Page 5 of The Enemy: Extended Edition

“Ah, that explains why I was hearing so many female voices in the background.”

I shove my hand in my pocket to keep it warm. Wintertime in Charleston is nothing compared to winters in Chicago, but it’s still chilly enough right now to make me want to hike my shoulders up to my ears to hide my neck from the cold.

“Nah, it’s not like that. It’s a joint bachelor and bachelorette bar crawl with his fiancée and her bridesmaids.”

Noah makes a sound of disgust. “That sucks. She’s already taking the poor guy’s freedom away; did she have to take his bachelor party too?”

Yeah, I don’t like Noah either.

“Were you calling for something specific, Noah?” I don’t even bat an eye at the fact that he’s calling at this time of night, because I’ve heard that Noah works hard all day and night. He doesn’t need sleep and seems to think the rest of us don’t either. Which, in his defense, is mostly true. The restaurant industry is cutthroat. Gotta stay ahead to stay alive.

“Oh, yeah. I was just wanting to let you know I’ve officially secured the investors for Bask, and they all agreed you are the chef they want running the kitchen. We’ll center the whole dining experience around you and your culinary style. So all that’s left is for you to sign those papers, and we can get the ball rolling with marketing.”

I pinch my eyes shut because (1) I’m exhausted from barhopping all night, pretending I’m the kind of guy who does this all the time, (2) I’m not sure I even want this job, and (3) through the window, I can see some guy in a salmon-colored shirt two sizes too big for him slide up on the barstool beside June and strike up a conversation. She’s been ignoring me all night, but she’s awfully attentive to Mr. Izod right now.

I turn my back to the window so I can focus. I know Noah is offering me the job of a lifetime (I know it because he’s reminded me of it at least fifty times since offering it to me) and that I’d be a fool to pass it up. He’s started three other restaurants in various parts of the country similar to the one he’s trying to get me to sign onto in Chicago. Those other three restaurants have all won Restaurant of the Year awards, and I’m sure this one will do the same. Noah has turned the restaurant business on its head by reinventing the way people view their eating experiences. Because that’s exactly what his restaurants are—an experience.

And apparently, my silence is tipping Noah off to my hesitation. “Ryan, don’t pass this up. Bask will launch your career into a whole other realm.”

“I thought that’s what the Michelin stars were supposed to do.”

He scoffs. “Those are only the tip of the iceberg.”

I hate when people say phrases like that. What does it even mean? If you want me to sign the next three years of my life away to work grueling hours in a high-stakes restaurant game, give me a PowerPoint presentation of the exact ways it will benefit me. Don’t hit me with frilly meaningless answers like “tip of the iceberg” because I’m not a freaking glaciologist. And yeah, I’m grumpy. It has nothing to do with me looking over my shoulder and seeing Izod Man touching June’s shoulder. Just a coincidence.

“I need a little more time to think about it,” I say to Noah.

He lets out a sigh, and I can picture him running his hand through his thinning hair. Because that’s what this business we are in does to a man who’s only in it for the love of money—takes your hair and leaves you with a unique eau de cologne called Le Douchebag Suprême. And although the life of a chef and a restaurateur are different, they have a few things in common: long days that often bleed into the next, high-stress work hours, and the constant need to please the unpleasable. It’s all worth it if you love what you do.

I’m just not sure that I do anymore . . .

“Fine. Tell you what, I’ll give you until the end of the week to decide. But I can’t keep the investors happy for long. I’ve heard them mention Martin’s name more than once. They’re planning to offer him the position if you pass it up.”

“End of the month,” I counter.

“What?”

“I want until the end of the month to decide.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me? We both know you’re going to take it, so what do you need to think about? Is it salary? Because we’re already offering you an obscene amount of money, but I can go back to the investors—”

“It’s not the money. I just need some time.” My voice sounds clipped and final. I’m annoyed that he’s trying to talk like we’re buddies and I’d confide in him. We’ve brushed elbows over dinner a few times with mutual acquaintances, but we’re not friends, and I’m not about to pretend we are. In fact, the only friend I have is in that bar right now doing flaming rum shots with his fiancée.

My eyes shift from Logan and Stacy over to the bar where June is sitting with another cocktail in her hand. She shouldn’t be drinking any more. The woman was already tipsy two bars ago. I wonder if it’s my presence that’s making her knock ’em back? Is it because I still get under her skin? That thought makes me smile.

Because she still gets under mine.

“Tell your investors they’ll have my answer by the end of the month. And don’t go behind my back and make a deal with Martin, because we both know he’s not as good as me and his name won’t carry the restaurant nearly as far as mine will.”

“Ryan—”

I hang up before he gets another word in. And yeah, it might seem like I’m a bit of a cocky jerk, but that’s because I am. It comes with the job description. You don’t climb as high in life as I have by kissing everyone’s feet. I’ve learned that if I want to be successful in my industry, I have to make people respect me.

Which is why I’m not sure that I want that job. I’m just the slightest bit tired of being an a-hole.

The door to the bar opens, and Logan sticks his head out. “Ryan! I didn’t bring your sorry butt all the way to Charleston just so you could talk on the phone all night. Get in here!” His words are all slurring together, and I know that tomorrow he’s going to be hating life.

I put my phone in my pocket and go back inside the bar. The minute I step foot inside, nearly every woman’s head turns to look at me. Well, all but one.

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