The Interview

"I'm going to kill him! I'm going to stab him with a spoon and steal his kidneys and sell them on the black market!"

"That's illegal."

"But I bet it would get me enough to pay off my mortgage! And it would make me feel better!" I give the carrots on the cutting board in front of me a particularly vigorous chop with my favorite knife.

"Should I be reconsidering my application?"

I scream and turn to the door, a look of horror on my face. "You're real!"

The incredibly attractive man leaning casually in the doorway looks down over his folded arms and long legs, then back up at me. "It would appear so."

As soon as I meet his penetrating gaze, my thoughts freeze. He's even more gorgeous now that I can see his face. His strong jaw. His well-formed lips smiling lazily. His short, dark, slightly messy hair. His eyes looking at me with laughter in them.

That teasing, nearly mocking expression clears my head. "Who are you?"

He straightens up and approaches slowly, a mistrustful look on his face. At first, I think he's still just joking around. Then I realize that I'm standing rather menacingly, possibly glaring, and definitely still holding my large chef's knife.

I turn and set the knife on the cutting board, then face my visitor again. I soften my stance and attempt a smile. It might look like a grimace, but at least I'm trying. After the day I've had, really, I should get bonus points for even making an attempt. I even raise a hand to fix the ponytail holding back my red curls.

His expression shifts back to a small smile in return. When he reaches me, he holds out a long-fingered hand and says, "Name's Everett Brodbeck. I was supposed to be interviewing for the head chef position?"

"Shoot!" I stick my hand in his and give it a quick up-down before reaching into the back pocket of my faded blue jeans for my phone. When I try to turn on the screen, nothing happens. "Shoot shoot shoot!" I say again. Of course my phone is dead. Because really, how much more can this day suck?

Mr. Brodbeck looks at me with concern holding just a hint of amusement. I'm glad one of us is finding this funny. "Is everything okay?" he asks.

"Not even remotely." My brutal honesty only seems to amuse him even more.

"Can I help?"

I sigh and think for a moment. "Do you have a USB-C phone charger with you, by any chance?"

"It's in my car. Want me to grab it for you?"

"Yes! Thank you! That would be lovely."

I walk with him out of the kitchen and wait in the dining room while he heads to his car. He's back very quickly with his charger in hand. I take it and plug my phone in, setting it on one of the many tables scattered haphazardly around the large, disorganized space. I can't help but think, looking around, that my dining room is almost as messy as my life.

Once my phone is on the road to resurrection, I turn my attention back to Mr. Brodbeck. "So, Mr. Brodbeck. As you may have guessed, I'm the owner, Lacy Linden."

"Pleased to meet you. Please call me Everett."

"Thanks. Call me Lacy. I'll just jump right into the interview, if you're still interested?" At his nod, I ask the first question on my mental list. "What experience do you have?"

"I have a degree in Culinary Arts with a minor in Nutrition from Johnson & Wales University. I've spent the last two years working as the head chef at Natal's."

"Great. Would it bother you if you were upstaged by a coworker?"

"Uhhh, that depends on the situation, I think."

"Would it bother you if you were upstaged by a female coworker?"

"As I said, it depends on the situation."

"Fair enough." I'm trying to remember the next question I want to ask when I smell an unfortunately familiar smell. "Aw dang it!" I rush into the kitchen, following the acrid scent of burning food.

I hurry to pull the cookie sheet out of the oven, looking sadly at the blackened edges of my cookies. In my rush to get the pan out, I bring it too close to my body, holding it against my arm just long enough to feel the burning. Shouting in pain, I move to deposit the cookie sheet on the stove top. Before I get it down, I feel it lifted from my hands. I watch as Everett lifts the sheet with his own pot holders and sets it off to the side, avoiding the plastic container I nearly put it on top of.

I let out a sigh of relief as I close the oven and turn it off. I have another batch worth of cookie dough in the fridge, but I think I'll wait to bake it up.

Everett looks at me with a sympathetic wince. "How's your arm?"

"My arm?" I look down in surprise. "Oh. Right. It hurts, but it'll heal. No big deal."

"You're quite a poet. I bet you didn't even know it."

"No, oh no. That was the worst! How can you live with yourself after such a verse." I manage to keep a straight face.

"I like to rhyme. It's such a great time." His deadpan delivery almost cracks my serious facade. Ready to end our ridiculous competition, I say, "Stop rhyming, I mean it!"

He laughs so hard he can barely answer, but he manages to get the words out. "Anybody want a peanut?"

I join his laughter, truly happy for the first time in days. Our mirth is interrupted by a loud rendition of the theme from Howl's Moving Castle. Everett looks around in surprise. I turn and dart out of the kitchen, jumping and dodging tables and chairs in my rush to reach my phone.

I reach it in time and, as is my habit, place it on speaker before answering, "Hello, Lucy Linden speaking."

"Hello. This is Bob Feld, of Feld and Fideman. I'm just calling about your request to order some meat?

"Yes. I'll need the order by April 9th."

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but we require two week notice on all large orders."

"But I called about my request a week ago, and again yesterday. It's taken you this long to get back to me!"

"Rules are rules. I can see what we can do, if you already know exactly what you'll need."

I sigh in frustration. "My menu isn't set yet, so I'm not completely sure, but I can give you an estimate and get back to you with specifics by Thursday."

"Sorry. If I'm going to get the order ready in less than two weeks, I need the specifics right now."

"Can I call back in an hour?"

"We're pretty well booked up for the day."

I'm preparing to start banging my head against the wall when Everett whisks the phone out of my hand. He says, "One moment please," and mutes the call, then says, "Are you going to hire me?"

I look at him with a dazed expression until he snaps his fingers in front of me. "Lacy, do I get the job?"

"Oh. Yes, you're hired! Sorry, just trying to-"

"I know," he says. He turns and unmutes our call. "Hey Mr. Feld, this is Chef Brodbeck. I'm going to need-" he pauses and looks at me. "How many people are you expecting for your grand opening? And do you have any specific dishes you want on the menu?" he whispers.

"We're hoping for at least 300. I have a soup and some desserts, but none of it uses meat."

"Perfect." He smiles and winks before looking back at the phone. "I'm going to need pork ribs, round steak, and chicken breasts." He begins talking numbers with Mr. Feld while I collapse into the nearest chair.

Everett finishes his order and hands the phone back to me to settle the delivery time, date, address, and cost. When I hang up, I find Everett watching me with a wide, happy smile.

"Thanks for hiring me," he says.

"You think I would give up someone who manages to keep me from disaster over and over?"

"Fair point." He laughs. "I guess it's a little late to use my refusal to negotiate, but can I ask about the pay?"

"Would you be super upset if I asked you to accept a percent of the profits as your pay for the first year?"

He thinks for a moment. "What percent?"

"Thirty?"

"Done!" he exclaims with a smile.

"Great. I'll bring your contract in tomorrow. Can you meet me here at eight to start planning the menu?"

"Yep!"

"Thank you. And, well, welcome to The Lovebird Café." I give him a firm handshake and see him to the door, locking it behind him. One more item off my to-do list. And for the first time since Jeff hit the road, I'm looking forward to a new day almost as much as I'm dreading it.