Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 101736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
“It needs something,” I mused. “Lemon zest to finish?”
Diego grabbed the microplane and a lemon, and grated a few flecks of the rind onto the trio of mini truffles. We sampled again and found ourselves nodding to each other in agreement.
“Better,” he said.
The door to the dining area swung open, drawing my attention, and instantly my pulse jumped. But it was only Colin, not Preston.
My brother took a few steps into the kitchen and looked around with something like awe. Did he feel like he was seeing backstage, where all the magic happened? He took in the industrial space with steel counters and pale gray tiles, and then spied me at the set of burners closest to the plating window.
His gaze slid over my white cap and jacket, and for a long moment he stared at me like I was unrecognizable.
“Yes?” I jerked back the handle of one of the sauté pans where I was simmering shallots in wine for the ravioli sauce.
His tone was cautious. “How are you?”
“Are you asking as my brother, or as the event planner?”
We were in such a weird spot right now. I was so angry with him for his ultimatum and for taking Preston away from me, but I was begrudgingly grateful for this job. Plus, he was my brother, and as shitty as he’d handled it, a small part of me understood how he was trying to protect me.
He moved closer and his voice fell to a hush. “Hey, look, Syd. I’m sorry about the way I reacted to you and Preston being together.”
I stopped what I was doing to give him a hard look. “Can we do this later? I’m already behind schedule.”
He lifted his hands and backed away, wordlessly apologizing. But he’d had his focus on me, so he wasn’t aware he was too close to the side table until he bumped into it.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.
I wasn’t sure if he’d done it in pain, or because he’d knocked my knife bag off the tabletop. It fell to the floor with a loud thud, but thankfully my two best knives were beside me and not inside the bag. If anything else inside there got damaged, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal.
Colin bent, picked it up, and as he returned the bag to the table, the embroidery caught his eye. “This is yours?”
It came out without thought. “Preston got it for me.” I frowned and turned my attention back to my sauté pans. “Is he here?”
“Yeah. You want to talk to him?”
“No.” It came out more forceful than I wanted it to. “Can you do me a favor and keep everyone except for the servers out of the kitchen? Diego and I need to focus.”
His expression was strange. Why did he seem disappointed? But then he gave me a resigned nod. “Yeah. I’ll let him know.” He caught himself. “I’ll let everyone know.”
I didn’t have time to think about his strange response. Diego was setting out plates on the main table so we could assemble the first course. I grabbed a pair of gloves from the dispenser and went to help him.
Dinner service was . . . fucking magic.
It was a perfectly aligned night where everything came together, and it seemed like everyone was in the zone. The waitstaff was friendly and communicative. The timing of the main dishes was flawless, including the one where I’d substituted gluten-free pasta for the guest who had that restriction. Every plate went out hot and we’d nailed the perfect al dente on the ravioli.
The three-course meal was a marathon, but it was one where we had to sprint in three long bursts. Dessert was less stressful since I’d already prepared it at home, but presentation was more important in this course, and so it took the longest. We carefully and cleanly cut the tiramisu in long, narrow rectangles to show off the layers of mascarpone and ladyfingers, garnishing each plate with a half of a strawberry and a chocolate tuile.
“That’s a sexy looking plate,” I said.
Diego laughed, nodding in agreement.
When the final tray left the kitchen loaded with the last of the desserts, I let out a tight breath.
The first two dishes had gone over well. The bussed plates that headed to the dishwashing station had been empty, and no dishes had been sent back for correction.
The anxiety inside me had calmed, but it lingered still as I worked to clean my station. I was emotionally and physically drained, yet desperate for feedback. Plus, I was incredibly proud of what Diego and I had accomplished. I scrubbed the washrag over the front lip of the stove where sauce had splattered—
My back had been turned, and I’d been too deep in my thoughts to hear the door swing open. So, I wasn’t aware I was no longer alone until a deep voice startled me into place.