HARRY STYLES
Fleetwood Mac plays softly on the speakers in my office as I look over the menu for tonight for the sixth time, making one last small change that I'll need to tell all the staff about. I raise my coffee mug to my mouth just as a knock lands on my door, and I know that knock. It's the same knock that always makes me roll my eyes.
"Yeah," I vaguely respond.
Jeff walks in and creaks the door shut behind him. "Your last interview is here."
My eyes flicker up to my Mac computer screen on the desk. He's ten minutes early. "And?"
"And he looks incredibly promising," Jeff sighs. "This is your 13th interview, H. You're just being difficult at this point."
I tear my gaze from the menu to give him all of my attention, blinking at him while he does the same to me. "Why don't you just go down to the McDonald's a few blocks down and pull one of those kids to come work here? How about that?"
"Now, you're just being ridiculous," he scoffs.
True.
"This job can't just go to anyone, Jeff," I mutter bitterly still. "My goal is to be home to make and eat breakfast with Jane at least three times a week and to be home to tuck her in as many nights as I can. Do you know what that means?"
To amuse me, I'm sure, he shakes his head.
"It means that the person who takes the sous chef position needs to be as good as me, and you know what the problem is there?"
Readily, he responds, "Nobody else is as good as you."
I smile tightly-knowingly-and click my pen shut to drop it in the holder with the other markers and highlighters. "Send him in."
With another heavy sigh, Jeff turns to leave while I sit here and shut the music off using my phone. I stare at the small tinted window in my door until I see a shadow of a person, followed by the sound of a new knock. After making a sound of acknowledgment, I stand from my desk and watch the man come in. Hayden is his name, and it's not lost on me how annoying close it is to my name. If I had a twin, I'm sure my mum would have named him Hayden or something close to it.
"Chef," he nods, and that's a start. The last guy came in here and called me sir. That was as far as we got through the interview before I asked him to leave.
"Hayden, right?" I extend my hand, and I have a feeling he knows that it's a diss for me to not call him by his title as well. Obviously, he's a chef too.
"That's right," he gives me a firm shake, but not so firm that it seems like he's trying to challenge me in any way. I've also had that happen during these thirteen interviews. "Thank you for having me."
I nod and look him over in a single blink. He's about my height if not just a smidge shorter, but that's where the similarity ends apart from our tattooed arms. He has a lot more than I do, and I know it's painfully stereotypical, but seeing a chef with tattooed sleeves is always promising. In my mind, it equates to the capability to endure pain. Not all men can do that, but my sous chef needs that quality both mentally and physically just like I do.
"Sit down," I gesture to one of the two chairs inside my shoebox of an office.
Hayden pulls his chair out and takes a seat, waiting for the questions to begin.
"I looked over your resume and portfolio, and it's impressive, but no more or less impressive than the twelve chefs I've interviewed before you," I assure him. "Tell me something about yourself that isn't on this sheet of paper."
