Page 24 of The Arrogant One
Next to my monitor, my phone sat on a holder, showing the most recent article that had been written about Horned, describing it as delectably ingenious. Whoever the writer was, they were creative. I swiped my thumb across the screen to toggle to the other three articles I’d found on the restaurant, hoping they would inspire something for me to write. Each one mentioned the cuisine was divine, the space was modern and inviting, the cocktail list was original.
What could I write?
That I had seen the entrance and a little of the vibe of the bar—most of which I hadn’t paid attention to since I was toofocused on Lockhart—and I finished half of my old-fashioned before I was swept into his car.
But this article was due yesterday, and I was avoiding my boss atSeen—LA’s most-read publication—like the plague, and he’d already emailed me twice.
How could I write this though?
I hadn’t eaten there. I’d done nothing more than smell the food, and even that hadn’t stood out because my nose was too mesmerized by Lockhart’s cologne. Giving my opinion on anything that related to the restaurant—something I did for a living—wouldn’t be fair. Or honest.
And I prided myself on writing the most genuine, unbiased food reviews.
I’d email my boss back once I thought of a way to tell him the truth. An excuse that could only be encouraged by an extremely strong martini, which meant I needed to text Bryn and convince her to go out with me tonight.
And just as I was about to, I caught a glimpse of the far side of my office, where I filmed some of my content, and stared at the neon sign that hung on the wall, showing a name that was famous in this city.
Dear Foodie.
The name of the most popular food critic from Santa Barbara to San Diego. She had her own weekly column inSeenand an online following of over five million, where she showcased her brand deals, food-related traveling, cooking, and love of eating. She was a woman with an eclectic palate and a desire to consume all cuisine.
With a face no one had ever seen, she was as mysterious as she was in demand.
And not a single person—other than my boss, Bryn, my parents, and my sister—knew she was me.
Beneath the white neon sign was a very tall, very unsteadypile of boxes, and I scanned the exterior of them, trying to locate the one that housed the cookware I would need for today’s shoot. A brand had sent me their pots and pans with a six-figure check, and contractually, I was obligated to post their cookware at least four times over the next month.
On today’s agenda was an instructional cooking video, using two of their frying pans that I needed to have shot, edited, and uploaded for tomorrow’s morning post.
I walked over to the stack of boxes, the cookware most definitely on the bottom, given the size of the cardboard, and I moved the top one, going box by box until I reached the last one. They’d sent their full line, so there was no way this could be the only box. I checked the other four stacks in my office, and as I was about to go into my living room, where there were another five mountains of boxes, my phone rang.
Shit.
He was going to murder me for not responding to his emails.
Can I send him to voice mail?
How horrible would that be?
It would be horrible, considering he was already furious with me, and if I didn’t answer, that would only make things even worse.
Bracing for impact, I held the phone up to my ear. “Hi?—”
“Oh. You’re alive. I was wondering if my next call was going to be to the local hospitals to find out if you’d been admitted.”
I winced. “I know. I wanted to reply to your email?—”
“But you didn’t.” He exhaled loudly. “Sadie, when I email you, I expect a response. When I email you twice, you either need to be admitted somewhere where they’ve confiscated your phone or you’re too ill to look at it, you’re on a silent retreat in a town I’ve never heard of, or you’re in the morgue.”
I deserved that and said, “Understood.” I swallowed. “And I’m sorry. It was so wrong of me. It’s not because I couldn’t make my deadline—you know how I am about turning things in on time, I’m always the queen of rocking every deadline.”
“Which is where the confusion comes in. This isn’t like you. So, what’s going on?”
I took a deep breath, thinking of that evening. “I went to Horned … but I didn’t end up eating. I left after having a cocktail. And I didn’t see enough of the restaurant or engage with the staff or even sample the food, therefore, I don’t feel qualified to write the article.”
“And you didn’t know how to tell me.”
My head dropped. “Yes, and I feel terrible about that. I’m sorry.”
