by Wendy Owens
“Hi stranger.” He’s smiling, and I notice a dimple I hadn’t before.
“Oh—hi.”
“Yikes, I couldn’t see the damage too well in the rain, but you really did a number on your car, didn’t you?”
I don’t answer; instead, I get a goofy wide mouth grin and nod at him. Jesus, I must look like a complete idiot.
“Umm, yeah, so did I not put my number on there correctly?” he inquires. I furrow my brow in confusion, then realize I hadn’t told him it was me when I called about the chef position.
I laugh nervously. “No, sorry. Actually, I’m here about the job.”
He staggers back slightly. “You’re a cook?”
I hesitate. How do I answer such a question? I’ve never worked as a personal chef. Saying I dropped out of culinary school after the death of my husband and daughter seems like a heavy way to start a conversation. I decide to keep it simple. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you say something yesterday?” He looks at me suspiciously.
“I don’t know. I guess I wasn’t thinking straight after the accident,” I say, trying to think quickly. He lingers a moment, still glaring at me, until suddenly his entire demeanor shifts.
“Well great, come on in, and I’ll introduce you to everyone,” he says, pulling on the door handle, waiting for me to exit. This is it. There is no more stalling to be done. I step out, making sure my dress is lying properly in the back. He presses the door shut, and I begin to follow him when I suddenly remember my dish.
“Oh wait!” I exclaim, turning and running back to the car. “I forgot the food.”
“What food?” Christian asks, and in a second, he is at my side, curiously looking over my shoulder as I pull the pot from the backseat. “You cooked?”
“Well, I am interviewing to be a personal chef. It seems like the least I could do is let them see if they enjoy my food.” I suddenly feel much more confident. “Do you mind carrying this so I can grab my resume?”
“Only if I can try it, too.” He grins, taking the dish off my hands.
“Of course,” I reply in a voice that even I think sounds flirtatious and wonder what in the hell I am doing.
“What is it?”
“Chicken and dumplings,” I explain, and without thinking about it, the next words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them. “They’re my daughter’s favorite.”
“Oh, you have a kid?” he asks, turning and walking back toward the building.
I mentally chastise myself. How could I have brought up Katie? I wanted this job so I could get a break from my life, from all the people who know the constant hell I’m in. I say I want to get away from the looks everyone gives me, and what is one of the first things I bring up? My dead daughter. “She passed away a few years ago.”
“Oh, wow, I’m so sorry,” he adds, looking over his shoulder at me and slowing his pace.
I’m shaking my head, and I lie. “It’s okay.”
“You seem so young,” he begins, then quickly stops himself. “You know what, I’m sorry, it’s really none of my business.”
“No, really, it’s fine, I brought her up.” I even hate the term ‘passed away,’ but whenever I use the ‘died,’ people get extra weird on me.
“I really am sorry for your loss,” he offers again softly, stepping through the open door.
“Let’s just not talk about it, okay?” I try to say in a light voice, but I know the trembling is obvious.
“Of course.” I imagine he’s relieved. My eyes adjust to the dim light in a matter of a few seconds. My gaze narrows on the crowd of other young twenty-somethings sitting around in folding chairs. “Don’t worry, I won’t make you wait with the other applicants. After all, I think there is some kind of code between people once you’ve rear-ended them— in your car, that is.”
I laugh at his correction of his unintentional innuendo. “I got it. Thanks. So, all these people are applying for the job as well?” There are at least a dozen individuals strewn about the seating area. Ripped jeans and concert T-shirts seem to be a standard wardrobe choice, and I suddenly feel very out of sorts. I have a flower tattoo on my upper arm that Travis took me to get on our honeymoon, and suddenly I’m wishing I had worn something that made it more visible. Perhaps I could have fooled everyone into thinking I was cool enough to be here.
“Yeah, but none of them brought food. That bumps you automatically to the front of the list.”
“Really? They didn’t?” I’m wondering if I’ve made a mistake.
“Nah, not exactly a crowd of over-achievers out there. They figure they’re cooking for a rock band and need to play it cool.”
“And did they pick right?”
“I’d pick the food I can taste over the food I can’t,” Christian begins, “unless yours completely sucks.
My nerves kick into high gear, and I wish I were any place but here. I force myself to laugh at Christian’s attempt at humor, even though I am far too nervous to think much of anything is funny. “Well, I don’t think it sucks, but I’m not really sure that counts.”
“It would be really bad if you thought your food sucked, wouldn’t it?”
“Yeah…” Now I laugh for real. “I guess it would. Now really, you don’t have to get me in ahead of everyone; I’m fine waiting with everyone else.”
“Nonsense—” Christian starts.
“What do we have here?” a man questions, peeking into the pot in Christian’s arms. His dark hair is mussed as if he doesn’t care how it looks; yet somehow it still appears incredibly sexy. His eyes are blue, which I hadn’t expected when I first saw his hair. He has short stubble on his face, and perfectly shaped lips that can be best described as extremely kissable. My breath catches in my throat, and I don’t know what to say. I’m speechless, sandwiched between two insanely hot guys. I’m so out of my element, I wonder if everyone else can see it as well.
“Oh, hey Dean, this is MacKenzie. I met her at the grocery store yesterday when I was putting up flyers.”
“Wait a second.” He looks me up and down. “Is this the girl who can’t drive?”
“Excuse me?” My voice is no longer missing. In fact, I’ve found it along with a few choice words. “I can drive! Quite well, thank you. And for your information, it was storming out when I barely tapped into him.”
“Well, I don’t know if I would call it barely,” Christian interjects, wincing at the memory.
“Oh, shut up,” I command, glaring at him. Did I really just say that?
“Whoa there,” Dean protests, raising his hands and waving them in the air. “I’m just kidding. Strung a little tight, isn’t she?”
I’m not sure if it’s the fact that he just criticized my driving, or the fact that he looks so damn cocky with that crooked grin, but I’m revved up. I’m not going to take his condescending bullshit. I don’t even know this guy. Who in the hell is he to say these things? “Strung a little tight? I’ll show you strung a little tight,” I snarl and act as though I’m going to lunge forward in his direction. Anyone who actually knows me understands just how absurd this is, since I don’t have a violent bone in my body.
“Mackenzie,” Christian snaps at me. “This is Dean.”
“Yeah, I heard you the first time,” I grumble, not taking my eyes off my target.
“The lead singer of Head Case. You know, the band you’re here to cook for.”
I feel my face go instantly hot. I look away from Dean. I’m certain he must be thrilled by my embarrassment. I can’t believe I have such a short fuse. Obviously, during the past few years of isolation, there have been some other changes, including the complete loss of the ability to communicate with the rest of society. Taking a long blink, I swallow deep, and turn back to face my victim. I’m right; he has a smug smile on his face, and he’s so cute I can’t figure out if I want to punch him or kiss him.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what got into me,” I offer, then grit my teeth to stop any other rude remarks fro
m flying out.
“It’s fine, but do you mind if me and the guys try the food you brought?” he asks, acting as though he is trying to be overly cautious.
I laugh, even though I don’t think it’s very funny.
“Of course not, and I also brought my resume,” I add as he turns and walks away without a word. I look at Christian. This whole interaction puzzles me.
“Follow me,” Christian directs, taking off in the direction Dean headed. We make our way around the end of a bar into a side room. There is a jukebox along the far wall and pool tables just in front of it. Sitting all around the pool table are three other guys.
Dean approaches them, and in a loud voice announces, “Lunch is served.”
I stand back and watch as Christian places the pot on the bar and the men swarm around it. As they scoop helpings into beer mugs, I realize it never crossed my mind to bring plates or utensils, but they don’t seem to mind. A shorter guy with a full and lush beard lifts his mug up to his mouth first, intensely eyeing the contents. I hold my breath, waiting for him to taste, but nothing. He pulls it away.
“What’s wrong?” I hear Dean ask him.
“Can’t eat it—well, I can, but then the rest of you get to deal with the consequences,” the man answers. I crinkle my nose. There must be some sort of sensitivity with what I’ve prepared. I want to slip away and disappear in this moment.
“Alex, you try it,” Dean instructs one of the others.
A tall and slender ginger tilts the mug up, taking a taste.
"Well?” Dean prods him as I watch in silence.
“Damn, that’s good,” the slender man moans.
“Oh, sure, rub it in,” the first man grimaces.
Christian walks over to stand next to me and whispers, “Pete’s the drummer, and we just found out he has a gluten sensitivity. He’s kinda pissed, but mostly about beer. Alex, the red head, is the bass player, and you already met the lead singer, Dean. He also plays the guitar.”
“And the other guy?” I ask, nodding in the direction of the sandy blond fellow with the larger nose and strong jaw line.
“Andrew, he pretty much does it all,” Christian explains. “They seem to like it.”
“Well, all of them except Dean,” I say. “He’s not eating.”
No sooner than the words leave my mouth do I see Dean lifting up his mug to his nose, cautiously sniffing it. I’m not sure if I should be offended, so I decide to silently watch him instead. He presses the mug to his lips and sips the creamy broth. I can’t see his expression. He doesn’t pull the mug away, but instead he lifts it higher, opening his mouth wide, taking in a dumpling. Setting the mug down, I study him as he shifts the food from side to side in his mouth before swallowing.
He looks to the other guys who are all peering back at him. He stands quiet, and finally says, “Agreed?”
I wonder what he means. The other guys are nodding and chiming their answers in the affirmative. Without hesitation, Dean turns and walks over to stand directly in front of me. “We leave in five days, can you be ready?”
“What?” I gasp.
“Christian can give you all the details you need.”
“What about my resume, and don’t you have questions you want to ask me? Or … but … one of you couldn’t even try it,” I stammer.
“He agreed on you, but it might be nice if you make something that won’t having him stinking up the tour bus all night.” Dean laughs at his joke. I crinkle my nose again.
“You don’t have any other questions?” I ask in disbelief.
“Is there anything I should know about you? Have you ever poisoned a client?” Dean smiles.
I laugh, and my heart is racing. “No.” I think about adding that I’ve never had a client, but decide it’s best to leave that out. “What about all the other applicants?”
“Would you rather I hire one of them?” Dean asks me pointedly.
“No, I didn’t mean—” I begin.
“Great! We like your food, we have stuff to do, so see you soon,” he speaks quickly before turning to face Christian. “Can you send everyone else home and give MacKenzie all the information she’ll need?”
Dean doesn’t say another word. He turns around and walks over to his band mates. In an instant they are all engaged in a boisterous conversation. Christian takes my arm, leading me back to my car. “Welcome aboard, I guess.”
“Okay, can I just say that’s the weirdest interview I’ve ever had,” I state, though I haven’t had any other interviews to compare it to.
“That’s Dean, but you’ll get used to him.”
“I suppose.” My head is still spinning.
“Is the number on your resume correct?” Christian asks, holding open my door.
Nodding in response, I take a seat behind the steering wheel.
“Great, I need to send all of these other people home, then I’ll call you after practice to go over the details. Does that work for you?”
“Yeah, I mean—” I’m not sure now if I want this job for sure, but it seems too late to stop the train; it’s already out of control. This is going to take what I know as my normal and turn it on its head. “Thank you, Christian.”
“For what?”
“You got me in front of them. I know I have you to thank a lot for this job.”
“Don’t be silly, it was your food. We’ll talk later.”
“Okay.” I smile. Christian closes the door, standing and watching me as I pull away. I can feel myself blushing.
My mind is racing with ideas. I’m going to be leaving my home, the only home I’ve known as an adult. The home I created with my husband. Am I ready for this?
He’s still looking at me, waving. My thoughts wonder to Christian … why is so nice to me? Is he waving because he wants to be my friend? Is it because he’s kind, or because he sees the opportunity for more? Can I even think about more? Am I capable of more after Travis? All I know is I have five days to pack up everything I’ve known. I swallow hard, my face hot and red, and all I want to do now is get home and call Monica. She’s always prepared to tell me if I’m making a rash, or just plain stupid, decision.
Monica pivots, and I watch as she searches for something. Monica is quite beautiful; she always keeps her long auburn hair pulled back from her face, even though I tell her how great it looks when she wears it down. Her tall and slender frame moves with grace. I remember envying her shape while we were growing up, but once I met Travis those feelings faded. He had told me once how pleased he was that he had fallen in love with a woman with curves.
“What are you looking at?” she asks, pausing and glancing in my direction.
“Just thinking about how much I’m going to miss you,” I answer truthfully.
“It’s not like you’re leaving forever,” she returns to her searching. “At least you better come back.”
“Don’t be silly, of course I’m coming back. I have to get my dog.”
We laugh. “You better watch it, or I might just kill that damn dog of yours while you’re gone.”
“Don’t say that, she’ll hear you.”
“She’s a damn doxie who is so fat she can’t see her own feet.”
“That’s not fair; she has a thyroid issue.”
“You do know that is something you’ve made up in your head to make yourself feel better about having a fat-ass dog.”
“Shut up,” I snarl playfully.
“Where is the damn packing tape?” Monica grumbles.
Glancing behind me, I pull out the green tape dispenser that is wedged under a nearby box and lift it high into the air as if victorious. With a huff, she walks over and swipes it from my hand.
“You know what I want to hear more about?” Monica asks before dragging the tape across the box in front of her and flipping it over so the open end is right side up.
“What’s that?”
“More about these dreamy sexpots you’re going to be in close quarters with.”
&nbs
p; I laugh; I should have guessed she would have taken the conversation in that direction. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Nothing to tell!” she exclaims. “Based on your description, there is tons more to tell.”
“First off, I doubt we’ll be sharing a hotel room or anything like that, and second, there’s no way either of them would be interested in me.”
“Either of them? So there are definitely two who rose to the top?”
“No, I just happened to only speak to two of them.”
“Ah, I see, so when you get a chance to speak to the others, there will be even more options.”
Shaking my head, unable to stop myself from grinning, I grumble, “You’re too much.”
“Tell me more about this Christian. You said he was sexy and sweet?”
“I guess.”
“You guess he’s sexy, or you guess he’s sweet?”
“Oh no, he’s definitely sexy,” I quickly confirm with giggle. “But he appears to be one of those types of guys who spends way more time in the gym than I ever would.”
“Well, that just means he has a great body, right?”
“Yeah, I suppose. A little lumpy for my taste.”
“Have you ever had lumpy?”
“Well—no.”
She shoves me in the arm and teases, “Then how do you know you don’t like it. One never knows they like ice cream until they’ve had their first bite.”
“And I do love ice cream,” I add with a devilish grin.
“Mac! You bad girl, what’s gotten into you?”
“You’ve always been a bad influence.”
“I try,” she says. “What about the other guy? Is he … lumpy?”
“No…” I pause and think about Dean. “He’s more lean. From what I could see, his arms were covered in tattoos.”
“Is that a good thing or bad?”
“It looks good on him.”
“Did you show him your ink?” Monica inquires.
