Craving: A Kylo Ren Tale

Two

The first phone interview went surprisingly well. A very proper sounding British woman on the other end of the line listened while I rattled off my references, experience in different kitchens, and types of cuisines I specialize in.

I sort of had to bullshit my way through the personal assistant aspect of the job. It's definitely not a position I've held before. But I tried my best to spin the skills I do have into things that would fit this situation. I've helped kitchen managers with tasks before, and running errands for one person should be easier than a whole restaurant.

She said she'd give me a call later in the week after checking my references, and that she'd better explain the job then.

Gwendoline Phasma, who kept insisting I just call her Phasma, was pretty hush hush about who she was calling on behalf of. At first I thought she was the client, but she explained that it was someone important and that candidates wouldn't speak with them until the last step in the hiring process. Something about maintaining privacy in the public eye.

I had been doing the interview from our couch, on speakerphone so Rose could sit by for moral support. Both of our eyes got wide at this section of the call and her mouth silently worded "CELEBRITY??"

As I finished the call, I watched Rose from the corner of my eye, frantically typing away on her laptop.

"Oh my god, it's so obvious," she said when I finally put away my cell. "Phasma's email! She's not doing a very good job of hiding who she works for."

"What did Google tell you?"

"Well, all I typed into the search bar was kren+art and this is the only thing that fits the NYC setting," she said while turning the computer towards me.

My stomach dropped to the floor.

I looked at the screen and couldn't believe a person like that could be real. She showed me photo after photo of the most beautiful man I had ever seen.

Raven hair falling in waves to just above his shoulders. Sharp angled features. Cheeks speckled with birthmarks. Hazel brown eyes that seemed to pierce straight through camera lenses. He was ungodly sexy, and looked extremely dark and intimidating.

"Who is that?!"

"Kylo Ren? It seems like he's some big deal in the New York art scene. Wikipedia says that's not even his real name but that's how he's known now. He works with a couple galleries in the states, and he's had exhibitions all around the world. Holy shit, what if he's a millionaire!!" Rose was more excited about this than I seemed to be.

She was trying to show me photos of his paintings and mixed media pieces, but my brain couldn't get past his face. Or the warm feeling spreading from my stomach down towards my inner thighs. How could I possibly work for, and live with, a man of that caliber? Part of me wanted to say fuck it, the salary isn't worth it, I can't put myself into this awkward situation.

And yet here I am, two days later, back on the phone with Phasma.

"Your references speak highly of your cooking skills, which is an important aspect of the job. The client works odd hours and long days, forgets to eat on a regular basis. If hired, you'd prepare consistent meals, and help maintain a nutritional diet. And also prepare food for any social gatherings and events."

"And I would live nearby or on the premises?" My mind thinks back to the one reference I didn't list, Cassian. They didn't need to know about my chronic lateness at my last job, and living in the same building would make getting to work a lot easier.

"Correct. There is enough space that the personal assistant has their own living quarters. Now, about that... You do not seem to have any prior work history in this area, but you're the only good applicant with cooking experience. And frankly, we've been through multiple people in this position and can't get one to stick. I thought this time I'd speak with less PAs and focus on trying to find a good chef who could also run errands."

Oh god, not only is he hot as fuck, but apparently he either fires everyone or is so terrible that they quit. I should say no. This seems like too much trouble.

"I'm formally extending an offer for an in-person interview so that you may meet the client and myself. Does next week work for you?"

I should say no. I should say no. I should say no.

"Yes, I'm available. I can take the train into the city on whatever day works best for you." My mouth speaks the words even though my brain is screaming a different narrative.

"Perfect. I'll make the arrangements and email you the details. Until next week," she says before hanging up the line.

My hands are clammy and my pulse is racing, as if my body is sensing imminent danger. What am I getting myself into?

"NICE!" yells Rose from her spot on the couch. "You're going to nail the interview! And oh my god I'm so excited that you're finally moving to the city, I'm going to visit constantly and we'll have so much fun."

"Don't get ahead of yourself, I don't have the job yet."

Do I even want the job? I should be focusing on landing a better chef position in an actual restaurant. And yet I'm drawn to this idea more than I should be.

I receive the email from Phasma, giving me a date, time, and location. It's not too late to back out, but I don't. After some deep breathing, I respond and let her know I'll be there.

Four days later, I exit the train station in Manhattan and make my way to a subway that will take me to the right neighborhood. The address speaks volumes: this man has money.

Leaving the subway, my dress shoes click against the concrete stairs and bright morning sunlight streams down between tall buildings. I wander for a few blocks, I'm early and nervous, and let my feet find a small corner park nearby.

The brisk autumn air keeps me from sweating through my blouse, thank god. New York has such a hopeful feeling in the morning, I can see it radiating off the strangers that pass on the sidewalks. So many people chasing dreams. I smoke a few cigarettes, hoping I'll inhale courage and exhale nerves, and then check my hair and makeup in a compact.

It's now or never.

Once again I debate backing out, but decide I won't let a handsome cruel man intimidate me. I want a high paying job and I want to move to the city. I can do this. Eventually I find the correct building and approach with more courage than I thought I could muster.

A doorman greets me at the entrance.

"Mornin' miss. May I help ya?" he asks politely, with a thick Brooklyn accent and genuine smile.

"I have an appointment with Gwendoline Phasma," I reply politely, and less confidently add in "... and Kylo Ren."

His eyes are warm and kind, and I'm sure that someone somewhere is probably lucky to call him dad or grandpa.

"Ah, they need anotha one already? Good grief, that's three in two months. I'm sure you'll do great sweetheart. Head on inside, elevators are on the left. Top floor."

"Which unit number? Phasma didn't specify," I ask.

"Whole floor is his, miss. Good luck to ya."

Jesus fucking Christ.

Here we go.

The sound of my heels on the white marble tiles echoes throughout the lobby. Gorgeous landscapes hang on the walls inside ornate gold frames, tall ceilings hold multiple glittering chandeliers. To the right is a small sitting area with plush red velvet chairs and a fireplace, and I catch myself gawking at my surroundings.

What am I doing here? I definitely don't deserve to walk through this building, let alone live in it.

A shaky hand presses the up button next to the elevator doors.

I step in, and hit the highest floor number on the panel before I chicken out. The ride up is swift, and I don't realize I'm barely breathing until the doors finally open on the forty sixth floor.

In front of me is a short hallway that leads to a massive black door, and as I step out of the elevator I take a few calming breaths. It's just an interview, and if I don't get it then I don't get it. No big deal. Right?

I make my way to the door and before I reach up to knock, it opens.