The Seven Year Slip

I KNEW IT WAS a bad idea, but I didn’t have another. Not if I was going to salvage this.

I hailed a taxi, told the driver to head to the Olive Branch down in SoHo, and found myself in front of the hopping restaurant not twenty minutes later. Without a plan. The doors were all pulled wide, the windows open to let in the evening summer air. The patrons at night were a world away from the ones I’d seen at lunch, all trendy young people in their new glittery fashions, snapping photos of their food while barely eating a bite—and most plates only had a bite on them. I felt more out of place than I had felt in a while, and that almost stopped me from going inside at all, but then I steeled myself, and thought about what my aunt said—

“Pretend to belong until you do.”

The hostess stopped me at the front of the house and asked for my reservation name. That was my first hurdle. I didn’t have one, obviously, and she wouldn’t let me into the restaurant if I didn’t. So I pulled back my shoulders and raised my chin, and pretended with the best of them. “I’m here to see James.”

The woman’s eyes widened. She gave me a once-over. “And you are . . . ?”

Right, a lot of people wanted to see him these days, and I doubted he’d thought twice about me. Which was odd, seeing as how I still felt the phantom touch of his mouth on mine. “I’m . . .”

No one important—a publicist from a publisher he had rejected. That certainly wouldn’t get me in to see him. So I thought quick. What would my aunt do? She’d put on countless hats over the years, pretending to belong somewhere until she did. “I’m a journalist. For—uh—for . . .” My eyes glanced off a magazine pile behind the hostess stand. “Women’s Health.”

I tried not to wince. That was a bad lie.

She frowned, giving me another once-over. “For James?”

“In an article about getting women’s hearts racing.” I was just digging myself deeper and deeper.

“It’s a bit late, isn’t it?”

“Never too late—that’s a journalist’s, uh, motto. Is he here?”

She pursed her lips, and then pressed her earpiece and said something into it. She waited a moment, and then nodded. “Sorry, you’ll have to come b—Wait a minute!”

I had stepped past her like I had a job to do. Technically I did, but not what she was thinking. “You can tell him I’m here,” I said over my shoulder, and dove into the dark and decadent restaurant I couldn’t afford. She squawked in reply, but didn’t make a move to stop me. She had too many other people to greet and seat, and she probably wasn’t paid enough, anyway.

I dipped around a server carrying a heavy tray to a large table, and slipped into the hallway that led to the kitchen and bathrooms. The metal doors to the kitchen swung open, a server rushing out with a tray full of beautifully plated dishes, and I stepped to the side as he passed, catching the metal door before it swung closed. This was it.

“To Mordor,” I whispered, and went inside.

An older woman with a teal pixie cut glanced up from plating the latest dish—a fish plate of some sort, and her face scrunched in annoyance. “Kitchen’s off-limits,” she said, and shouted something behind her—for a sauce or something. She must have been the sous.

Everything in the kitchen was chaos. People shouting “Behind!” as they brought sizzling pans up to the front to plate, or “Corner!” as they turned, heaving dishes into the sinks at the back. It was all very overwhelming, but I made myself stand my ground.

Another server passed me into the kitchen and put down a ticket at the station with the sous, who took it and shouted the order back to the kitchen.

Then she turned back to me and said, again, a little annoyed, “The kitchen’s off-limits.”

“I’m just looking for—”

She waved at the server beside me. “Get her out of here.”

Beside me, the server, a gangly guy in his early twenties, turned and opened his arms to try to corral me back into the hallway. “Sorry, ma’am,” he muttered, looking down at his shoes, not meeting my eyes at all.

I tried to bat him away. “Wait—wait—I want to talk to the head chef!”

“Everyone does,” the sous replied, not even deigning to look up as she wiped the edge of a hot, plated dish. “You’re not special.”

Well, that was rude. The server grabbed me by the arm, but I tore it away from him. “Look, I just need a few minutes—”

“Do you see him here? Out!” she cried again, waving her hand, and the server pushed me out of the kitchen. I’d never been manhandled so apologetically before in my life. He mumbled, “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” even as he scooted me out the door.

I stumbled backward into the hallway again, and Mordor closed in a flash of swinging silver doors. “Wait, please, I just need to talk to—”

“Is something wrong?”

The server froze. I froze. My heart slammed against my chest.

He quickly turned to the voice behind me. “Chef,” he murmured, still looking at the ground. “Sorry. She came into the kitchen asking for you.”

“Did she now,” he rumbled. I felt my skin prickle.

“Chef Samuels asked me to take her out.”

“I hope not permanently.”

The server gave a start. “I—uh—”

“It’s a joke,” he lamented, almost pitifully, and then waved him away. “I have her. You can go back to work.”

“Yes, Chef.” The server nodded again, and quickly left to tend to his tables.

When the squirrelly guy was gone, I heard the chef rumble, “You’re not from a magazine.”

Turning on my heels, I whirled around to face James Ashton. My stomach folded itself into knots. Just half an hour ago, his mouth was on my neck, his breath against my skin, and now—we couldn’t be further apart. “James,” I greeted him, trying to keep my voice level.

I hoped this worked.

I hoped Iwan was right.

He was in his chef’s uniform, a white coat buttoned down the side of the front, straining his broad shoulders. “Yes, Clementine?”

“You rejected our offer.”

“I did, and if that’s why you’re here,” he said carefully, “my decision is final.”

My heart plummeted into my toes. “Hold on, hear me out—”

“I’m sorry,” he went on, letting his arms fall to his side, and he passed me toward the kitchen. “I really need to get back to work—”

I whirled around on my heels. “Is it because of me?”

He froze in his footsteps, his back to me. My hands were clenched so tightly, I felt my nails leaving indentations in my palms.

“Is it because of me?” I repeated. “Because you and I . . .”

He glanced over his shoulder, and that was all the answer I really needed.

It was because of me. My fists began to tremble. I probably should have felt sad that he hated me, but to punish Drew? I wasn’t sad—I was getting angry. “Hold on, you don’t think that’s a bit harsh?”

He turned back to me. “No, actually.”

“We didn’t even do anything,” I said, taking a step toward him as he retreated back. “We just kissed—a few times. That’s it.” I took another step, and he pressed himself flat against the wall, framed between a sconce and a still life of a fruit bowl. “And I’m sure you’ve done more than that since then, James.”

His pale eyes were wide. “Um . . . well . . .”

“I get it if you don’t like me or want to forget about me, but to reject Strauss and Adder’s offer because of me?” I went on because the Iwan I knew and the man standing in front of me couldn’t have been more different, and I didn’t care how successful he was now, or how handsome, I had a publishing imprint to save.

“Clementine,” he said, and I hated how level his voice still was, how composed, “do you really think we should work together? Do you think that this”—he motioned between us—“would be a good idea?”

“I think you and Drew would work great together! And I think Strauss and Adder would treat your work so well. Never mind I am damn good at my job, and I know I am. I wouldn’t let a personal grudge or whatever you have against me affect how hard I will work for you and your books.” My hands fell out of fists. “I know my coming here is unprofessional, but you once said that it’s the people that make a good team, and everyone at Strauss and Adder is good. They’re hardworking, and they’re honest, and you deserve that. And they deserve a chance. A real one.”

And I wouldn’t be here making a fool of myself if it wasn’t important. Strauss & Adder needed a big author to fill the vacuum Basil Ray left behind, and if we didn’t get one, it would bode very, very badly for my job—and everyone else’s job at the imprint. Basil Ray wouldn’t be the reason Strauss & Adder closed, but I refused to make that old cryptid the nail in this proverbial coffin.

He pursed his lips, hoping I’d break eye contact first, but he finally did, and looked away. A muscle in his jaw twitched. He muttered, “I don’t like you using my own words against me . . .”

“Admit it,” I said, poking him in the chest, “it’s a good move.”

He scrunched his nose, the first small crack in his put-together facade. The first small sign of my Iwan. “It’s . . . also quite endearing,” he admitted, “and a little bit sexy.”

I blinked. “Sexy?”

To which he replied, his face inches from mine, so close I could feel his words on my skin, “You have me backed up against a wall, Lemon.”

 . . . Oh.

I finally realized how close we were. So close I could see my reflection in the polished buttons of his chef’s coat. Unprofessionally close. And suddenly, that awful telltale feeling returned. The Pop Rocks in my stomach, how it almost made me feel sick. Heat rose up on my cheeks, and I quickly stepped away, my ears burning hot. “Sorry, sorry.”

“I wasn’t complaining—”

“I’ll withdraw myself from the bidding,” I interrupted. “I should have in the first place when I realized who you were. That was my fault. Juliette can take my place, she’s a lovely publicist and she’ll—”

“No, it’s okay.” With a sigh, he rubbed the side of his neck. The shouts of the front of the kitchen carried down the hall like an echo through a cave. The murmur from the house was loud, the clinking of utensils on tableware, the laughter of friends. Quieter, he muttered, “I thought you wouldn’t want to work with me.”

My eyes widened. I looked back at him. “What?”

“That’s what I thought. I thought you were just playing nice in the conference room. You weren’t exactly friendly in there. You had that look in your eyes. You know, the . . .” And he made a pinching motion with his hands toward his eyebrows. Did he mean my . . . ? “That one! That’s the one.”

Mortification crawled over me. “I thought you didn’t want to see me!” You haven’t for seven years. You didn’t even come looking. I stepped back and pulled my fingers through my hair. “Oh my god.”

“I’m sorry,” he agreed, though he looked like he wanted to say something else. “I really did love Drew’s energy. She seems like she’d be great to work with.”

“She is,” I insisted. “So you’ll reconsider?”

“I . . . will have to talk to my agent,” he replied, and scrubbed the side of his neck again—before he realized what he was doing and quickly stopped. Put his hands by his sides.

At least that was better than where we were before. “Fine,” I replied shortly.

“All right.”

His sous chef poked her head into the back area. She didn’t seem surprised at all to find us there. “Chef, stop flirting—we need you in here!”

“Yes, Chef,” he replied, and started for the front of the kitchen, but turned back to me and whispered, “I don’t like it when we fight, Lemon,” and left me in the hall, the sound of his nickname for me like a piece of candy at the end of dinner, sweet and perfect, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe—maybe—I was in over my head.