The Baroness has built up such a hype since my friend Stevovo gave us a shout-out on his drive-time radio show. We’ve been inundated with messages on our social media page, all anticipating our opening. The publicity campaign’s had better responses than I’d anticipated. Even in my other businesses, I’ve never seen so many pre-bookings. Preparations have been going so well that we’ve had to advertise for a Junior Chef.

As a result, we’ve had to increase the number of staff. The ad placed on The Times has had an amazing response. Amazing in quantity, that is.

Alonzo, my Head Chef, assures me that the next candidate is his favourite. Something about an impressive resume and the work ethic to back it up. I’ll believe it when I see it.

“Next”, I call, unimpressed from having seen a dozen lacklustre candidates since 9.

The shuffle of high-heeled footsteps alerts me that it’s a woman. Part of me has already scored her negatively for wearing high heels to this type of job.

“Liz, could I get a cappuccino, please?” Something for the candidate as well,” I say, dismissing my secretary.

“Just water, thanks,” says the person she’s just ushered in.

Liz walks off and I continue with my paperwork. A few minutes pass before I notice the tension. The woman. She must’ve been standing there all along.

She clears her throat, demanding my acknowledgement. Sassy.

“Have a seat,” I say, still looking down.

She pulls the chair opposite mine. A waft of jasmine sails through the air when she sits down. Great. The last thing I need is a distraction.

“Name, please?” I say, tapping my fingers against the desk. Perhaps I should’ve let the Head Chef handle this. Today’s not a good day, with so much on my mind. We need to open tomorrow. With all those food bloggers, influencers and press members on the guest list, we can’t afford to mess up.

“Ambrosia Morgan.”

That sounds familiar. The moment I see her face, it’s demystified. Those are not the kind of green eyes you forget. But could it be–

“You!” we both say, equally incredulous.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, my brow already wrinkled with annoyance.

Of all the acts of random coincidence, this is the most cringeworthy.

“You advertised for a Junior Chef, didn’t you?” she says, shrugging.

“So, you decided to stalk me?”

“Please. Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not as amazing as you believe.”

“Your appraisal of my performance was…uhm…very favourable, the last time we saw each other.” I laugh.

Maybe I’m beginning to enjoy this more than I intended. But WTF, really? What are the chances?

“You mean before you ghosted me?”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it that,” I say.

“What exactly do you call it? Not that I care. In fact, goodbye.”

The last bit takes me by surprise. I might have pushed her too far. Not exactly professional.

“Wait, I’m sorry. I just didn’t expect to see you after–”

“After we screwed in a public toilet and you took my number, promising to call?”

By all accounts, I sound like an asshole. I probably am. Not that this bothered me back then. Besides, it’s not like she was expecting a marriage proposal from a stranger she had fun with on a night out.

“Excuse me, but what bearing does this have on the fact that you turned up at my doorstep, unannounced?” I ask, getting irritated by her recriminations.

“Trust me, you’re the last person I ever wished to see”, she says, her nose up in the air.

This isn’t going anywhere.

“Look, if it’s any consolation, I’ll compensate you for the time you wasted coming here. We don’t ever have to see each other again after this. Sorry for the inconvenience.” I say, pointing her towards the door with my extended right hand.

“So you’re excluding me despite your Head Chef calling me and telling me I was the best candidate of the lot?”

She stands before me, arms akimbo as she confronts me.

“Great. So you’re a stalker and an activist. Fun,” I say.

“You’re about to find out. Social media feminists will have you for breakfast before you can open your pretentious little restaurant, Mr. Ted Banks.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Never. I don’t resort to threats. I promise you’ll regret firing me before I even start.”

Shit. This is gonna be strenuous. Why is she so determined to put both of us in this awkward position?

The last thing I need is to get cancelled by those keyboard-warrior zealots. Maybe I should pay her to disappear.

“So what now?”

Tell us: What advice would you give the narrator?