The Girl Who Wrote The Dating Manual

epilogue

Snowflakes fell from the darkened sky, each one intricate and unique, and in the distance a taxi beeped as I stepped over a gunmetal-gray puddle and shoved my hands into the pockets of my trench coat.

            It had been a week since I’d made the move to London, and even now my heart still ached at the thought of Chance and America and Floridian sunshine and everything that had once made my home.

            It wasn’t like England was bad. It was just that I was fast getting the impression it was not a life I’d been groomed for. For one, I was used to sunlight and long daylight hours. Here, it was always cold and rainy and snowy, and I longed just for once to wear a t-shirt outside of my heated apartment—which did live up to everything I’d wanted. It was a nice two-bedroom I frequented alone—and the fact it was free was just a happy coincidence.

            Tonight was my first night where I’d soon be working as a dessert chef in the classy restaurant Rive La Belle. My stomach swarmed with butterflies, and my heart beat rapidly in my chest at the prospect of having a part-time job in such a professional work environment. There’s a difference between the theory of flying to London and doing all of these incredible things compared to actually living in the rainy country and doing it.

            Either way, I had made a promise to myself on the flight to London that, no matter what, I’d stick it through—even if it was just for the three-month trial basis. Because I owed it to myself to persevere and do the best I could with what I was given. And that’s exactly what I planned to do.

            I continued past alleyways filled with people on their smoking break, and looked around at girls in pretty berets and galoshes holding hands with boys as they stepped over puddles and giggled. It made my heart give out a pang. It seemed I found traces of Chance no matter where I went; I’d pass a handsome boy with hair just like his, or smell something that reminded me of him. Sometimes I’d even hear a song that reminded me of us.

            I stopped and ducked into a dark alleyway that would lead into the kitchen entrance for Rive La Belle, and stuck my hands into my pockets as I kept my head down, trying in a vain attempt to stay warm.

            Once I reached the metal gates, I reached out and pulled them open, slipping into the warm atmosphere, which was abuzz with action.

            I stared around in wonderment as people flit around the kitchen preparing meals. A man stood in the corner hurriedly stirring béarnaise sauce in a saucepan, while another girl chopped a ripe yellow squash and dressed a filet mignon. Everyone wore chef caps and nametags, rugged up in thick aprons splattered with flour and sauces. Everyone conversed and moved around in perfect synchronization, and in the corner one TV was playing a football game whilst the radio was turned to a quiet country station.

            A man with salt-and-pepper hair, a three o’clock shadow, and blue eyes walked up to me, ticking things off on a clipboard. He threw me a hasty smile. “You must be Candice Sinclair. I’m Dan Thomas, your boss.”

            I nodded politely. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

            He pointed at a navy-blue door. “Inside are the lockers, where you’ll find your hat, name badge and apron. Dress quickly and meet me out here for a quick prep and introduction to the kitchen. You’re on crème brulee tonight. Think you can handle it?”

            I nodded affirmatively. I’d been cooking crème brulees since I was twelve. “Sure.”

            I scurried off quickly, loving the fast-paced atmosphere and constant buzz rippling through the kitchen. I headed past chopping chefs and sizzling meats and towards the door in question.

            I gasped as suddenly I was assaulted with a hot liquid, and blinked as some splattered onto my face.

            Before me, a handsome guy of about twenty-two or twenty-three stood there, pale and aghast. His jaw was dropped, and he was holding a now empty saucepan whose contents had somehow splattered all over me. I realized with a jolt that I’d run into him as he’d gone across the kitchen, and, due to our collision, I’d ended up with his sauce all over me. Not a good introduction.

            “Oh, my God,” he said, mildly horrified. He had dark, curly hair and blue eyes the color of icicles, and he spoke in a refined British accent I doubted I’d ever get over. “I’m sorry.”

            I forced a tight-lipped smile, feeling some of the sauce drip from the ends of my curled blonde locks. “It’s fine. My fault. I needed a wardrobe change, anyway.”

            “If you ask me, you look quite saucy,” he joked, and cringed. “Did I just say that aloud? Wow, that sounded a lot better in my head.”

            I laughed at his flustered appearance, and he slowly set down the saucepan and held out a hand. “Hi, I’m Will. Will Winchester.”

            I clasped his hand in mine and gave it a hearty shake. “Candice Sinclair. Call me Candi.”

            “Well, isn’t that sweet,” he said, nudging me. “Get it? Candi? Sweet?”

            I laughed at him, and he smacked his forehead. “I’m sorry. I get really awkward when I’m nervous.”

            “It’s fine,” I assured him. “It’s cute.”

            He smiled down at me, and I noticed matching dimples in each of his cheeks, adding another notch of adorable to his appearance.

            Something about the glimmer of mischief in his eyes told me that maybe, just maybe, England wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

The End