With a Twist (20 page)

Natalie took a
deep, fortifying breath as she walked through the door of Sebastian Thompson’s restaurant for her interview. In just a few weeks, his new restaurant, Seb’s, would open. She was both surprised and flattered by how soon he’d called her after their meeting at the premiere party. While Quinn’s parents hadn’t fired her, his mother had been rather cool toward her, which hurt. But it also struck her as somewhat hypocritical. Weren’t Christians supposed to forgive? Why hadn’t his mother forgiven her, then?

The restaurant was empty when she entered, but it was not silent. In the kitchen, she could hear Thompson screaming at the staff. Thanks to having dealt with Anthony Dante, she knew chefs could be emotional, but from the sound of it, Sebastian made Anthony seem like a saint.

Every other word was either “fuck” or “cunt.” Unsure of what to do with herself, she sat down at a small table for two in the middle of the restaurant, waiting for Thompson to finish his tirade. She hoped he hadn’t forgotten their interview.

Five minutes later, Thompson stormed through the swinging doors of the kitchen, his face still contorted with rage.
Great. Another waste of my time. Oh, well, it was good practice
.

“Sorry I’m late, love.”

Natalie rose to shake his hand. “Only a few minutes.”

“Yeah, well, still. I expect punctuality from my staff. Not fuckin’ right for me to be a hypocrite, innit?”

Natalie smiled tightly, unsure of how to respond.

“You thirsty? Want anything from the bar?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you.”

“Lucky you. I’m just going to grab a double scotch for myself, won’t be a mo. I deserve it after dealing with those stupid cunts.”

Natalie suppressed a wince as Thompson headed off to fix himself a drink. Her heart was pounding wildly. She was afraid of him.

Thompson swaggered back to the table, sliding into the seat opposite her, the ice in his glass tinkling. “That’s better.” Natalie felt distinctly uncomfortable as he eyed her up and down. “How’s life treatin’ you, doll? Still at the Paddy pub?”

“Yes.”

“Bit beneath you, innit? Sophisticated French lady like you.”

“As I told you, I’m helping out some friends. I’ll be fine until I find the perfect managing job.”

Thompson winked at her. “Well, perhaps you have.” He glanced around his restaurant proudly. “You said you ate at Shepherd’s Pie when you were in London?”

“Yes.”
When I was thousands of dollars in debt and just charged the meal on my credit card,
she thought to herself.

“Wotcha think?”

“I told you: it was amazing.”

Thompson slumped down in his chair, eyeing her suspiciously. “You just blowin’ smoke up my ass because you want a job?”

Natalie colored.
Smoke? Ass?
“I don’t understand. Do you mean to ask if I’m giving you a false compliment?”

“Yeah, yeah, exactly.” He belted down some scotch. “I love your accent. So posh. Sexy.”

Natalie’s face turned even redder. “So, about the job?” she asked, trying to steer the conversation away from herself.

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll get to that.” He threw more scotch down his throat. Natalie was still intimidated by him, but at least he was calming down a bit with each gulp of scotch. “I was thinking of changing the name of the new restaurant.”

“To what?”

“Flaming Bitch. That way it would still be dedicated to my ex. Would you eat in a restaurant called Flaming Bitch?”

“I think it would depend more on the food than the name.”

“Good answer, angel,” Thompson replied. “You know my restaurants in England and Scotland have, collectively, earned over ten Michelin stars? You’re French. You know about Michelin stars. Highest fuckin’ honor there is.”

Natalie was admittedly impressed. “I had no idea you’d garnered that many.”

“Yeah, well, the reason is, I’m creative, and I know what the fuck I’m doing. I only hire the best, even if they
are
a pack of stupid cunts sometimes. I demand perfection, both in the kitchen and in the front of the house.”

“Of course.”

“It’s gonna be the same philosophy at Seb’s.” He drained his scotch. “Tell me about managing the brasserie in Paris.”

Natalie swallowed, relieved that she had Googled “Skills needed to be a restaurant manager” on the Internet and had basically memorized what she found. She felt guilty lying about the experience, but she wanted this job so badly, she was willing to do anything.

Or so she thought.

“Sounds like you know your stuff, Miss Bocuse. Would you like to manage Seb’s?”

“I would love it.” She was so excited, it was hard to restrain herself from jumping up and down in her chair.

“Well, I’m gonna need to know if we’re on the same wavelength. If we can connect, not just intellectually but emotionally . . . and physically. Know wot I mean, love? How about you come to my place tonight to close the deal?”

Natalie froze, her elation quickly turning to anger. He had no interest in hiring her for herself. He just wanted to sleep with her.

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” Natalie said coolly. “In fact, on second thought, I don’t think Seb’s would be the right fit for me.
But thank you for considering me.”

“Suit yourself, angel. I’ve got three more birds coming in this afternoon.”

Irate, Natalie walked out of the restaurant. By the time she managed to quell her anger, despondency had taken its place. She tried to bolster herself up. She’d only been on two interviews so far. Perhaps she was being punished for lying. Her imagination began spinning out of control. She would never find a job. Never. She’d be stuck working at the pub until Quinn’s mother’s fired her after having some religious vision. Quinn would find her so pathetic he would dump her and take up with a beautiful young reporter whom he could mentor. Humiliated, she would crawl back to Brooklyn, where she’d live out her days as the spinster aunt to Anthony and Vivi’s children.

She knew she was being ridiculous, but she couldn’t help it. It was easier to spin these fantasies than admit she’d been overconfident and naive about how soon she’d find a job in Manhattan.

She slowed her pace, stopping to peer into the window of a very chichi boutique called Rula’s. She fished out the sole credit card she possessed that was to be used for emergencies only, staring at it hard.
Do it, do it, do it. Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it.
She closed her eyes, picturing how Quinn and Vivi would react if she “fell off the wagon,” as they said here. She imagined the disappointment on their faces. Worry, too, maybe even anger. She snapped open her eyes and put the card away, hurrying up the street. She would get a job eventually. She would. She just had to have faith.

21

“I should go
over there and beat his limey ass.”

Natalie was sitting beside Quinn on a bench in Central Park, eating lunch. Her temptation to pull out her credit card and go wild had scared her. When she couldn’t get hold of her Shopaholics Anonymous sponsor, she called Quinn. He had wanted to hear from her anyway following her interview with Thompson. Luckily, she caught him as he was on his way to grab some food. Quinn told her he’d pick up sandwiches for both of them and meet her at the entrance to the park, right across from the Plaza Hotel, in half an hour or so. Natalie took the subway, which she still despised. So dirty compared to the Metro in Paris.

Because she didn’t want to appear snobby or ungrateful, she forced herself to eat the somewhat revolting tuna sandwich Quinn had purchased for her. The tuna was drowning in mayonnaise, the lettuce limp. She knew why he’d picked tuna for her: she’d once told him she loved fish. He’d bought himself a ham and Swiss cheese sandwich, which Natalie found herself coveting. How sad, she thought, coveting a soggy, prepackaged sandwich. She really needed to get herself out to Vivi’s for a real meal.

When she’d told Quinn about her interview with Thompson, his expression had quickly changed from annoyance to sheer swagger. Natalie found his show of machismo sexy.

“I don’t need you to beat his ass. I handled it myself.”

Natalie took another bite of her sandwich, washing it down with a healthy dose of bottled water. Quinn, of course, was drinking coffee from some deli. He’d always said he’d rather shoot himself than ever set foot in a Starbuck’s. She might be a food snob, but
he
was a coffee snob.

Quinn grunted in agreement. “I hate guys who talk to women that way. They’re scum.”

Natalie wiped her mouth. She wasn’t going to tell him this, but she decided that she wanted no secrets between them. “I was so upset afterward, I almost went on a spending spree. But I didn’t.”

“That’s great, honey,” Quinn said, admiration in his voice. “I’m really proud of you.”

“It’s so hard sometimes,” Natalie admitted. Had she not resisted, she would probably be in her third boutique by now, charging away, ruining her life.

“Of course it is. It’s a legitimate addiction, just like anything else. You have to go day by day, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, like I said, I’m really proud of you.”

“Thank you.” It was just what she needed to hear.

Quinn gazed out at the bank of trees before them, branches swaying back and forth in the breeze. Natalie gazed at his profile. She loved the way the wind tousled his hair.

She rested her head on his shoulder. “You’re looking very handsome today.”

“Despite the mysterious hole that’s managed to appear in the right elbow of my jacket?” He held it up for her to see.

“Please tell me you’re going to have it mended. I can’t bear the thought of you walking around looking like some kind of tramp.”

“A
tramp
?” Quinn looked amused. “Oh yeah, I forgot, you’re French. Anything less than perfection when it comes to clothing, and you’re one step away from the gutter.”

Natalie slapped his shoulder playfully. “Not true.”

“Is true.” Quinn looked at her with concern. “You cold? You’re shivering a little. You can wear my tramp jacket if you want.”

Natalie gave him a warning look but then broke into a smile. “Yes, please.”

Quinn wrapped the jacket around her shoulders, putting his arm around her for good measure. “You hate that sandwich, don’t you? Go on. You can admit it.”

“It’s horrible.”

Quinn laughed. “You once told me you liked fish. Tuna is a fish.”

“I like fish when it’s not drowning in mayonnaise.”

“Jesus, you’re a pill.” He held up the remainder of his own sandwich with his free hand. “Wanna switch?”

“Oh, God, yes.”

“As mademoiselle wishes.”

He lifted a strand of her hair, kissed it. “I’m really sorry I haven’t been around the past few days. I’ve been running my ass off on this story I’m working on.”

“Oh, the one you haven’t told me about?”

“If I tell you, do you promise you won’t breathe a word about it to anyone?”

“Who would I tell?”

“Vivi?”

“I promise you, I won’t tell a soul.”

He proceeded to tell her about his investigations into Shields Brothers Construction and their ties to the Irish mob. He was more animated than she’d ever heard him before. But by the time he was done, she was deeply uneasy.

She lifted her head from his shoulder to look at him. “Aren’t you in danger, pursuing this story?”

Quinn looked mystified. “Danger?”

“Can’t they hurt you? Come after you if they learn you’re poking around?”

“I suppose. But I can’t think about that.”

“Well, I can.” She stroked his cheek. “Please be careful.”

Quinn rolled his eyes.

“Don’t dismiss me!”

“Fine, I’ll be careful.” He kissed her mouth softly. “I’ve missed you.”

“Me, too.” She hesitated a moment, then took his face in her hands and began kissing him. Quinn responded instantly, wrapping his arms around her in a crushing embrace. Natalie was thrilled that he wasn’t shy about expressing affection in public. In France, that was one way couples displayed to the world the strength of the relationship. Another was arguing.

She wondered if he could sense her giddiness, the sheer pleasure shooting through her as he took the lead, his mouth conquering hers roughly.
It was intoxicating. Magical.

And then his phone rang.

Natalie broke their embrace with a glare. “You don’t have to answer it. You’re eating lunch and relaxing. Whoever is on the other end can leave a message,
non
?”

“It’ll only take a second,” Quinn promised. Natalie pushed back against the bench, folding her arms across her chest crossly like a petulant child.
You chose this,
she reminded herself.

“It’s not work, it’s Liam,” Quinn whispered, looking worried.

Merde
, had something happened to someone in the family? Worried now herself, Natalie put a comforting hand on his leg, avidly watching his face as she listened to his side of the conversation.

“What’s up? . . . He’s dead?! . . . When?! . . . She must be out of her mind with grief . . . When’s the service? . . . Yeah, I can make it, no problem . . . Natalie and I will both be there. You, too.”

“What’s happened?” Natalie asked nervously as soon as Quinn shoved his cell back in his pocket.

Quinn looked sad. “Rudy the parrot is dead. Mrs. Colgan found him at the bottom of his cage this morning, stiff as a board. There’s going to be a memorial service at the Wild Hart tomorrow morning.”

Natalie stared at him in disbelief. “A memorial service. For a parrot.”

“Yeah,” said Quinn, looking mildly offended. “Mrs. Colgan is a regular, Natalie. And so is Rudy. It’s only right people pay their respects.”

Natalie pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re joking, yes? You’re making this up.”

“I am not making it up,” said Quinn, his voice tinged with annoyance. “Look, if you don’t want to go, I can represent the both of us.”

He was crazy. They were all crazy. She should have stayed in Bensonhurst. So what if there was nothing to do? The people there might have an obsession with putting religious statues on their front lawns, but at least they didn’t hold memorial services in pubs for dead parrots.

“Stop looking so shocked. I guarantee you that when you go to work tomorrow night and Rudy isn’t there, you’re going to be really sad. Haven’t you grown just a tiny bit fond of him?”

“No!”

“My parents are going,” Quinn continued slyly. “It’d definitely earn you brownie points with my mother if you were there.”

“You’re all mad,” Natalie muttered.

“Hell yeah. We’re Irish.” He put his arm around her again. “C’mon. Say you’ll go.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll go. Should I wear black?” she asked dryly.

“I’m going to wear my best black suit.”

“You are not!” It couldn’t be so. The man couldn’t even dress decently for work yet he’d don a black suit for a deceased parrot?

“No, I’m not,” Quinn admitted. “I was just teasing you. Wear whatever you want.” He pointed to the tuna sandwich on the bench on the other side of her. “If you don’t want that, I’ll eat it.”

“By all means.”

“A memorial for a parrot,” Natalie murmured incredulously. “And I’m going. God help me.”