Page 2 of The Interception (Southern Sports Sweethearts #2)

“You’re the tenth interview of the day, Miss Rossi, and you will be followed by at least a dozen others.

If you want to maintain any good standing as an amateur chef in this town, you’ll go without argument.

” Her tone softens and she turns to face me when we reach the front door.

“Listen, you seem like a sweet woman. You don’t want to work here anyway.

It sucks out your soul until all that’s left is a vast wasteland of emptiness that can only be filled with cat snuggles, a fake book boyfriend, and copious cannoli. Run from this place while you can.”

I blink a little more.

Her frown deepens. “He’s been hiring an assistant chef for a year, Miss Rossi. He’ll never settle for anything less than himself, and thank the good Lord above, there is only one of him. He makes delicious food, but otherwise he’s a monster.”

“Uh…good…good to know, I guess. I’ll just…run.”

She hands me my resume that is suspiciously splattered with red sauce, forces another smile, and unlocks the door for me to make my escape.

I should not have tried to take the world by anything, let alone the horns.

That’s the pointy part that gets you every time.

My can-do determination has dissolved into little more than basic survival instinct as I bite my lip to hold off tears.

I can officially say I have never been more humiliated in my life.

My desire to even look at a kitchen has been beaten down to zero, and there is no chance I will ever see the inside of one in the city of Savannah, maybe not even in Georgia as a whole.

Fortunately, I paid my driver to sit in the parking lot so I could get a ride back home.

“That was quick,” she says as I slide into the back seat. “How did it go?”

I take a breath and let it out slowly, connecting with her gaze.

“That bad?”

With a nod, I turn my head and look out the window. “Can you take me to 432 Sycamore Avenue, please?”

“Sure thing.” The driver hands me a tissue before putting her car in gear and merging onto the main road.

The whole drive, all I can think about is how rude Chef Perfect was, and how I will never eat at his second-rate restaurant again.

Who am I kidding? Second rate? There is already a line forming for lunch, and there is no doubt they made their reservations months to a year in advance.

Just getting into the door to eat is a prize, so expecting him to hand me a job was complete insanity on my part.

Sending in an application alone was idiocy.

While my mind reels, the driver makes the final turn onto my brother’s street and pulls into his driveway. I pay her and tip her well before trudging up the walkway and ringing the doorbell. The second Lottie opens the front door, she knows it all went wrong.

“Oh no, what happened?” She pulls the door aside and lets me in. Andrew is heading down the hallway into the living room with their dogs, Ginger and Goblin, close behind.

“It was awful. The worst interview ever, and I’m still jobless,” I admit and flop onto their sofa.

“He laughed in my face, called me ridiculous, and sent me out without another word. The office manager, at least I think that’s who she was, tried to be kind to me but basically, that’s his way.

He lines up interviews, criticizes, and throws people out. ”

“Layne, it’s okay. You’ll find a job.” Lottie hands me a tissue and glances at my brother, who now paces, likely to keep himself from driving downtown and punching an arrogant, narcissistic, chauvinist pig of a man in the face.

“What exactly did he say to you?” Andrew asks.

“I told you. That’s basically it. I didn’t even sit down. He took one look at me and laughed, then waved me off, saying I’m even more ridiculous in person than I am on my application.” I finally release the sob I’ve tried to hold off. “I guess he only set up the appointment to humiliate me.”

“That man—no, he’s not a man. He’s a rat. That rat would be lucky to have you grace his kitchen. His place is overpriced and his food is horrible,” Andrew says, grinding his teeth.

“It’s booked out for a year in advance,” I retort.

Lottie grimaces. “She’s right. Before we met, my friend tried to get us reservations forever at his satellite location, Uptown Bistro, but nothing came up. When she finally did, we discovered the hard way they were for a year later.”

“Who books for a year? A narcissist, that’s who.” Andrew’s pacing is beginning to wear my nerves down, so I stand and wipe my hands over my dress. It’s good and wrinkled now, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not going anywhere, literally or professionally.

“Listen, sis, why don’t you let me front the money and you can—”

I raise my hand to stop my brother before he really gets going. “Andrew, I want to do this on my own, okay? I don’t want a handout from my brother.”

“It’s not a handout, Layne,” Lottie says. “It’s an investment. And a good one, at that.”

“I understand what you’re trying to do, and I really, truly appreciate it, but I mean it when I say I want to do this on my own.

” With a deep sigh, I wipe my face again and head to the kitchen.

“Let me make something for lunch. It’ll make me feel better before I go pack for this competition Lottie’s gotten me into. ”

Lottie squeals and leaps up from the sofa to help me cook. “So you’ll do it then?”

I shrug. “I said I would if the job interview didn’t pan out, so it looks like I’ll be heading to Charleston first thing in the morning.”