I mean, why not? Both of us are young, single, the restaurant is ours to open and close when we want . . . and best of all—we got paid. So, when they called again this year, I was over the moon. I now have two consecutive years of work for the magazine to add to my resume, and I know I have to make my contribution super spectacular.
This year the focus is farm-to-table. Each regional issue will highlight restaurants that use locally grown food. They want another twenty-five recommendations where I mention impressive farmers’ markets and family farms. Personally, I think it’s a great idea. The fresher the better.
“You headed home?” I ask her. Meg and I are also roommates, but occasionally she sleeps at her aunt’s just to keep an eye on her.
“Yeah, after I drop this off at the bank.” She waves the zippered bank envelope at me and flips the lights off.
Together we walk out the front door, she locks it and hits the remote alarm app on her phone. From inside my bag, my phone starts ringing. I drop it on the sidewalk and start digging until my fingers find it.
“I’ll see you in a bit,” Meg says, taking a few steps backward. “I’m thinking it’s a wine and a hot guy dancing kind of night.” She drops her arm and does a bad version of the robot.
A laugh bursts out of me and echoes down the sidewalk.
“Sounds perfect!” I grin at her before turning my attention to my phone. It’s my editor from the magazine, Teddy Carothers. Every time his name flashes across the screen, my heart skips a beat—half excitement and half nerves. I’ve wanted to be a part of the Food Network family for so long, there’s always this slight fear that with one phone call it can go away, just like it arrived.
“Hi, Mr. Carothers. How are you?” I stand and grab my bag, trying to keep my voice calm and my hand steady. Ever since I started working for him last year, I have had to remind myself to show no fear. I’ve worked hard for this, and I deserve it.
“I’m great, Shelby, thanks for asking. Is now a good time?” It’s after eight—he never calls this late—and my hand tightens on the phone. Part of me wonders if he was contacted about the studio job, but I’ll never ask.
“Yes, now’s a great time. We just locked up OBA, and I’m about to head home.” I make my way across the street to my car, barely feeling the inconsistencies of the cobblestone and fallen oak pollen under my bare feet.
“Very good. So, I’m curious, how’s the assignment coming along?” Last year, he never asked me about the assignment. I had three deadlines—the twenty-five recommendations were broken up into sections: nine, eight, and eight. I submitted on time, he said, “Great job,” and that was the end of it.
Sliding into my car, I toss my bag onto the passenger seat and when it tips over, I frown as all my things spill out onto the floor. “I’m almost done with it. Would you like me to send you what I have?” Nerves flit through my stomach and I grip the steering wheel. The article isn’t ready yet, I glance to my laptop which is standing on its side, but I could spend all night on it if I had to.
“No, that won’t be necessary. You can send it all once it’s done.” There’s a pause in the conversation. I can hear the shuffling of some papers on his end, him swallowing, and a glass hitting the table. Anxiety takes off and my hands start to sweat. “But listen . . . turns out, I have another idea to run by you.”
Another idea?
Images of the last two months and all the work I’ve put in skip through my mind.
“Okay, what idea is that?” I ask as calmly as I can.
“I know this is last minute, and we still want you to finish your current article, but tell me, have you ever heard of Wolff Winery?” Blue eyes and a condescending scowl flash before my eyes for the second time tonight. I shake my head to clear the image and find the road in front of me cloaked in shadows and empty.
“Yes. In fact, I met Mr. Wolff last year.” I grit my teeth at his name. Arrogant ass.
“Ah, well, that’s great then! We’ve spoken to Mr. Wolff, and if you agree, we’ve decided to pair the two of you together for a feature article in the upcoming Southern issue. We would need you at his winery by tomorrow afternoon if possible. I just e-mailed over the details, you’ll need to clear your schedule for a bit, and he can fill you in on the rest.”
What!
No. No. No. No. No.
The nerves in my stomach instantly flee and dread drops in. They want us to work together? I have to work with him? But I don’t want to work with him. He agreed to this? He doesn’t like me . . . and that’s fine with me!
“Okay, I need to run this by Meg, but it shouldn’t be a problem.” Meg is going to flip out, and then she’s going to laugh at me. Again, these things only happen to me. Of all the wineries in the south, they go and pick his.
“Perfect. We’re really excited about this new project for you two. You were our first choice, and we know the article is going to be great. Once you get settled in, give me a call.” The creak of his chair comes through the line and more papers shuffle in the background.
“All right, I will,” I say, trying my hardest to sound as excited as he is when everything in me is screaming to abort the mission.
“Thanks for being so flexible. Take care, Shelby.” Then he hangs up.
There should be silence in the car, but my ears are ringing so loudly my vision blurs.
Oh my God!
Sucking in some air to calm my pounding heart, my head hits the steering wheel, the phone drops to my lap, and I squeeze my eyes shut. What are the odds that Meg and I were just talking about him? What are the odds that of the thousands of wineries out there, his gets picked? And why did his get picked? Per that review, the wines are supposed to be mediocre. Maybe this is karma’s way of getting to me somehow. But why? At the event, he was cold and made me feel as if I were nothing more than an unwanted relative he was stuck with. He ignored me most of the night, preferring conversations with every other girl there but me, and he drank too much. It wasn’t that he became loud and obnoxious, quite the opposite, he became sullen. He made me feel inadequate, and I don’t let anyone make me feel that way, ever. I don’t care who you are. After that night, I made a solemn vow to never see him again . . . or drink his wine.
Leaning back in the seat, I take a few deep breaths and let out a resigned sigh before pressing the ignition button. Hopefully, this assignment with him won’t be a big one, and we can get it over with as soon as possible.
Shaking my head and rolling my shoulders, I push away the tension weighing me down, and that’s when it hits me.
Featured article.
Mr. Carothers, from Food Network Magazine, has asked me to pair up for a featured article! Me. Not another journalist, but me. And he said I was their first choice!
Elation takes over, and I squeal as if I’ve won the lottery. My name is going to be printed several times in this new issue, giving me even more exposure. Little by little, a little becomes a lot, and step by step, article by article, I’m getting closer to my dream.
My dream.
Flashes of my childhood flip through my mind, and each passing one acts as a stimulant to my already racing heart. That ever-present reminder of the things he said and the things they did, it’s the constant spark that keeps my determination blazing, and as my eyes widen and my hands tighten on the wheel, I’d swear the street light’s glow is brighter.
“I can do this! I will do this!” I chant to myself. Zachary Wolff is nobody to me, and he can kiss my grits. No one is ever going to get in my way.
No one.
Southern Baklava
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Coming Soon
Acknowledgements
Newsletter Sign-Up
Books by Kathryn Andrews
About the Author
From the Author
Ways to Connect
The Sweetness of Life
Chapter 1
Last Slice of Pie (Starving for Southern Book 2) Page 26