“Yeah, well, a lot of people think L.A. is just Hollywood. That it’s this vapid, superficial town full of vapid, superficial people, but it’s really so much more. People say there’s no culture in L.A., but we’ve got culture coming out of our ass—and all kinds of culture. There’s Chinatown, and Little Armenia, and Little Ethiopia, and Alvarado Street. We’ve got amazing museums and gardens and parks. It’s beautiful here. Sometimes, in the morning, the mountains are pink and gold, like these perfect cutouts against the sky. There’s tons of history here—not just Hollywood, but there’s architecture and art and music. It’s a great place to grow up. A great place to live. And you can’t beat the tacos.”

I sounded like an extremely aggressive marketing campaign. But I couldn’t help it. My hometown was constantly maligned—Jeremy had certainly made it clear that he thought L.A. was trash—so when I went on the defensive, I went on the defensive.

Gabe leaned back.

“I totally agree,” he said. “The tacos are great.”

I couldn’t tell if he was making fun of me, but before I could suss it out any further, our waitress appeared.

Gabe was on his feet immediately, giving the beautiful redhead a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. “You look like you’re going to pop.”

She was extremely pregnant, and rubbed her stomach.

“I’m gonna tell your momma you said that to a pregnant woman,” she teased Gabe.

He winked at her. “You wouldn’t dare.” He glanced over at me. “Madison, this is Chani.”

He said my name perfectly.

“Y’all ready to order?” Madison asked. She had a thick, charming Southern accent.

“Give us a moment with the menu, okay, darlin’?” Gabe asked, tossing the accent right back at her as he sat across from me.

Madison blushed beautifully. “You just holler, okay?”

“The burgers are great,” Gabe said once she’d gone. “But if you get one, you have to get a beer. That’s the rule.”

I knew it was unprofessional to drink on the job, but I could handle a beer. I needed a beer. Because so far this interview had consisted of me ranting about both the intrinsic sexism of The Philadelphia Story and presumptive stereotypes about Los Angeles. It had not consisted of me doing the actual job I was hired to do.

“What’s their best sour beer?” I asked.

Gabe’s eyebrows went up and he met my gaze.

“Sour beer, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said, like I was issuing a challenge. “Any suggestions?”

The grin returned, and with it, my improper tingly feelings.

“Why don’t I order for us? Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” I said.