Page 49 of Best Served Hot

My shoulders relaxed. “Daily Catch.” I leaned in a bit, as if confiding in him. Which didn’t make any sense, since we were the only two people in the office, but somehow it felt like the right move. “And the lobster and waffles is truly excellent, but make sure you get the clam chowder. It’s really special.”

He looked down and reached for something on his desk, and for a moment I thought he was dismissing me, until I saw what he’d grabbed was a pen. I could read the words he scribbled upside down on his monogrammed stationery: Daily Catch, clam chowder. “Thanks. I’ll have to get your recommendations for business lunches more often.”

This time when he looked down, it was a dismissal. Even though he couldn’t see me, I bobbed my head almost like a curtsy. A warm glow spread through me as I walked back into the main area and to my desk, and it took me a moment to realize what it was.

Pride.

But it flared into something else entirely when I noticed Bennett’s name in my email inbox. This time, it didn’t take me a moment to figure out what it was.

Bennett’s words dampened it. As I read, my eyebrows knitted themselves together, the way my brothers used to say would give me wrinkles.

Julie,

I’ve received some news from my editor and our social media team this morning: they say that our two joint reviews did well enough, but that demand for them has quieted down and that it’s time for me to return to my standard fare.

I hate to admit it, but I’ve quite enjoyed our work together and have learned a lot. I hope you’ll say something similarly mushy in response, or else I’ll feel like a fool.

Bennett

“No,” I said out loud. To the email, to the universe, I didn’t know.

“What?” Mr. Decker yelled from his office.

“Sorry, talking to myself!” I yelled back, then whispered, “Fuck.”

I didn’t want our professional time together to end, especially considering that was the only time he seemed to want from me. I didn’t want to stop seeing Bennett.

And it sounded like he felt that way, too.

Emboldened by his confession of mush, I wrote back without thinking about it too hard.

Bennett,

I’ve enjoyed to the extreme making you feel like a fool, so I don’t want to say anything in response. (Though, cough, I have learned a lot and MAY have enjoyed parts of it, too, cough.)

Surely the Scroll wouldn’t say no to a grand finale at Alpaca House. I’ve already made the reservation. What do you say?

Julie

I knew he’d been wanting to try Alpaca House for ages. I had, too. Located out in Williamsburg, it was known for its Nikkei cuisine, the fusion of Peruvian and Japanese cuisines—Peruvian ingredients, Japanese techniques—that resulted when Japanese immigrants made their home in Peru. Two Nikkei restaurants in Lima, Central and Maido, were regularly listed among the world’s best. I hoped I’d get to go south someday and try them.

His response dinged. I say yes. They will, too. We have to give our fans notice, after all. Ugh. Saying we have “fans” sounds so bizarre. When is the reservation?

One little white lie: I hadn’t actually made the reservation yet. I clicked over to the restaurant site and, as expected, there were no open reservations for the next week. So I gave them a call and spoke (pleaded) with a very kind (patient) host, who found (descended from the heavens and blessed me with) a reservation that had just been canceled tomorrow night after I pulled out Mr. Decker’s name. It was early, meaning I’d have to duck out before the end of the workday, but Mr. Decker usually didn’t stay past four. Tomorrow at six. Is that okay?

See you then.

• • •

The next night at 6:05, I hurried beneath the expressway toward Alpaca House, cars zooming all around me. The light changed halfway through, and the cars honked, grilles and lights forming furious faces in the gloom of the underpass.

Bennett’s face, fortunately, was not that furious when it caught sight of me outside the restaurant. “I’m sorry,” I said hastily, a little out of breath. “The train was delayed, and—”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re here.” He was already opening the door, pausing a moment to hold it for me. “Let’s eat.”

The inside was bright and cheerful, larger than it looked, with a long bar running down the center and jangling music playing all around us, probably to cover up the sound of the highway. The host ushered us to a table on one side, beside a bright mural of a red-and-yellow alpaca. He was licking his lips, eyes wide and excited. I glanced at him sidelong as we sat. “Do you think he’s gearing up to eat us or eat our food?”

“Either way, I think we’d better gear up for a fight,” said Bennett. “Butter knives won’t be enough. I hope their steak knives are sharp.”