“That’s not going to happen.”
“Ah, you’re a cocky chef. Humor me, will you? Which part isn’t going to happen? Me hating it? Or me walking away?”
“Both.”
“Now I definitely need to try your food.”
I toss my head back and laugh. “Great. And I get to read your scathing review, written just to spite me.”
“Clearly you don’t watch the show. The worst that can happen is that you don’t get any airtime, and I won’t give pity attention for food that doesn’t deserve it. You think your food is good? Let me be the judge.”
She reaches out her perfectly manicured hand, which I stare at far longer than I really should—not because I’m admiring her soft skin or blinging jewels, but because this is a serious opportunity, one I’ve been wanting ever since I accepted my chef’s hat after four years of grueling culinary training. Growing up, I wanted that so much, but I wanted this more than anything else.
My hand slides out to meet hers. As we touch, my eyes meet her ice-cold blue ones. “You’re in for a treat, Ms. Montgomery.”
She meets my challenge with a knowing smile. “Oh, I’m counting on it, Mr…” She tilts her head. “You forgot to mention your name.”
“Blake.” I grins at my James Bond impersonation. “Desmond Blake.”
Lobsters Have Feelings
Maggie
“Remind me why we’re here again.”
My sister, Monica, responds with a single look to express her annoyance before she takes off around the low-rise Seattle building. She would have never dared to give me that same look when we were younger—one that makes me boil inside as I watch her patent leather heels snap beneath her. I quicken my steps to keep up. For someone who has the short legs in the family, she makes up for it in speed.
“What do you mean remind you?” she asks.
“We need this final class to get our cooking certificates.”
My face scrunches in confusion. “Certificates for what? You told me we were signing up for one month of classes, and that became three. I don’t understand. It’s not like you’re going to go out and get a cooking job somewhere.”
“Well,” she sasses back. “Maybe it will come in handy for you, seeing as you need a job so you can stop mooching. Funny how you can afford that fancy ombre, but not even a little bit of rent.”
My face grows hot just thinking about the many times she’s slung the word “mooch” since I came to live with her. And I ignore the comment about my hair because this ombre is a necessity, not a luxury. After my fall on the runway, I didn’t want to take any risks of being recognized after a social media video of it went viral.
The whole experience was so embarrassing, I couldn’t even bring myself to tell my sister. I still harbor guilt over that three months later. When I moved here, Monica was going through some pretty heavy stuff herself. The last thing she needed to worry about was me and my drama. But just because I temporarily moved to her town and live in her tiny-ass apartment in Bellevue, Washington—a city just outside of Seattle—does not mean she gets to boss me around. As the older sister by four years, that has always been my job.
I swallow my bitterness, knowing that, despite our mutual frustration, I do owe her one. But if she calls me a mooch one more time…
“I already told you I’m meeting with that job recruiter you hooked me up with from BelleCurve on Monday. She thinks she has something for me. Maybe there’s some sort of radio job out there, or maybe I can jump on the fashion-design bandwagon like you.”
Monica laughs. “Really? You’ve never sewn a damn thing in your life.”
I huff out a breath as I continue pounding the pavement beside her. “I can learn. How hard could it be?”
She shrugs. “You can learn. You know the industry. You’ve got an eye for fashion. Open enrollment is coming up at the Art Institute. Maybe you should consider it.”
I scrunch my nose at the mention of school. “I don’t know. I guess that’s an option if I can’t figure things out on my own.”
With BelleCurve’s creative connections, I have high hopes. Moving from one state to another definitely put a kink in my sudden need for a career change. At least in LA, I had connections—so-called friends who knew someone that knew someone. But moving back is not an option, not yet anyway.
“I don’t understand why you even need BelleCurve to help you. When you moved here, you had your sights set on acting. You went and got that agent and everything.”
Ugh. If there is a subject worse than my exit from modeling, it’s this one. “Well, nothing has come of that yet.”
“Are you still auditioning? Don’t give up if that’s still what you want.”
I shrug, desperately wanting to move on from this conversation. I haven’t minded that Monica has been too caught up in her own situation to realize I’ve made a shit storm out of my own. When I moved here, I didn’t correct Monica when she thought I would focus on pursuing acting in Seattle. It’s what she thought I always wanted to do. Hell, even I had made myself believe that lie. There’s just never a right time to tell her the truth.
“I’ll find something soon. Trust me. I want off your couch just as much as you want me off.”
“I just want to see you happy, Mags.”
I give her the side-eye, once again realizing that my sister has grown up a hell of a lot since she moved here, away from my mother and me. I feel a twinge of jealousy at what she’s been able to accomplish free of our mother’s clutches—the same clutches I should have broken free from ages ago.
The tables have definitely turned, and I can’t seem to find my way out from underneath them.
We start up the stairs to get to the second floor, where the cooking school is, when Monica halts and swivels around to face me. “Promise me you’ll have fun today. This certificate means a lot to me.”
I bite back a laugh. “What’s the deal anyway? I thought you were just doing all this cooking stuff to impress Zach. You already got the guy.”
She releases her hard look, and her eyes soften. “It’s not all about Zach. I actually enjoy this cooking stuff now. It’s fun, and it’s nice to not blow my paychecks on takeout all the time.” She sighs. “But don’t worry. After today, you never have to come back. I only invited you because I thought it would be fun for us to do together.”
My shoulders sag with my exhale as guilt tranquilizes my mood. “I know. So did I. But that was before the instructor turned into a major asshole.”
Monica chuckles as we stop at the top of the stairs in front of the main entrance. “Desmond is not that bad.”
I huff, not budging from my stance. “You’re just saying that because he’s Zach’s best friend.”
“No.” Monica shakes her head. “I’m saying that because I’ve gotten to know Desmond, and while he may be a little rough around the edges, he’s actually a good guy. Zach wouldn’t have chosen him to run the cooking school if he wasn’t.”
I roll my eyes at the millionth mention of her boyfriend today. I’ve officially lost my sister to lovesick-puppy status. “Don’t you think it’s a little strange to be so fond of two guys who Dad has spent more time with than us? After Dad abandoned our family when we were kids.”