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“You are such a jerk.” I laugh. “I was actually worried there for a minute.”
“And I notice that you haven’t answered the question. This is serious, Avery.”
He says my name like he’s savoring the taste of it, and I swear my heart skips a beat when he says it.
“Well?” he prompts.
“I have a two-year-old son. If I had anything other than dino nuggets in my fridge, I think he’d call Child Services and report me.”
The way he laughs ought to be illegal with the way it affects my body.
“I think I might have done the same to my mama if she ever brought home round nuggets one day.”
“I’m almost afraid for you to try my desserts now,” I tease. “It seems like you’re a hard one to please.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I’m just very particular with my tastes.” His eyes drop to my lips. “I’m sure you’ll have no problem pleasing me.”
He can’t have meant…
No, definitely not.
It had to have been a slip of the tongue after a stressful morning. There’s no way someone as attractive and successful as he is would see anything worth having in someone like me.
And yet, there he is across the table, staring at me like he wants nothing more than to take me home and have his way with me.
It’s like we’re frozen in time.
I don’t even know what to say. All I can do is stare back at him.
“I mean in the kitchen, of course,” he finally adds in a flustered tone.
I nod woodenly.
“Of course. The kitchen. Yes.”
“So, while we’re on the topic of kitchens,” he says, swallowing hard, “we talked about our backgrounds a bit, but what I really need to know is what you’re looking to get out of these sixteen weeks.”
“Freedom.”
“Excuse me?”
“I got the job at Brookside Manor because my friend Mia advocated for me and basically trapped the owner in his office until he tried my baking.
“I don’t have any formal training or certificates to be able to prove anything to anyone. I learned by baking at home for the fun of it and got some fancier tricks from the content creators I followed.
“But even with my decent online presence and my experience at Brookside, it’s not enough because I don’t have some stupid piece of paper.
“I’m grateful they took a chance on me there—I promise I am—but I’m tired of being looked down on and treated poorly by my head chef because I’m not classically trained like he is.
“When I tried applying to other places to get away from it, most of them wouldn’t offer me anything other than dishwasher or kitchen porter and maybe work my way up.”
I bury my head in my hands. “There’s no way I can support myself or my son on that. I need that pastry chef certification from Age Gap Academy or I’m going to be stuck there forever.”
A few tears drop onto the table, adding to my embarrassment.
This is beyond humiliating. I really hadn’t wanted to cry today.
All I wanted to do was make a good impression, and I’d fucked that up in more ways than one today.
