Page 5 of Twins with Daddy’s Bestie

Tyler knocks on the door after a while, and I fill him in. Then, I lose myself in all the articles about last night. Some celebrity and entertainment news anchors theorize what could have happened. While they're right for the most part—a scorned woman kicked me out of her house—they leave out the important detail that all of this started over raw fucking bagels.

Two light knocks on my door catch my attention and my assistant, Joseph, steps inside and smiles nervously. “Miss Porter is here for her interview.”

I forgot all about the interview. Leonard's daughter recently graduated from culinary school, and she's been looking for work. When I told him about my business over drinks last week, he suggested I interview her. The last thing I want to do right now is sit through a job interview, but I promised Leonard, so I have no choice.

“Send her in,” I sigh, closing out of all the tabs of me in the towel and searching my email for her resume. If she can prove she's at least partially competent in a kitchen and not a felon or a lunatic, she's got the job. Hopefully, this will be quick and painless for both of us.

“Right this way,” Joseph says in a chipper, excited voice as he leads the job contestant to my office. I look up from the screen when she walks into the room, and my heart stops beating for a moment. By the look on her face, the same thing happens to her.

“Fuck me,” I say involuntarily. “It's you.”

Standing in front of me, carrying a tray of muffins and bagels that I have no doubt were the ones she cooked last night in Rita's kitchen, is the baker.

3

Olivia

“It's me all right,” I say, taking a few nervous steps forward.

Well, I'm cooked. Of all the people in Los Angeles to be interviewing for, it had to be him. Towel-man. The guy who I might or might not have gotten kicked out of my neighbor's apartment not even twelve hours earlier.

Why couldn't he have forgotten about me?

“So, this is what the bagels were for last night?” the man I can only assume is Drake Vance asks me. He folds his arms in front of him at the desk and looks at me expectantly before gesturing to the seat across from him. Even if he doesn't want to hire me, he still has to go through the motions. “I thought you just had the munchies.”

He looks even better clothed. Okay, that's a stretch, but he looks pretty damn good.

His business suit is perfectly tailored to his body and hugs his arms and chest. After previously seeing what he hides behind those clothes, the top button of his shirt leaves just enough to the imagination for those images to swarm back into my mind.

My cheeks redden, betraying any confidence I was projecting.

“I can't blame you for that,” I say, trying to laugh it off. By the look on his face, he has no interest in joining me.

Last night, he was more than happy to joke around before he was kicked out, but I can imagine he has a sour taste in his mouth now. “I guess knocking on someone's door around midnight to use their oven isn't that common. I've done it before with Rita. I know she's a bit of a night owl, and she never minds the company.”

“Do you always talk this much?” Drake asks, and I’m a little offended. “Does being this chatty have an impact on your work?”

Even though I take this as an insult, I keep a smile on my face. I need this job.

The chances of me getting it are slim but not non-existent. Where there's hope, there's a way forward.

At least, that's what my mom told me any time I planned on giving up. Mama didn't raise a quitter, and I won’t let one bad encounter ruin this for me.

“I pride myself on my ability to balance my personal and work life, so any conversations I would have with your staff would not impact my ability to cook,” I say, setting the tray of food on the desk in front of him. I spent all morning analyzing every item I cooked, making sure I selected the best of the best. Drake looks down at the food, but he doesn't pick anything up just yet. “I know it can be hard to judge a chef's skills based on a resume alone, so I made some items for you to sample.”

He looks down at the tray of fluffy, buttery bread and scowls. “I have a severe gluten intolerance; I can't be around these.”

“Oh, my God. I'm so sorry; I didn't know.” I pull the tray away from him, and every nerve in my body stands upright. This is off to a great start.

“That was a lie, but is that the kind of recklessness I should expect from you as an employee here? I won't have my employees going into anaphylactic shock because you're not paying attention to allergens.”

Okay, so maybe there is no hope.

I've watched enough body-language analysis videos on YouTube to recognize that he's closed off to me. After what happened last night, he is not willing to hire me.

I might as well just take back the tray I spent every last dime in my bank account buying the supplies for and try to sell it on the street to make enough money for rent this month.

I'm frazzled in front of him again, and that seems to please him. He's getting a sick pleasure from putting me on the spot and making me nervous. My potential boss is a sadist, great.