“Aside from which,” Mont said, “you’re fully booked for the next five days, and I can’t keep—”

“I know you can’t keep cooking for me. I know.” Jacob collapsed back into his chair, dragged off his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“If you don’t loosen up and hire someone, you’re screwed.”

“I don’t need to hear that kind of negativity.” Jacob Wayne was never screwed. Well, not like that—obviously he was sometimes screwed in other, better ways. Although not as often as he’d like, but—you know—ah, fuck it, never mind. “Look, failure is—it’s not an option.” Not when he’d spent years working at the best hotels to learn everything he’d need to make this work. Not when he’d sunk all his savings into this fledgling business. It couldn’t be.

A sharp knock at the door interrupted their depressing conversation. Jacob frowned, sat up straighter in his chair, and called, “Who is it?”

The door opened a crack, which was fucking annoying, since he’d said Who is it? not Sure, help yourself, come in. But they weren’t expecting any more interview candidates today—Skybriar, while it had grown in recent years, was still a small town, and unemployed chefs weren’t exactly rolling through the hills like stray acorns. Which meant this could be a guest, come looking for him. So Jacob arranged his expression into something neutral (Mont had suggested he try friendly, but Jacob didn’t see the point of that with people who weren’t his friends) and waited.

After a moment’s hesitation, an unfamiliar face popped itself through the gap in the door. Jacob assumed the face was attached to a body, but all he could see right now was a head, a little bit of neck, and a whole lot of purple braids.

“Hello,” the floating head said. “I’m here for the interview.”

Assertive and straight to the point: good. Complete stranger, unscheduled: bad. The kind of crisp accent Jacob usually heard from the guests themselves: potential issue. Hovering in the door like a supernatural creature: undecided.

Since she wanted a job, Jacob started cataloging visible details. Big, dark, Disney princess eyes, purple braids, chubby cheeks, and smooth brown skin. She was young, which suggested unreliability. Orange lip gloss, which clashed with the purple hair, but since chefs weren’t front of house, he’d let it slide. She was smiling at him, which Jacob found infinitely suspicious, but then Mont kicked him under the table, and he remembered he was supposed to relax. Maybe her inane expression was a good thing: someone in this place needed to look approachable for guests, and clearly it wouldn’t be Jacob.

“Hi,” Mont said. “You want to come in?”

“Yes, thank you.” The head and neck became a complete person. She stepped into the room, shut the door behind her, and assaulted Jacob with her T-shirt. Bright orange like the lip gloss, with words written across her chest in turquoise block capitals: SORRY, BORED NOW.

Ironic clothing. Rude ironic clothing. Apathetic, rude ironic clothing. Bad, bad, bad. He couldn’t take his eyes off it. It was like a car crash. Even worse, it must be raining outside, because the T-shirt was wet. All of her was wet, her soft, bare arms gleaming obnoxiously. What, she’d gone out in the rain without a bloody coat? Ridiculous. Even more ridiculous, he could see the outline of her bra under the T-shirt. No one should let themselves get wet like that. She could catch her death. Then Mont kicked him again, and Jacob realized it probably looked like he was staring at an interviewee’s tits right now. Jesus Christ. He looked down at his notepad, cleared his throat, and scrawled down three Os and an X. Three positives, one negative. He’d given her an extra positive to make up for the chest-staring.