“It’s simple,” Delaney says in a cool, confident tone.
“How is it simple?”
“Because you’re not the same person. You’re not that heartbroken twenty-one-year-old about to start a job she did her best to pretend she was going to love because she thought it would please her parents.”
“True,” I say, some of her confidence rubbing off on me.
I’ve changed since then. When I went to Spain after college graduation, I was mostly sure that I’d be a research analyst on Wall Street. But a small part of me had dreaded that job before it had even started, and that was why I left after only six months. Funny thing—I wasn’t the only one to take off from Smith & Holloway. That was the year of exits from the bank, and it became a running joke. First the receptionist, then the human resources manager, then me. “And I love my job now,” I say to Delaney, giving myself a pep talk, “and that’s why I have to meet with him. Because who cares about him, anyway? The event is more important than his stupid decision to walk away from me.”
“Exactly. And you’re not the type of woman any sane man should walk away from. So you need to make him eat his heart out.”
“I like how you think,” I say, a dose of confidence surging through me.
“Leave your hair down, show off that sexy new tattoo, and wear something that makes you look stunning. You look amazing in blue.”
I laugh. “He used to say that, too.”
“Boom. Done. Get out that royal blue off-the-shoulder top. The sapphire-colored one. Wear it with jeans. Women usually think they need to show their bare legs to be sexy, but a great pair of skinny jeans and heels is hotter than a skirt. Then walk in with your chin held high, like you don’t care that he broke your heart.”
A grin spreads across my face. “Perfect. That’s the opposite of how I dressed when I knew him.” I was all about sundresses and cute little skirts when he met me. Young and innocent.
It’s time to dress like the woman I am, not the girl I was.
I say good-bye and open my closet. I want to be so goddamn memorable that his jaw drops from the shock, that he falls to his knees and begs forgiveness for standing me up, that he tells me he hasn’t gone a day without thinking of me.
Oh yes, I wish for Gabriel to regret with every fiber of his being that he left me alone on what should have been the most romantic reunion of two summer lovers ever.
I slip into my favorite jeans then adjust the shoulder on the top to show off the lily tattoo on my shoulder blade. As I slide my feet into a pair of black flats, I grab my favorite black heels and drop them into my bag. No need to kill myself in four-inch shoes until I arrive at my final meeting.
On the way to my first appointment, I use my phone to take an online crash course in Gabriel Mathias. Since I don’t follow the restaurant scene, I had no idea he’d set up shop here. Turns out he’s now something of a rising rock-star chef, who recently won a season of a popular reality TV cooking show, then a few months ago he rode that spot of fame to open his first Manhattan establishment. It’s the flagship for a bigger business he now runs in cookware, cookbooks, and more.
Well, la-de-dah. The once-struggling cook who excelled at paella has gone from rags to riches.
I grit my teeth when I see the first photo of him. He’s still gorgeous. Actually, I should revise that. He’s even more gorgeous.
The fucker.
But I’m not going to let his looks soften me. I’m not going to be swayed by his pretty face. I’m strong, and I’m tough, and I’m smart, too. Which means I need to be prepared.
I find a clip from his show on YouTube as I walk along Eighth Avenue. Popping in my headphones, I hit play and brace myself.
Do not let that sexy accent woo you. Do not stare at those kissable lips.
I do my best to listen objectively, as if he’s a test subject in a lab. A host or producer off-camera asks him a question. “You lost tonight’s appetizer battle. What do you think that does for your chances to win it all?”
“It makes it tougher for me to win,” he says in that warm, sexy voice I adored. “But I’m ready for the challenge. I’ll need to work harder on the main course match.”
I scoff as I march down the sidewalk. What will these reality geniuses come up with next? Salad showdown? Dessert skirmish?
“How did you feel losing to Angelique when you’ve been making a name for yourself as a master of appetizers?”
Gabriel takes a breath, his chest rising and falling. Then the corner of his lips curves up. “I was frustrated with myself but not so angry that I’d have, say, thrown a phone.”
A laugh comes from off-camera, and I can only imagine the producers huddled together to try to incite him to throw a phone over a fallen flan, or a run-of-the-mill risotto.
The screen flashes, and the video clip cuts to what looks to be the end of the episode with the host holding Gabriel’s hand high in the air. I guess he won the match in the end, and his phone was safe from damage.
As I stop at the crosswalk, I return to my original search. My eyes widen when I dig deeper and find stories of his official win on the cooking show, and all the names the media bestowed on him.
The sexiest chef.
The hottest cook.
The heartbreaker in the kitchen.
Nearly every article comes with a photo of him. I click on the first few. Then another set. Then one more group of pics. My chest burns with annoyance. My muscles tighten with anger.