Unprepared Daddy: A Second Chance Romance

by Bella Winters

  People in Bellefontaine were born there and most of them died there. No one went college, people distrusted the ‘big cities’ and change was unwelcomed. I remember my mother talking about New York City like it was a stain that needed to be erased. It was a place to be avoided where children’s minds were corrupted. It was the Devil’s City and my mother would do anything in her power to keep me away from the sins and temptations of the world.

  That’s why we never travelled. Anything outside my parent’s little bubble was terrifying to them. They didn’t want to be away from the church and the people that they’d grown up with. They wanted everything to stay the way it was when they were kids, even if that wasn’t the best thing.

  I was happy to listen to them when I was young. I didn’t really have a choice. Our TV didn’t have cable and my access to the internet didn’t really begin until I was already a teenager and even then, it was limited. I knew very little of the world outside Bellefontaine.

  When we were forced to go to Birmingham, my mother kept me close, keeping me from anyone who might want to compromise my morals. Birmingham is relatively small as far cities go, but to me it was a shining metropolis that was full of hope and promise. I wanted to live in a city like that. I wanted to get out of Bellefontaine.

  I spent my teenage years rebelling against my parents like most teenagers. I would get rides with my friends and we would go to the city and stay with relatives or people we barely knew. It wasn’t the safest way to live, but it made us happy.

  As the internet became more prevalent and smartphones put the power of information into people’s hands, I started to get more and more curious. I wanted to know more about the world and I was determined to find answers to my questions.

  My mother was appalled when I was accepted to New York University. She pointed a bony finger in my face and told me that if I moved to New York, neither her nor my father would visit me. I accepted it and moved away to begin the best years of my life.

  While I went to school I took full advantage of what the city had to offer. I explored every nook and cranny of the city, spending my weekends and days off crashing in people’s apartments, enjoying parties and all the things I’d missed out on growing up.

  My first year was wild, and if I have to be honest, I don’t really remember much of it, but that doesn’t matter. I enjoyed being away from home, but soon realized that a college education wasn’t for me. I bounced around in several majors, but never really found my niche until I joined a study abroad program.

  I spent a semester in France where I shacked up with a boyfriend who showed me my love of cooking. We would spend hours in the kitchen together, showing each other family recipes. The relationship didn’t last, but my love of cooking did.

  I never went back to NYU and instead applied for a visa and started culinary school. I learned from some of the best chefs in the world and when I was done, I travelled world, taking various jobs to hone my craft. After my first three years working, I started getting recruited by five star restaurants all over the globe. I made a name for myself in the culinary world and soon everyone knew who I was. Magazines interviews me and some of the most powerful people in the world were hiring me to cater their events. I traveled the globe doing what I loved, feeding my wander lust and feeding people.

  New York called me back, however. I missed the city lights and the bustle of the streets. I was ready to settle down for a while and continue my career in a more stable environment. I loved traveling, but I wanted to stay put for at least a little while.

  That’s how I found myself in the apartment of my best friend, Miguel. He was from Bellefontaine as well and had moved to New York when I did, though he opted to stay in school and become a lawyer. Now he had a fancy pent house in the city and a handsome husband.

  We stepped through the door and I toed my shoes off. It was a habit I’d picked up while traveling through Asia. “Thanks for picking me up at the airport.”

  Miguel chuckled and nodded towards his black, patent leather couch. “Not a problem. I’m honestly just glad to see you face to face. It’s been years since we saw each other in person.”

  “I know. I was just having a good time, you know? Enjoying the world.”

  He poured me a glass of wine and handed it over to me, settling on the couch, sipping the pink bubbly liquid. “You were always a wild spirit. Are you sure you’re ready to stay for a while?”

  “I think so. I’m an old lady now. I’ve sown my wild oats and I think I’m ready to stick around for at least a few years.”

  Miguel rolled his eyes and snorted a little. “You’re an old lady, huh? At twenty-seven?”

  I grinned and shrugged, took a sip of the thick, red liquid in my glass. Miguel had damn good taste in wine. He reclined back into the couch and started to undo his tie glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.

  “Do you have a job lined up?”

  “Mmmm!” My mouth was full of wine, but I waved my hand, showing him I had something to say. “Yeah!” I pulled my phone out of my pocket and scrolled through my messages. “So, I announced I was leaving Spain and the press got a hold of it pretty quickly and within like four hours, I had all these job offers.”

  Miguel glanced at my phone, one eyebrow raised. “Impressive.”

  “I know, right? I didn’t really expect to get this kind of response!”

  “You are a world-famous chef.”

  I beamed at him, my cheeks going a little red. I knew it was true. I knew I was good and I knew my talents were worth a lot to a lot of people, but I was raised in a humble family and sometimes I still struggled when it came to taking compliments.

  “Thanks!” I sang, pulling up an email.

  “I have an interview with this guy tomorrow.”

  Miguel took the phone and glanced at it, crossing one leg over the other. “Oh boy. You’re gonna go work for this guy?”

  “I’m going to go interview with him. Why?”

  Miguel chuckled and handed the phone back. “That is Jamison Whittle.”

  “Yeah?”

  “New York’s biggest playboy millionaire.” He put on a ‘rich guy’ accent and turned his nose up just a little.

  “You know him?”

  “My firm has done work with some of his businesses. He owns properties all over the world and his toe dipped in several industries. I guess he’s looking to get into the restaurant game now.”

  “He has no restaurant experience?”

  Miguel shrugged a little and finished off his glass of wine, taking it to the kitchen. He started to put it in the sink but then set it back on the counter, pouring himself a second glass. “I’m not sure. I don’t know him personally, but I think this is going to be the first restaurant with his name on it.”

  “Perfect!”

  “Perfect?” He asked, settling beside me again. “I would think that would be bad news.”

  “Not at all.” I sang, grinning brightly. “If he’s never run a restaurant before, then that means he has no idea what he’s doing, right? It’s like getting a slab of clay thrown in front of you. I’ll get to mold that restaurant into what I want it to be and I won’t have to spend months trying to fix whatever the last manager fucked up.”

  Miguel glanced at me and then looked away. “Unless the guy running everything is just as hard headed as you.”

  “I’m not hard headed.”

  “Right, and the pope isn’t catholic.”

  I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms over my chest. “Anyway, if he gives me any push back, I’ll just fight him on it.”

  “And he’ll fight right back.”

  “You’re being very negative.”

  Miguel held his hands up. “Look, I’m not trying to argue with you, I just don’t want you walking into the lion’s den uninformed.”

  “Well, thanks for the warning.”

  “Plus, he’s a notorious womanizer, so you might want to keep your guard up?�
�

  That was a quick transition. I glanced at Miguel and cocked my head to the side. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you’re a pretty girl and he likes pretty girls, so watch out.”

  Pretty girl. I’d heard that a lot in my life. My long, jet black hair and olive skin was a gift from my grandmother who was one hundred percent native American. My emerald eyes, however, were from my dad. The stark contrast often caught people off guard. I’d never really had a problem finding lover’s and flings. Men liked my wide hips, ample ass and toned arms. I didn’t really think about my beauty often, though. I wasn’t a vain person.

  “I’m pretty good about not falling into the snake pit.”

  Miguel chuckled and stood. “I know. If anyone can resist Jami, it’s you. Just be aware.” He stood and offered his hand to help me stand.

  Once I was off the couch, Miguel led me to the guest room. It was a light purple and blue themed room with a large bed and en suite bathroom. “Man, this is a nice place. Especially for New York.”

  “I got lucky.” He said, tipping his now empty glass my way. “Get some sleep. I’m sure dealing with Jamison is going to be exhausting.”

  “I think I’ll be alright.”

  Miguel smiled and pushed himself off the door frame. “Well, if anyone can handle him, it’s you.”

  I smiled and blew him a kiss before he disappeared down the hallway. I sighed and went to the bathroom, closing the door and turning on the hot water. I’d had a long flight and I was looking forward to finally washing all the travel grime off me.

  Right before I stepped into the shower, my phone went off. I glanced at the buzzing device I’d set on the counter and sighed. It was probably an email. I reached out to pick it up, but stopped short when I realized it was my dad texting.

  ‘U need to come home. Mama is sick.’

  I set my lips in a thin line and deleted the text just like I had all the others before it. The text had dampened what was left of my evening, but I tried to ignore it. A part of me felt cruel for never answering, but there was still a burning anger in my belly. I remembered the day I told my mother I was leaving. She’d slapped me across the face and told me to leave and never come back. She’d never visit me in New York and I’d never be allowed back home. I did exactly as she asked and stayed far, far away from Bellefontaine.

  I’d seen my father a few times since leaving home, but he’d always come on his own, trying to patch things up between me and my mother, but it never worked. She and I were both stubborn women and neither of us were willing to apologize.

  The texts had started coming in about three months ago, but I paid them no mind. My mother had been the one to remove herself from my life and I wasn’t going to apologize for the radio silence. Maybe I should have bit the bullet and just let it go, but there was something in me that hung onto the sadness and anger from that day.

  I fell into bed and was asleep before my head hit the pillow. It had been a long day and I had a feeling the next day was going to be even longer.

  Chapter Two: Lena

  I’d expected to wake up to the urgent sound of my phone’s alarm, but instead I heard the sounds of birds singing and felt the warmth of the sun kiss my face. It wouldn’t have been a nice way to wake up, if I hadn’t had to be awake before the sun came up.

  I sat straight up in bed, my long hair a tangled mess, curling around my face. I cursed as I kicked the blankets off and grabbed my phone to check the time. It was 7:30 and my meeting with Jami was at 8. I cursed to myself and jumped out of bed, running to my suitcase and pulling out the only real professional outfit I owned. I worked in a chef’s uniform and when I wasn’t working I could be found in sweaters and leggings.

  I wiggled into the fitted black dress and stumbled into the bathroom, hastily applying the bare minimum amount of makeup. The dress as riding up as I ran through Miguel’s living room, grabbing my purse and waving to him as he told me good luck, seemingly confused by my rush.

  By the time I got out of the house, it was 7:50 and I still had a thirty- minute train ride. I ran as quickly as I could in heels, stumbling through the crowds and brushing past people who gave me annoyed looks, but I didn’t really care. I had somewhere I needed to be.

  When I finally got on the train I slumped into one of the seats and leaned my head back against the window, closing my eyes and panting as I tried to catch my breath. I had a few moments to relax, even though I knew I’d be stressed until I got to my interview. I knew this wasn’t the only job offer I had, but I just didn’t like being late.

  I ran a hand through my hair, tapping my foot impatiently until the train came to a stop. I was the first one off and soon I found myself on the streets of the upper east side, looking for a restaurant called “Jamison’s Place”. The name was unoriginal, bland and said a lot about the man who owned it. How could a playboy be so boring and uncreative?

  Finally, I turned the corner and laid eyes on the large, three story stone building. The sandstone was beautiful and the architecture had a touch of old New York, even though the building was brand new. The sign looked like something from an Irish pub and my curiosity was piqued. This certainly didn’t look like the postmodern monstrosity I’d been expecting.

  I walked inside, checking my watch as I wandered through a tall archway that led into a dimly lit restaurant. 8:30. Shit. Was I really an hour late? I sighed and looked up, taking in the metal tables and industrial décor. This wasn’t what I was expecting, but it was nice.

  “You’re late.”

  I jumped and spun around when a voice spoke up from behind me. As I turned I came face to face with a tall man with sandy blonde hair and eyes the color of honey. He smirked and stared down at me as I took in his sculpted jaw, solid frame and fitted suit. He was…Perfect. At first I couldn’t speak. His full lips and well tripped beard made my knees weak and I had to clear my throat, to regain my composure. Maybe I should have been concerned with how familiar he seemed with my name, but then again, he had my full resume so it wasn’t all that alarming.

  “Ah…Yes. My plane came in very late last night and I fell asleep without setting my alarm. I’m so sorry, Mr. Whittle” It was only a little lie, right?

  He nodded and motioned towards one of the booths in the corner. “That’s perfectly fine. And please, call me Jami. Please, sit.”

  I nodded and glanced over my shoulder before going to the booth he’d pointed at and settling in. I glanced at him, chewing my lower lip unconsciously as he slid in across from me. “I’ve read a lot about you.”

  “Hopefully good things?”

  “Only good things. You’re said to be the world’s best up and coming chef.” He had a light accent, though I couldn’t quite place it.

  “Well, that was kind of the publication.”

  “Luckily it’s a publication I trust.”

  I nodded and sat still, glancing around and waiting for the questions to begin. He didn’t say anything, though. He just sat across from me, his meaty, but well-manicured hands threaded together and his eyes focused as if he were in deep thought.

  “Are we going to continue with the interview?” I squirmed a little. I was afraid that if I didn’t say anything, neither would he.

  “Oh, this isn’t an interview.”

  “What?” I sounded more alarmed than I meant to.

  “Well, I suppose it is, but I’m not going to ask you questions. Anyone who can read knows you’re a good manager and a good chef. I trust your reputation, but I wanted to taste your food for myself.”

  “Oh?” I was intrigued again. I’d never had an interview where I was asked to cook. “And why have you decided to conduct this kind of interview?”

  He smirked and leaned forward. “Because I want someone who can make good, southern comfort food.” His accent was stronger now, and I suddenly realized it was the same accent I’d fought so hard to get rid of.

  “Comfort food?”

  �
�Sure. This place doesn’t have anything like that. You ever try and get chicken and waffles in New York? It’s impossible.”

  I was shocked at the request, but nodded. I could make comfort food. Hell, I’d been cooking it since I was a kid, but I’d never had anyone ask me to do it, especially not since I’d become a professional chef.

  “Can you do that?”

  “I could do it in my sleep.”

  He slapped the table and grinned, standing and offering me his hand. “Let’s get crackin’ then.”

  I paused but took his hand, my face heating up when he pressed a tender kiss to the back of it. What was this? Some kind of romantic comedy? I brushed the gesture off as a quirk and followed him back to the kitchen. It was one of the largest I’d ever been in and I couldn’t help but whistle as I walked through the swinging doors.