Chef's Kiss: A Billionaire and His Bartender

"Watch where you're going," the man in a cheap suit calls out from his shoulder, glaring at a young woman who was currently occupying the middle of the sidewalk, to the great annoyance of New York dwellers. Selene didn't bother with her response and only moved closer to the side, still adoring the scene around her. For many, Queens was not the most impressive sight, especially compared to other boroughs, but it's the thought of it that matters. Hundreds of people rushed through a broad sidewalk, which almost felt familiar, but not quite. London might be busy, but New York will top any city without a second glance. The hordes of people chasing their dreams or trains, probably both at the same time (trains were a true nightmare though) — she could get used to it. This wilderness and the pulse of the city around her…she could fit in, couldn't she? With a quiet sigh, Selene checked her phone and tried to settle the nerves in the pit of her stomach: 10 missed calls, 20 messages, and even more notifications from different apps. And another call came in that she had to pick up: "Please, tell me you're alive," Selene's brother Harry sounded as dry as ever. "Still breathing, big brother," she rolled her eyes affectionately, trying not to make room for other people around her. "Good," he coughed, feeling slightly awkward. "You will let me know if you need money or..." "That goes against the purpose of this trip," but Selene's brother was rarely that considerate. "But you'll be the first to know, thank you. And say hello to our parents." "Take care, sis." "Call me if you can't manage yourself. Our customers will miss a positive attitude." "They have me." "I would pay good money to see mom squeezing a customer-friendly smile out of you." "You are a little..." "I love you too, Harry." "Yeah, yeah. Call me later, and don't be a stranger." Harry was never a man of many words, but maybe a bit of distance would do them some good. And Selene… she was nervous, to the point her fingers were shaking, and her whole body was hyper-aware of her surroundings. A bead of sweat on her forehead, a brush of another coat, and a barely recognizable smell of something like moss. Although, it was probably the subway station several meters away from her. Feet, Selene quickly corrected herself. Metric system be damned. She quickly shuffled to the station, trying to avoid brushing her shoulders with others, yet failing miserably and practically being swapped by the wave. Welcome to New York, she thought. One might think that she was ungrateful, perhaps spoiled with her experience; in reality, however, her face betrayed her sole thoughts. While her brain tried to remain unfazed, her smile slowly grew, clearly indicating her newness to the scene. Even if she hated to be a tourist, she definitely understood them. The subway seemed copied directly from every American film she had watched (not like it would change to deliver an element of surprise), and Selene couldn't help breathing in that signature smell - mold, mixed with a light trail of male perfume (sandalwood, probably), sweat, some kind of fast-food and an unidentified bitter tang. Can one blame her? Romanticizing this city should be a trope deserving a whole shelf in the library of dreams, hidden deep in human subconsciousness. Selene hopped on the train and double-checked the direction on her phone: from Junction stop on the 7 train (Hudson Yards-Flushing) to Bryant Park, 5th Ave. This sounded easy enough since she already took a quick trip to her rusty new apartment. She traveled all the way from London; surely a 7 train would not be her biggest adventure. As predicted, the ride was uneventful, but the nerves were running wild. Selene's goal was simple: start her day early, get on time for all her open interviews and hopefully land a job. An apartment might not be more expensive than 1300$ a month (located in Queens and being barely a broom closet), but she didn't have enough for more than two payments. After a 40-minute ride, Selene found herself rushing towards her first chance to get a job, and she was already late. For some, being a waiter wasn't that big of a deal. And what about Selene? Truth be told, she didn't want to tell anyone that she was about to work as a waitress. Her family business always provided enough for them to stay in the middle class and enjoy vacation twice a year, a small SUV, and a spacious house in the suburbs. Her parents would hardly be impressed by their daughter abandoning their little shop for a serving job. Perhaps twenty-five was a perfect age to start showing that she could manage something on her own. With yet another sigh, Selene opened the door to the cafe, and she was met with a new wave of different fragrances. Cinnamon, ginger, burned brown sugar, and something along the lines of nutmeg. Pumpkin season at its best, she thought. However, the interview was hardly successful. No matter how likable the cafe seemed, it was not meant to be. It was just one interview, Selene reasoned; I can't let it get to me. Among the things everyone always noticed about Selene was her positivity. Her friends and new acquaintances always praised her for being "positive" and "always happy." I don't know how you do it, they say. It was time for her to meet their expectations, but also for you, dear readers, to decide how correct were those around Selene. *** The battle between Selene's hope to get the job and New York's ability to shatter her dreams raged for four business days, with small lunch breaks consisting of an everything bagel. Today was Friday, one of the first busiest days for all restaurants and cafes. In other words, a perfect time to accept several more rejections. Selene just left another cafe in midtown and stuffed her list of venues in her pocket. The search was proving to be worthless. But we all wouldn't be here if New York didn't have some magic upon its sleeves. Right in front of her latest failure stood a grotesque building, yet another perfect addition to Columbus Circle. The woman stared at the 9 Columbus Circle sign on one of the walls and started approaching the place without even thinking about what she was doing. When she tried to open a wide, deep blue door, it pushed with no resistance at all, to her surprise. So she took a breath and fully entered the venue, gripping the golden door handle. To say that her senses were attacked was to say nothing. It was like entering a dream of one of those chefs who frequently appeared on Netflix's reality shows. Warm interior, with rare golden accents and chandeliers that were probably worth her yearly rent. She was also instantly greeted by the sight of the bar. With no bartender in sight, it still looked well-functioning on its own, as if all the drinks would start swaying and singing to the slow melody playing from the speakers. Selene smiled at her own connection with Beauty and the Beast, daydreaming about the oldest bottle of scotch that would suddenly jump on the bar stool to perform a small number. Chuckling quietly, the woman finally let go of the door handle, and self-constantly checked whether she left any sign of her presence there. She almost reached to erase her fingertips with her navy sweater, but it seemed like her presence wouldn't go unnoticed for much longer. "Are you here for the interview?" A middle-aged man was staring at her, on her left, on the opposite side of the bar. He looked like one of those classy gentlemen whose suit was always ironed and whose hair would never dare to stick out in different directions. Put together, stoic and positively terrifying, if one can even mention "positive" when describing him. "Ummm… no, not really. I was just leaving my interview for the waitress position nearby." He looked her up and down, focusing on all the creases of her sweater, jeans torn against her knees, Chelsea boots that have seen better days, and the leather jacket that both served as her favorite signature piece and a pillow for an hour subway ride. She fumbled with the sleeves of her sweater, bunching them in her fists, waiting for the court to rule out its decision. Selene wasn't ugly; she knew that more than well. Her self-esteem might not have been high, but she had eyes and had lived in this world for more than two decades, getting enough experience to critically evaluate herself. The woman was invited on dates and often got out of problems using her smile. Dirty blonde—closer to brunette—hair was hardly reaching her shoulder, and curling slightly at the tips slimmed her round face. Yet, she suddenly wished she could buy the whole aisle of Sephora just to impress the gentleman in front of her. Not in romantic scenes, naturally, but he looked as if his decision could make or break her. He also didn't overlook her mismatched earring and heavy rings adoring her hands. His gaze glided from hands directly to her face, noticing multicolored eyes that probably seemed green in the artificial lighting, and her nervous smile. But whatever he saw must have been enough. "Do you want to?" "Hm?" "Have an interview?" Selene nodded quickly, not trusting her own voice to do the work. The man waved his hand in the direction of the only seemingly occupied table, and she trailed behind him, selecting the seat overlooking the bar. She also caught a glimpse of another figure opening what looked like a door to the kitchen, but Selene didn't have enough time to register who the shadow belonged to. "So?" The man didn't even bother sitting before posing the question and uncaringly browsing through his papers. "Well, I just moved here. I have all the work permits and experience in retail, and I am quick to learn," Selene already had a concise speech prepared, but all the words were somehow forgotten, probably giving more space for anxiety. The gentleman finally took a seat in front of her and found time in his schedule to maintain eye contact. "I know exactly where your previous interview was and why they didn't take you." His voice was plain, not betraying any emotion apart from professionalism and a minuscule hint of boredom. "But I will also tell you that you're nice to look at. With a bit of work, you can even be called charming and, maybe after a year or two, a smidge closer to alluring." Selene blushed slightly, breaking eye contact. She twirled one of her rings but decided not to interrupt the man. "Lucky for you, we need a new bartender. I had to fire four different ones, and no one even managed to work the whole week." He rolled his eyes but quickly scolded his impression back to a professional one, with a small crease between his eyebrows. "I might as well change my requirements." "You will hire me because I'm cute…?" Selene was still trying to process the situation, but her brain was still humming the tune from the musical, and her eyes couldn't leave the luscious interior. "You are new, have no experience, and stare at everything with those doe eyes. That's a bit refreshing because we don't hire your…" The gentleman coughed a bit, trying to find the right word. "Type." "I'm not sure that…" "To be frank, I can give you only a chance. There will be probation, and I will fire you the second I see that you're not taking this seriously. Besides, our chef is away. So he will also have the final say in my experiment after he settles business in his San-Francisco restaurant." He quickly rumbled something about rich people. But whatever remark was dropped, it was definitely not meant for Selene. She truly knew that he meant it - hiring her because of looks. The fact that he was also so direct was… Refreshing yet slightly off-putting. But did she have another choice? She could make an old-fashioned or maybe a martini. She wasn't the clumsiest person out there, and, as the gentleman said, she was nice to look at. "I can start anytime." "My name is Owen Peters. Call me Mr. Peters. Not Owen, Peters, or any other moniker you might think of. I am the General Manager. Welcome to "Clair De Lune," Miss…?" "Selene. And thank you. You won't regret this." "You start tomorrow. I'll get the contract."