10:35 a.m. Can you think a little faster?
10:39 a.m. OK. Think about this: Your own pastry kitchen FOR REAL as soon as we’re done shooting the season. In fact, your own pastry kitchen TODAY, just as it has been, only with a few extra people and cameras and mics peeking at your work.
10:40 a.m. And think about this: The publicity. Good publicity is good publicity, Charlie. And good publicity turns into good reviews, higher volume, more opportunities.
10:42 a.m. Don’t TELL me you aren’t thinking what I’m thinking. Cookbooks with your name and face on the cover. Speaking gigs that pay for that house on the beach you’ve always wanted. YOUR OWN PRODUCT LINE.
10:50 a.m. All you have to do is say yes.
I stared at the phone, not bothering to scroll down through the rest of Avery’s messages. I was fairly confident I had the gist of his argument.
The clock on the living room wall ticked toward noon. Typically, I would be arriving at work, taking inventory, discussing the menu with Avery or Chet, trying to keep Tova from destroying anything. I flung my legs off the side of the couch and stood, stretching kinks out of my neck and shoulders.
Pacing from one length of the room to the other, I tried to clear my head. Be reasonable, I told myself, walking a straight line along the wall of windows. Think this thing through. I thought of the beautiful kitchen at Thrill, the easy camaraderie of the staff, the willingness of Tova to listen to everything I said. I thought of the early accolades. I thought of my new digs and how quickly I’d become smitten with Seattle. I stopped pacing, taking in the view of the mountains and the Sound from my window. I thought about my career, what I’d achieved and what remained on my long list of what I wanted to do as a chef.
I thought of Manda, Jack, and the kids, our breakfast at Howie’s.
I thought of Kai. I thought about how I liked thinking about Kai.
I said one naughty word and then jogged to my bedroom for a change of clothes and my bag. I could still make it in time for the first seating.
Avery’s face lit up like an illegal fireworks display when I pushed into his office without knocking.
“To answer your question,” I said, dumping my bag on his desk, “Yes. I do like it here.”
“Exactly!” Avery said, triumphant. “So you’ll do it?”
I stopped in front of him, nose to nose. “I won’t put up with dishonesty, Avery. This cannot, will not, work if I can’t trust you.” My eyes were locked on his. “One more lie, and I’m gone.”
He nodded quickly. “I totally understand. I promise. Total truth from now on.” He held up four fingers in what, I assumed, was supposed to be the Boy Scout’s honor and not a Trekkie salute. “You have my word.”
“I’ll give you one month.”
He started to protest, but I put up my hand to stop him.
“One month working alongside all those people who know nothing about running a kitchen and everything about how to make people watch adolescent blather for hours on end. At the end of the trial period, I’ll let you know my decision.”
“Fine. Fine. I’m sure Vic and Margot will be okay with that. Don’t worry,” he said reassuringly, though I thought he was the one who looked worried. He hugged me, too hard. “Thank you, Charlie. This has been such a dream of mine, to be on TV, to share my restaurant with the world, and you are making it happen. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, but I wouldn’t go that far. I still don’t understand why I have to be involved, and I’m only doing this as a favor. I’m serious, Avery. Don’t mess with me.” I pulled away and turned to the door. Avery opened it for me, and we were both startled to see Margot and Vic waiting outside. I looked at Vic, then Margot. She was looking at me like a petite feline that was allowing curiosity to get the better of her.
“You haven’t even seen the Eleanor Roosevelt documentary, have you?” My mouth upturned in a wry smile.
She threw her head back slightly as she laughed. “I’m afraid not. But if it makes you feel any better, I have been pitching a show called Presidential Kids Gone Wild for the last three years.” She winked at me. “No bites yet. But someday it will sell.” She narrowed her gaze. “Well, Ms. Garrett, are you in?”
I nodded. “For now.”
Avery looked victorious. “It’s never too early in the day for a glass of champagne. Who’s in?”
We all fell into step behind Avery, who strode ahead of us in search of four champagne flutes and our finest Perrier-Jou?t. I would take part in the theatrics, I decided, and I would clink my glass and toast to our success. As long as I still had control of my kitchen and could create my desserts on my own terms, this could work. Maybe, I allowed, it would work even better than my original plan when I’d hopped the flight to Seattle.
I watched Avery uncork a bottle from behind the bar, and I met his hopeful glance with a smile. On my way to join in the revelry, I quickened my pace and, in no time, found I had closed the distance between us.
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