“Really? How old do you think I am? And how old are you? You seem pretty confident.”

“Oh no. I don’t mean to be patronizing. I like it. I like it a lot. I know you worked a few years for Julian. So how old are you, about twenty-six?”

I would have to ask Elle, but I thought you really couldn’t ask people their age during an interview. “I’m twenty-five. And you?”

“I’m twenty-eight. A young twenty-eight.” He gave me a boyish grin, and I really couldn’t argue with that. We seamlessly shifted back into a more businesslike mode. I was eager to see his space. We walked around, and I nodded approvingly. The space was awash in potential. A blank canvas of possibilities. I could see the articles about Elliott. I could also envision the articles about me and how I partnered with this Englishman to create one of New York’s finest dining establishments. But first things first.

“What do you see for the kitchen?”

“Not your job either?” he countered.

“No. I have lived with too many chefs, and I respect them too much to interfere with their kitchens. My job in the kitchen is purely aesthetic and to ease the workflow. What you choose to cook on, what knives you like, and your cookware—that’s all you. Trust me, there’s enough around here for me to do.” I got quiet again, studying my surroundings and letting ideas percolate. He must’ve mistaken my silence for disapproval.

“You don’t like the space? Do you think I’ve made a mistake?” Elliott asked.

“I didn’t say that. I just need to focus.” I walked deliberately, trying to commit to memory every nook and cranny. “Can I take some pictures?”

He nodded. I retrieved my phone and started snapping. I needed to think about how best to utilize this space. Like our previous meetings, the day just skipped away from us.

“You’ve done it to me again, Bailey. It is now getting to be suppertime. Do you expect me to cook you a third meal?”

“Are you offering?” I asked.

“I can take you out. There’s nothing left in the kitchen to eat.”

My brain switched off. I didn’t want this to be a messy relationship where business was mixed with pleasure, and the lines got blurred. I had to keep my head when all about men were losing theirs, as Rudyard Kipling had said. “No. I can’t stay for dinner. But why don’t we sit down again and talk further about my design fee?”

“Okay then.” Elliott seemed almost hurt. As if I had rebuked him.

“But I would be open to another cup of tea.”

“I’ll heat up the water now.” While Elliott was away in the guerrilla-style kitchen that consisted of a hot plate, a kettle, a mini refrigerator, and a toaster oven, I made some preliminary notes.

When he returned with our tea, we began our negotiation. Elliott said, “Okay then, I’ll just get right to it. I am prepared to offer you an extra fifty thousand dollars on top of the figure you have in your purse.” Just who was this Elliott Graemmer, I wondered? Did he have that kind of discretionary money? I would definitely have to Google him when I got home.