" I said, shrugging. "I don't get out much."
If he knew it was because I couldn't afford it, he kept that to himself. "City like this, it's meant to be explored. And you and me, we spend all our very limited free time locked up in our apartments."
"Ay yo, anyone have any food allergies? Shoulda asked before I started. Or don't eat meat? I got that Impossible stuff in my truck if you need it."
"We'll eat anything," Grant called for both of us since we'd eaten a ton of dishes already.
"Cool cool. Let me work my magic unhindered."
"Yeah yeah," Grant said to me quietly when a smile pulled at my lips. "He's a trip, but trust me on the food."
"I mean, tacos are great. They're very on-trend. But we will need other options."
"Give him a chance," he implored. "Here," he said, reaching up to grab my glass, pulling it from my hand, walking away to refill it. When he came back, though, he had a whiskey for himself.
"Thanks," I said as he pressed the glass into my hand, his fingers sliding against mine. Slowly. Almost - dare I think it - deliberately.
"How has the staff search been going?" he asked, and I found myself disappointed that we were back on work topics.
"I have a stack as long as my arm of resumes. Evan promised he would help me go through them tomorrow. He's more experienced."
"With hiring people?"
"In the service industry. He bartends. And he has called dibs on the doorman position. He loves turning people away."
"That's fine by me. How many servers will we need?"
"At least ten. Even if the food ends up being a buffet. They will need to run the food. And six bartenders. Cleaning staff. Security. I know these are your people. But they're coworkers. And if there are some hard feelings festering under the surface..."
"No, I agree. Security is necessary. I can't claim to know all my staff. Not anymore. But I will handle the security. I know a detail that will come on short notice. We'd get someone better trained than some guy desperate for a last minute job that lies on his resume."
"That works. Gives me some more time to interview everyone else."
"Is there a lot left on that never-ending list of yours?"
"The DJ is going to be the most challenging, but Evan has his friends putting feelers out for that for us. The decorations will be in a week before. The alcohol is ordered. I have the photo box people all lined up. It's getting there. The food will be a big thing. Then I can put the order in for those supplies. You need to approve the invites."
"You didn't send them over."
He wanted to see them in person for some reason. The email of the choices wasn't good enough.
"I will tomorrow. Then swag packs need to be discussed. And you need to look over the list of other possible entertainment options."
"Alcohol and the opposite sex is likely all that anyone is going to need."
"Well, for the married couples though..."
"Fair enough."
"Hey, dudes, why don't you come try course one while I work on two? Gotta get it hot, y'know?"
"After you, dude," he said with a smirk, holding an arm out for me to walk over.
After one bite, I knew it.
We found the chef.
The food would be talked about for months afterward. Not just because it was good, but because it was unique, trendy, something new. Not the same old, stuffy caprese salad or sliders or crab cakes.
People might forget the music, the decor, the name of the signature cocktail. They wouldn't forget the food.
Getting it right was vital.
And we got it right.
I took one of Aiden's cards to keep in mind for any future jobs I might have that would be open to a non-traditional menu.
Grant insisted on taking the elevator down with me, coaxing my slightly tipsy self into a cab, and standing there watching me disappear before going back into his apartment.
I settled into my bed later feeling as though things had shifted.
That we'd made progress.
That things would be different from here on out.
Oh, how wrong I had been.