Page 56 of The Seven Year Slip

Right, a lot of people wanted to see him these days, and I doubted he’d thought twice about me. Which was odd, seeing as how I still felt the phantom touch of his mouth on mine. “I’m...”

No one important—a publicist from a publisher he had rejected. That certainly wouldn’t get me in to see him. So I thought quick. What would my aunt do? She’d put on countless hats over the years, pretending to belong somewhere until she did. “I’m a journalist. For—uh—for...” My eyes glanced off a magazine pile behind the hostess stand. “Women’s Health.”

I tried not to wince. That was a bad lie.

She frowned, giving me another once-over. “ForJames?”

“In an article about getting women’s hearts racing.” I was just digging myself deeper and deeper.

“It’s a bit late, isn’t it?”

“Never too late—that’s a journalist’s, uh, motto. Is he here?”

She pursed her lips, and then pressed her earpiece and said something into it. She waited a moment, and then nodded. “Sorry, you’ll have to come b—Wait a minute!”

I had stepped past her like I had a job to do. Technically Idid, but not what she was thinking. “You can tell him I’m here,” I said over my shoulder, and dove into the dark and decadent restaurant I couldn’t afford. She squawked in reply, but didn’t make a move to stop me. She had too many other people to greet and seat, and she probably wasn’t paid enough, anyway.

I dipped around a server carrying a heavy tray to a large table, and slipped into the hallway that led to the kitchen and bathrooms.The metal doors to the kitchen swung open, a server rushing out with a tray full of beautifully plated dishes, and I stepped to the side as he passed, catching the metal door before it swung closed. This was it.

“To Mordor,” I whispered, and went inside.

An older woman with a teal pixie cut glanced up from plating the latest dish—a fish plate of some sort, and her face scrunched in annoyance. “Kitchen’s off-limits,” she said, and shouted something behind her—for a sauce or something. She must have been the sous.

Everything in the kitchen was chaos. People shouting “Behind!” as they brought sizzling pans up to the front to plate, or “Corner!” as they turned, heaving dishes into the sinks at the back. It was all very overwhelming, but I made myself stand my ground.

Another server passed me into the kitchen and put down a ticket at the station with the sous, who took it and shouted the order back to the kitchen.

Then she turned back to me and said, again, a little annoyed, “The kitchen’s off-limits.”

“I’m just looking for—”

She waved at the server beside me. “Get her out of here.”

Beside me, the server, a gangly guy in his early twenties, turned and opened his arms to try to corral me back into the hallway. “Sorry, ma’am,” he muttered, looking down at his shoes, not meeting my eyes at all.

I tried to bat him away. “Wait—wait—I want to talk to the head chef!”

“Everyone does,” the sous replied, not even deigning to look up as she wiped the edge of a hot, plated dish. “You’re not special.”

Well,thatwas rude. The server grabbed me by the arm, but I tore it away from him. “Look, I just need a few minutes—”

“Do youseehim here? Out!” she cried again, waving her hand, and the server pushed me out of the kitchen. I’d never been manhandled so apologetically before in my life. He mumbled, “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” even as he scooted me out the door.

I stumbled backward into the hallway again, and Mordor closed in a flash of swinging silver doors. “Wait, please, I just need to talk to—”

“Is something wrong?”

The server froze. I froze. My heart slammed against my chest.

He quickly turned to the voice behind me. “Chef,” he murmured, still looking at the ground. “Sorry. She came into the kitchen asking for you.”

“Did she now,” he rumbled. I felt my skin prickle.

“Chef Samuels asked me to take her out.”

“I hope not permanently.”

The server gave a start. “I—uh—”

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