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Not only am I dripping, soaking wet, marching up a hundred and thirty-three stairs, but the big boss of the Bouchon Noir was both grumpy in the morning and insufferable the rest of the day.
It’s unbearable having to control my every move, knowing he was watching me like a hawk. It was almost as though he was looking for an excuse to fire me.
But he won’t. The Bouchon Noir needs me too much. That’s not just me tooting my own horn. At this Friday’s big wine reveal, there will be international journalists, critics, and connoisseurs alike flooding the place. It’s a great opportunity for reputation building, which is the very reason I’m there.
If Olivier Dubois wants to fire me, he will definitely wait until the wine reveal has passed. After that, all bets are off. Maybe that’s why he showed up early yesterday, putting on the whole show about coming especially to visit this restaurant.
The hundred and thirty-three stairs go by in a flash because when I’m in this kind of mood, I could argue with an empty house. I throw open the door to the apartment with superhuman strength.
“Ouch!” someone screams from behind it. “I was standing there.”
It was a serious design flaw that the kitchen counter is directly behind the door.
“I could’ve cut myself, you know.” Jessica pokes her head around. “Whoa. What happened to you?”
“I am not in the mood, okay?” I toss my bag onto the sofa with poor aim and Chrissy has to swat it away from her face.
“Natalie’s not in the mood,” Gina whispers to Laura, as if everyone couldn’t hear her.
“Not in the mood for what?” Annelise asks from behind her magazine. “I wasn’t in the mood for coming to France and I did it anyway.”
“Yeah, but you’d whine that the world’s biggest diamond was too flashy. When has Natalie ever said she wasn’t in the mood for something?”
Laura emerges from the bathroom, her hair in a towel. “Ooh la la,” she says, “Natalie’s not in the mood? It must be bad.”
“As I was saying,” I continue, “I am not in the mood to talk about my horrible day with my horrible boss who is a horrible, arrogant, frustratingly gorgeous fancy-pants Frenchman.”
They exchange a series of glances with a look I recognize too well. This studio apartment is full of the people I know best in the world.
“Don’t look at each other like that. I’m being serious.”
“You’re also soaking wet.” Laura tosses her towel to me. “And we know you want to talk about it. You always want to talk about it.”
“About him? No, thank you. He thinks he can just march in and make fun of his staff, play mean little jokes, and then expect us to be at his beck and call. I, for one, won’t take it.”
“You’re going to quit?” Gina’s eyes widen. “But you love this job.”
“I’m not going to quit the job, but I am going to quit being Little Miss Nice Guy.”
Chrissy and Jess exchange a look.
“But that’s your brand,” Chrissy says. “Don’t you think that’s her brand, Jess?”
“It sure is. Natalie, they specifically hired you to be Little Miss Nice Guy.”
“I can be nice to the customers. I can even be nice to the staff. But as for Olivier Dubois, he will only get the professional, cool, calm, and collected Natalie McBride. He called me a drowned rat!” I toss my hair back, casting drops into Gina’s face. “I don’t care if his eyes are like emeralds floating on the Mediterranean Sea during the full moon. That is no reason to track my every move during my shift at the restaurant.”
Their heads turn to each other.
“Why are you doing that again?”
“Because,” Laura says, “first of all, you do look like a drowned rat. Second of all, men in general—and Frenchmen even more so—have very strange mating rituals.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Maybe it’s exactly like that, huh? Also, you haven’t gotten this worked up about anything since Ms. Cunningham accused you of cheating on the eleventh grade math final exam.”
“I didn’t cheat!”
