“You’re really not a man of many words,” Pippa notes, seemingly unfazed.
I clear my throat, trying to get my shit together. I’ve already been here far longer than I’d anticipated. Trisha made it sound like a done deal; I just had to come in and tell Pippa myself I needed help. But I should’ve known she’d put up more of a fight. “I’ve got to get back to the opening.”
She nods, but as soon as I wonder if she’s going to forget about her previous request, she holds out her hand between us, her pink-painted fingernails waggling in front of her. “Shake on it. Give me your word that you’ll agree, and I’ll blow the socks off all your entitled friends.”
Not having any other options, I hold my hand out and wrap my fingers around hers. My hand dwarfs hers, but it welcomes the warmth. My skin is cold and dry against her soft, warm palm.
“So it’s settled,” she says, her voice breathy again.
“Yes,” I clip, letting go so I don’t have to feel her bare skin against mine for another second. My father always told me to never be the first to break a handshake, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I can’t touch her—thoughts I shouldn’t have fill my head, and I know I’d regret every single one rushing through my mind if I acted out on them. “Bring the food when it’s ready. I’ll also need your help serving it.”
“Wait, what?” she questions, anger flashing in her eyes.
A grin pulls at my cheeks. “See you in a bit. Don’t disappoint me.”
“I hate you!” she calls out.
I chuckle, stopping in front of the door. “Not as much as I hate you, shortcake.”
8
PIPPA
“I don’t know if I’m going to be able to feel my feet after this,” Lexi whines from my side. I’d recruited her and Bri’s help the moment Camden waltzed out of my kitchen, knowing I’d need more backup to execute my plan for the night. I hated asking Bri to stay past closing, but we needed the help, and she was excited for the extra money.
The two of us work at twisting dough into mini soft pretzels. The dough has been enriched with garlic and rosemary in a way that makes the baked goods seem more luxurious. Camden’s gallery opening officially started an hour ago, but we’ve been serving a couple of different finger foods at a time to allow us to offer a variety of options.
So far, people seem to be enjoying the food, but I agree with Lexi. I’m exhausted.
“At least you had the day off,” I counter, brushing butter mixed with rosemary on each of the shaped pretzels. “I’ve been on my feet since four this morning, and there’s a great possibility that my feet will fall off.”
Lexi laughs, grabbing a pan filled with precooked pretzels in each hand and walking them over to one of our ovens. We managed to call in Lauren as well, and she and Bri are busy over at the gallery, serving the food and making sure it all goes smoothly there.
With the pretzels in the oven, I turn to the pesto mozzarella rolls I have cooling on a rack. I put my hand over them, satisfied with the temperature they’ve cooled to. “Okay, I’m going to go run these over,” I tell Lexi. It’s my turn to pass them out, even if I really don’t want to go next door because I’m far too interested in watching Camden in his element than I should be. I can’t help it. The guy is a raging asshole—probably the biggest one I’ve ever met. But damn, I don’t know how he turns on the charm when working. It’s intriguing to watch everyone in his vicinity gravitate toward him. They eat out of his palm. It’s transfixing.
“Good luck over there. Those people are feral for the food,” Lexi warns.
I can’t help but laugh at her remark. The people at his opening are ravenous for everything we’ve made tonight. We’re trying our best to keep up with their hunger, but damn, spending money apparently makes people starved.
Before I go, I look at my reflection in the stainless steel refrigerator. My cheeks are flushed from working so hard, and my smooth hair from earlier in the day is gone. Left in its wake is a frizzy mess. Sighing, I take two seconds to try and tame it. I attempt to pull it back in a chic, slicked-back bun. But it doesn’t look as chic as I’d imagined it would.
“Would you rather me take this round?” Lexi asks from behind me.
“No.” I sigh, wiping a bit of flour from my forehead. “This is just going to have to work.”
“I think you look hot as hell. The bun looks good.”
“I don’t have to look hot. I just don’t want to look like I just got electrocuted as I walk around a bunch of people with expensive blowouts.”
“Honestly, they could look better. I feel bad for them if they’re paying good money to have their hair look like that.”
I laugh because she has a point. “I just wish I didn’t look like I’m about to go to church in this outfit.” Luckily, I keep an extra outfit at the shop just in case I have an event I forgot about. Unfortunately for me, I forgot that my spare outfit is a dress that does nothing to accentuate my body. It’s tight around my boobs, and the fabric hugs me oddly in other places. It’s like wearing an ill-fitting paper bag. Just another reason I feel severely out of place at Camden’s stupid opening.
But the people there probably won’t even spare me a second glance while I serve them, so it doesn’t really matter. At least that’s what I tell myself as I pick up a platter and rest it on my shoulder. Every single person at the event feels like they don’t belong in this, and I hate it. I want the rooms to be filled with locals, people who could tell you who makes the best lasagna in town or who is sleeping with who despite being married to other people.
That’s what it was like when the Richardsons still owned it. Sure, people vacationing would stop in. But it still felt like a little piece of Sutten. What Camden has created doesn’t feel like home. Not in the slightest.
Lexi follows me out of the kitchen, holding the door open as I walk over to the gallery. The awning is black with boring block letters. It looks funny next to my bright pink awning. I’ve got greenery outside the front, vines crawling up the fixture to make the atmosphere feel even more cozy.
Next to me sits Ms. Lori’s flower shop. It’s also full of life and color. Camden’s place sticks out next to our buildings like a sore thumb.
A rush of hot air hits me when I walk through the open door of the gallery. With all of the lights shining on the art and all of the people, it feels way warmer in here than it does outside. It’s part of the reason I threw my hair up, needing it off my neck as I carry around the tray and serve people.
These rich people are hungry vultures. The moment they spot me with a tray of new food, they beeline for me, all of them picking the food off the tray before I even have a chance to tell them what it is.
“Are these gluten-free?” one of the women asks, eyeing the rolls like she’s starved.
“Uh, no,” I answer.
She pouts, jutting her bottom lip out so far that it leaves a lipstick stain in the cleft of her chin. “There should be gluten-free options here,” she tells her friend. All her friend does is nod, her mouth too full of the mozzarella ball to say anything else.
I step away from them, hoping to leave the conversation behind. There are plenty of people who don’t care what’s in the food, and they take it without asking any questions.
I didn’t know art could make people so hungry.
Stopping next to a large group of people who all want to take a roll, I let my eyes roam the space. It feels so…clean in here. The walls are white, the concrete has been painted white, and the only splashes of color are the art.