Holly versus Mr. Ivy by Amanda P. Jones
Chapter 5
Holly
than I ever had before. I missed Mom. I missed my bed. I missed not bribing Trevor and Noah to cover for me. The last two weeks exhausted me, and I had nothing to show for it.
Every person we’d interviewed for the kitchen lacked warmth, passion, or experience. Why was it so hard to find someone who fit the bill? We were waiting on me—Rhett said I was too picky, but I knew in my gut those candidates wouldn’t fit—and it sucked.
Rhett was antsy to host the staff party and introduce the new review system. While I may have balked at the extra workload his program required, it was a genius plan. I went home after that shift and found a podcast on how to be a better manager. I started listening to it on the way to and from work. I hadn’t implemented any of the strategies yet because I wasn’t sure how to let go of the control I had. If I eased up at all, would everything crumble?
I walked into the restaurant three hours earlier than normal, flipping lights on as I went, with a cup of coffee in my left hand. Rhett usually made it in before I did. I was shocked I beat him here.
We were interviewing two more people today. On paper, the first candidate had everything I was looking for. I hoped her personality matched her skill set. The second person hadn’t gone to culinary school but had worked at restaurants the past seven years. I prayed one of them worked out so I could get Darby out of my kitchen for good.
I went to the front entrance, turning on the lights in the lobby. Strolling around the dining room, I appreciated the atmosphere of The Boardwalk—the dark wood floors, the massive stone fireplace along the northern side of the dining room, and the wall of windows facing east toward the ocean. A storm brewed, making the waves crash angrily against the rocks just below the restaurant. The clouds hung low, heavy with rain.
The weather depicted my mood ever since Mom was diagnosed. She’d battled for just over a year now. The doctors warned us her fight could last quite a while. I hadn’t had time to see friends in months. I used to meet up with my high school besties every Saturday morning for brunch and shopping. I’d canceled so many times, they’d stopped asking me to join them. I shook my head in disbelief that time marched on quickly and yet sluggishly. For one day, all I wanted was to be free of sickness and work. To live my old life where my biggest worries had been what I’d wear that day or if I’d pass a test in culinary school.
“It’s quite a lovely view, even when it’s stormy like that, isn’t it?” Rhett asked from behind me.
I jumped, letting out a squeak. My coffee arched out of my cup, splattering all over the front of my shirt. “Ow,” I hissed as the scorching liquid burned my skin. I shook my hand out, trying to get it off me. Great, just what I needed—hands I couldn’t cook with. When had he even arrived? I turned, glaring at him. “A little notice next time.”
“Sorry.” He winced. “I thought you heard me. I wasn’t being particularly quiet, and with the room empty, everything echoes. I’ll grab some napkins.”
He ran behind the bar, getting a stack of white square napkins, before returning to my side. He passed a wad over to me and bent to clean up what had splashed onto the floor.
I set my mug on the closest table, then swiped and patted myself. My efforts were futile; my shirt was totally ruined, and my hands hurt. I hadn’t been planning on wearing my chef’s jacket during the interview, but at least I had that as an option since I didn’t have a change of clothes with me. Throwing the napkins on the table next to my unfinished coffee, I muttered under my breath, “Life just keeps getting better and better.” I went behind the bar and ran the backs of my hands under cool water.
Rhett followed me with furrowed brows. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine.”
Rhett picked up my discarded napkins and threw them away. “I really am sorry about your hands and shirt.” He pointed to the stain covering the bottom half. “I have a spare button-down in my office. Do you want it?”
I eyed him, taking my time to peruse his height and his toned muscular body before bending my head and looking at my feet, my legs, my stomach, then back to Rhett’s apologetic face. “I don’t think it will fit.”
Rhett cleared his throat, his neck blossoming pink. “Right.”
“Ready for interviews?” I asked with slight annoyance in my tone. I wasn’t necessarily mad at Rhett. It was an accident. My emotions were getting the better of me. Add to that my now-damp shirt, this gorgeous man who was too happy all the time, my MIA social life, and Mom, and I was a ball of tension. Maybe if I batted my worries around like a cat with a ball of yarn, they might unravel a little, allowing me to feel something other than exhausted.
“Yeah,” Rhett huffed. “Although I’m starting to think we’re being pranked or something. We’ll have black belts in interviewing when this is all said and done.”
“As long as you don’t take over the questions this time,” I warned.
He looked offended. “I did not do that.”
He totally had, but it wasn’t worth rehashing. “Just remember, I’m the one asking the questions, and if I want your help, I’ll tell you, okay?”
He held his hands up. “Understood.”
I sighed. “I can’t wait to let Darby go.”
He turned to me with a shocked expression. “But she’s so sweet and kind. Why would you ever want her to leave?”
I side-eyed him. “She’s single, if you’re looking.”
He snorted. “I’ll have to pass, but I appreciate you looking out for me.”
“She’ll be so devastated to find out you’re already taken.” Did Rhett go out? He was always friendly and smiley with everyone. Did he have a girlfriend? Did it bother her that he flirted with almost every woman he spoke to? Not that I cared. I was merely curious.
Rhett’s brows rose as his face broke into a smug grin. “I never said it was because I had a girlfriend. Are you fishing for information on my relationship status?”
I scoffed. “You wish. I’m going to get ready. I’ll see you in my office.” I walked away, but Rhett followed close behind.
“Why are you running away from me?”
In my office, I sat in my velvet chair, turning my laptop on. “I’m not running away. I simply don’t wish to discuss this with you.”
He pulled out the pink chair in front of my desk and sat. “It’s okay to talk to me about things other than our jobs, you know. Besides, you’re the one who brought this subject up.”
“But why do we need to when we have things to do?”
He ran his hands up and down the armrests. “Because it makes life more fun? You never know when a new friendship is waiting to happen.”
Yeah, well, in my experience, no one cared about hearing how hard it was to take care of a sick parent and worrying about money all the time. Since that’s all I had going for me at the moment, there wasn’t much else to say. I met his vivid brown eyes. They were the same color as cremini mushroom tops. “Is that what you’re hoping for here?” I asked, pointing between us. “Friendship?”
He smiled sadly at me. “I’m not hoping for anything, Chef Dewhurst. If we became friends, that would be great as it would make our jobs a little more fun. If you want to maintain a strict professional boundary, I’ll respect that.”
What did I want? I hadn’t made any new friends in quite some time. Did I even know how to be a friend, let alone blur boundaries between home and work?
My phone buzzed, reminding me I had an appointment on my calendar. I ignored his question since I remained unsure of what I wanted. “I’m going out front to let our candidate in.”
He stood, motioning for me to exit my office first. Snatching a clean jacket from the back of my door, I slid past him, staying silent on the short walk to the front entrance. I unlocked the interior and exterior doors, then stood by the hostess desk, waiting for our guest to arrive.
Rhett stood next to me, his hands in his front pockets. “Why won’t you answer my question?”