I follow her as she marches into my bedroom and yanks open my closet.
“Why do I get the feeling you want me to fuck Cole?” I ask.
Asha flicks through my outfits shaking her head and grimacing at each one.
“I just want you to get close enough to introduce me.”
“Even though yesterday it sounded like you wanted to get him in a chokehold?”
“That’s how all my relationships usually start. Here,” she says, pulling a tight sweater dress from the rack and jabbing it toward me. “Let me see you in this.”
“This?” I say, taking the dress from her and staring at it. “I’ve never even worn this before. My sister bought it for me before I left. I don’t even think it’ll fit. It looks like barely enough material to make a pillow cover with.”
“Should be perfect, then,” Asha says, as she starts foraging in the base of the closet for boots. “The heels on these are a little high, but you won’t be driving anyway. You’re taking a cab, right?”
I narrow my eyes. “Why would I take a cab when I have a perfectly functional vehicle of my own?”
Asha laughs, handing me the boots. “If this night goes the way I know it will, you’re gonna be so full of lust and alcohol that you’ll be in no shape to drive yourself home afterward. Trust me, you want the cab. I’ll call one for you now. Don’t argue.”
Knowing that I’m not going to win this battle, I retreat to the bathroom to get changed, more concerned about the idea that this is actually a date than I am about the dress. Did I miss something obvious? Am I so frazzled from work that I didn’t pick up on the signs? Surely if this was a date he’d have said so—Cole Chambers is not exactly the kind of guy who hides his intentions. He might be hard to read, but dating an employee you’ve only just met is too stupid a notion for anyone to entertain. Or maybe that’s the way things go in L.A.?
If this is a date, though, I’m not sure I should be going. Cole’s my boss, and I’ve spoken to him a grand total of two times. Plus, I’ve worked my ass off to put my failures behind me—the restaurant flop, the small town claustrophobia and overbearingly concerned parents, the ex-boyfriend who was more like an emotional leech than a romantic partner—so dating is not on the menu of things I’m looking for, and it’s completely against my current philosophy of starting fresh and taking things one step at a time.
But then again, there is a part of me that I have to suppress whenever I think of those intense eyes, the hard muscles of his tattooed shoulder, the way his forearms bulge when he crosses them over his perfect chest…
“You done?” Asha asks from the other side of the bathroom door.
“Yeah,” I call out.
She comes inside where I’m standing in front of the mirror again, turning this way and that to see how the dress looks. I glance at her and see that she’s smiling, a fairy-godmother smugness on her face.
“Ooh, yes! How does it feel?”
I shrug and pull the dress up a little over my cleavage.
“It feels ok, actually. I kinda like it.”
“Like it?” Asha says, as she steps forward to pull the dress down and re-expose the cleavage. “Girl, you should love yourself in this dress. That man is going to need an icepack when he sees you.”
I laugh a little and look back at myself in the mirror.
“Aren’t I a little overdressed, though? If he turns up in sweatpants and a T-shirt I’m going to die of embarrassment.”
Asha looks at me sternly, like a protective mother.
“If he turns up in sweatpants he’s the one who’s going to die, trust me.”
I laugh gently.
“He won’t though,” Asha continues, smiling with a lusty anticipation. “I’m sure he knows exactly what he’s doing.”
“Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of.”
The cab pulls up at the address Cole gave me and I see him standing outside immediately. It’s hard not to notice him, the tailored lines of his suit lending him a striking silhouette in the fading evening light, all right angles and good posture. I step out of the cab and walk toward him, suddenly feeling like the dress is way tighter under the focus of his gaze.
When I draw close he leans over and air kisses me. I almost swoon from his nearness and his subtle, masculine scent. It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to leap into his arms and beg him to show me the back seat of his car. Maybe I haven’t been out with a guy in longer than I realized.
“You look amazing,” he says, stepping back a little to cast his eyes down and up my body with admiring frankness.
“Thank my roommate,” I say, before looking around at the long wall of solid brick behind us. “Where’s the restaurant?”
Cole smiles and steps aside, holding out his palm toward a discreet stairway that leads down to a mezzanine door.
“Down the rabbit hole,” he says.
I step forward, wondering if he’s staring at my ass as I descend the staircase, and push open the door. The second I do I’m greeted with the soft groove of hipster music, the chatter of a few dozen diners, easy, buzzing, second-drink laughter. Old fashioned Edison lightbulbs hanging from antique fixtures fight against the darkness of the large space, casting their soft glow against the exposed piping and metallic tables. Sweet aromas fill the air, and I immediately start picking out the flavors: sweet and sour sauces, teriyaki, barbecue sauce that uses whiskey as a base, fresh cilantro and red onion and guacamole.
I take a moment to soak it all in. The fashionable diners, the clean, angular, rustic-industrial aesthetic of the fittings. Something touches the small of my back and I turn to see that it’s Cole’s hand. He smiles and urges me toward an unoccupied booth, waving and calling out a few greetings to the chefs operating the open-plan hotplates.
After settling into the booth I shuffle a little, picking at my dress to make sure it’s still in the right place.
“Are you comfortable?” Cole says, leaning forward.
“Sure,” I shrug. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I was just wondering if you were a little too…‘down-to-earth’ for a place like this?”
His concern is obvious, so I don’t take it as an insult. Instead I look around as if checking something, then smile back at him.
“Seems to me the people here are eating and drinking just like they do in Idaho.”
Cole chuckles lightly then flicks a finger for a waiter to come over.
“You’ll like this place,” he says. “A buddy of mine set it up a couple of years ago. It’s already a staple of L.A. It’s a concept menu.”
I raise a brow. “Oh yeah? What’s the concept?”
“All the foods are hand foods. Continental fusion. Wraps, samosas. Sushi, antipasti. All of it’s good.”
I nod politely, quieting the voice inside of me that wants to express how much I hate the notion of a ‘concept’ bar. Trends like this come and go, but great food that’s made well—that’s something that lasts. I’m interested to see if this place is more the former or the latter.
When the menu comes I tell Cole to recommend a mix for us to share, and order a blueberry cider cocktail. Then I spend a while asking him about how the Vegas place is going, and what his plans are for the next time Chloe shows up for a lesson.
By the time the drinks come I realize that Cole isn’t entirely the difficult, uncompromising, and reserved person that I—and most people—make him out to be. Sure, he’s passionate about cuisine, but he’s also funny and thoughtful and charming as hell. By the time the food arrives, he’s actually telling me he agrees with what I said about the lemon thyme and that he’s considering altering the recipe. And when the second round shows up, I’m telling him the awful story of my failed restaurant back in Idaho. I can’t believe how at ease I feel, given how poorly our first meeting went and how turned on I am in his presence.
He listens intently, and I realize as I’m telling him how little I’ve actually spoken about my restaurant to anybody who wasn’t there. All the while he asks attentive questions about my business plan (I didn’t exactly have one) and day-to-day operations, nodding as he absorbs the information but never venturing an opinion, until I finish and find I’ve just recounted my spectacular failure to one of the most successful chefs in the country.