I jot down his answers in short notes because, oh my God,boring.Samantha knew how much time she had for this interview, and these were the kinds of questions she planned to ask? Skimming through the first of six pages full of questions, I seethat ninety percent are mundane and would give Amelia nothing interesting. I barely had time to review the questions while I was running in heels. Heels may be my best friend most days, but even as a girl from Manhattan who’s used to them, I usually don’t run in this kind of heat.
Once I flip to page three, there’s something a little more interesting that makes my lips twitch.
“Do you have another question?” Grayson asks, and I clench my pen tighter at his tone.
Patience,I remind myself.Act professionally.
“How old were you when you opened your first restaurant?”
His jaw tics, and I know it’s because he told me all about it that night. Back when he was open and nice with me, unlike now.
“Twenty-six.”
I don’t write down the answer; it’s unnecessary because I remember everything he told me in July. Instead, I look for the next question and word it aloud without much thought. “Why did you pick Driscoll to teach and open your soup kitchen?” My eyes widen for a moment before they go back to normal.
A soup kitchen?
This time, I notice a hint of a smirk on his lips, and it causes my gaze to drop to his mouth. Memories of those lips on mine— “I was looking for something new to do. Driscoll offered me the job, it’s a great university, and it’s near my alma mater.”
Something new. Something different.“I want to do something different. I need to do something different. I’ve had the craving for a while,”is what he’d told me that night, and yeah, this is definitely different.
“You studied at the Culinary Institute, if I remember correctly.”
He nods. “As for the soup kitchen, it was something I decided to start when I moved from London in July.” He looks away briefly. “I wanted to make a difference in the world, nomatter how small, and I hope that by doing this, I can inspire nearby towns to follow my lead.”
He might be dry and a little rude right now, but just like I thought that night, he has a good heart…which only makes him all the more attractive.
Looking down, I read the next question. “You opened the soup kitchen in honor of your deceased parents.” My neck warms at the new information, but I continue as any other professional would. “Is their passing away when you were so young one of the reasons you decided to switch career paths?” I tilt my head at the unclear, odd question and look up to see his reaction, but all I find is his body tensing even more.
“A lot of the things I do are for my parents, but I would rather not speak about them.” His voice and expression are so impassive, I can’t decipher what he’s feeling at all.
I wish we could talk like we did that day.
“Of course, I understand.” My heart clenches, and I move on, feeling guilty for the handsome man across from me. I continue asking some mundane questions about his career. Most of them are yeses or nos, until I get too comfortable and distracted, and I blurt out the next one. “Is it true that you are in the process of getting a divorce?”
My jaw drops, but I shut it as quickly as I can. Still, it’s out there, and my eyes flick up to his with so many questions.
When?
How long has he been separated?
Please tell me I wasn’t the other woman, even if it was only for one night.
He rubs his hand against his jaw, and I sit on the edge of my seat waiting for his response.
“No comment.”
I try to keep my composure, I really do, but I can’t hide the visible wince. The two words feel like a slap in the face.
Looking down, I try to focus on what question to ask next, but I can feel my hands trembling.
“Are you— Do you— You know what?” I reach for my phone and hit pause on the app so it’s no longer recording us. I’m finally able to show the frustration I’m feeling, but I keep my voice low. I’m not going to yell, still I need to know. “I’m going to ask you again off the record. Are you in the process of getting a divorce?”
Grayson looks away and removes his glasses, tucking them into his shirt pocket. His pause is much too long for my liking.
“Professor Hayes,” I say sternly.
His light brown hair bounces smoothly as his head turns. “My divorce was finalized three months ago.”