Love Interest(19)

I drain my own glass of cabernet. “I literally don’t know what a himbo is.”

“Don’t you have Twitter?”

“Yeah, but I mostly follow Jason Sudeikis fan accounts.”

Brijesh looks down and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re too wholesome for New York. I’m kicking you out. Just not before Friday at eight o’clock, because we have that Oaxacan reservation. Opening night.”

“Oh!” I brighten up. “I forgot about that. Didn’t we reserve it, like, three months ago?”

“Four. It’s an important one, too. Food Baby wants the first scoop on the chef, but he’s notoriously reclusive.” Brijesh’s eyes never leave the menu. “Do you like sardines?”

“Allergic,” I remind him. “What about the tagliatelle?”

“What about the roasted duck.”

“It’s a Wednesday,” I counter.

He puts his chin on his fist and smiles. “I didn’t know you were Catholic.”

“I’m not. That’s not a thing. You can’t just go around having roasted duck on a Wednesday, unless you’re, like, as pretentious as the Harrisons.”

Brijesh shrugs, as if he’s considering whether he’d like to be. With an evil grin he adds, “I’ll need a full report of Alex Harrison’s food and beverage choices tomorrow during your lunch meeting.” He may as well have said sexual intercourse. I already regret telling him about Saanvi’s weird YouTube idea. “I can tell things about people from the way they order,” he explains. “It’s my own personal zodiac.”

“What does mine say about me?”

“That you’re chaotic. Meanwhile, my meal choices are intentional. If I had to guess, I’d say Alex runs the creature comfort foods gamut.”

I have no idea what he means by that, and I don’t want to ask, lest I sound more invested than I’ve got any right to be. But still, my mind wanders back to what Alex said in the elevator, him questioning if I’d been right about him all along. And in the next breath: I’m dying to be wrong about you. You’re not making it easy.

My whole body frowns every time I try to decode that exchange.

“You’re thinking about him, and you wish you weren’t,” Brijesh says.

“Good Lord,” I groan, mortified. “Am I seriously that easy to read?”

“Yes.” He smirks. “You’re very expressive.”

I find myself much less concerned about Brijesh reading my thoughts than Alex reading them, which is concerning in and of itself. “He just—is so—”

“Intense,” Brijesh offers.

I frown. “Intense?”

He leans back, rubs at his chin stubble. “Honestly, Alex kind of reminds me of you in that way. You’re like each other’s inverses.”

My glare is instantaneous. “What did I do to deserve that comparison.”

“He’s all fueled up with ideas coming out of his ass every thirty seconds, and meanwhile, you’re this steady, reliable kind of genius. If people need help with something specific, you’re the first person they’d ask, but if they need a soundboard for ideas, they’d go to Alex.” He drags another piece of bread through olive oil. “I’d bet my whole cookbook collection you two have an identical podcast lineup.”

Our waiter returns with a plate of roasted squash in hand. It’s been done up all fancy with pistachios, fennel, and prosciutto. “Compliments of the chef,” he says.

Brijesh drops his sliver of bread. “Fuck!”

I flinch. The waiter takes a step back from the table, eyes wide with confusion.

Remembering himself, Brijesh apologizes and thanks the waiter, who sets the food down and scurries away.

“Well,” he says. “I can officially cross ‘restaurant critic’ off my list of future career opportunities. My anonymity is shot.”

“Oh. Someone recognized you?”

“Must have.”

My eyes track to the hostess and a few waiters in a circle, staring at us and whispering conspiratorially. Brijesh is watching them, too. Specifically, he’s watching a waitress with pink hair and doe eyes.

I don’t think Miriam minds when Brijesh hooks up with other people, considering their friends-with-benefits arrangement is her idea. Then again, I have no clue what’s really going on between the two of them. Mostly, I just stay out of it. But right now, there’s a carefully concealed smile of intent behind Brijesh’s eyes I can’t avoid.

He grabs his wineglass. Swirls it. Sips languorously.

I pin him with a knowing look. “You’re loving this, you attention whore.”

“You can’t prove that!”

After dinner, he takes home the hostess, and I take home the gnocchi.





CHAPTER EIGHT


I’m halfway through last month’s P&L prep when Alex swings into my cubicle. One of his hands is clinging to the flimsy wall’s edge, the other open and lifted. His hair is a wreck and he’s wearing a crimson-and-yellow tie striped on the diagonal. With a clip.

“Tie clip,” I comment dryly.

“Does it offend you?”

“Depends. Is it engraved with the logo of your personal clothier?”