Trying not to wake Kai, I fumbled under the picnic blanket for my phone, wishing I hadn’t scoffed at that beeping locator keychain my mother had given me one Christmas. Just before I went into full-blown panic, I found the phone, nestled right where the small of my back had just rested. The tender ache now explained, I opened the home screen and gasped in horror: 8:16. I had planned on starting my morning inventory at Thrill no later than 7:00.
I scrambled to a seated position, my mind racing. My shoes were damp with dew, making it hard to get them on. I was pointing my toes and wiggling in a bizarre lower body shimmy when I realized Kai was propped on one elbow and staring at me. An impressive cowlick spiked a curl above his left eyebrow.
“Headed out?” he asked, amusement in his eyes.
“It’s so late,” I said, breathless but finally victorious with the shoes. “I should have been at work over an hour ago. You, too!” I said, my anxiety suddenly doubling. “It’s after eight! People are probably lined up outside Howie’s, and you’re not there!”
“Hold on there, tiger,” Kai said, covering a yawn. “Sunshine is opening up this morning with my sub cook, Hugh. They’ll be fine.”
I was incredulous. “You have a sub cook? But you own the restaurant. How do you know he’ll do things right? What does he know about your grandma’s pancakes?”
Kai watched me as I circled our little clearing to gather our mess. “Hugh is a very capable cook. I trust him. And my grandma’s pancakes aren’t exactly rocket science.” He reached over to still my hands as I started to stack our dishes from the night before. “Hey, take a deep breath. It’s still early in the day, right? You’ve got plenty of time to make up for a late start.”
I stopped and considered his advice. He might be right—in fact he probably was right, but nope, I couldn’t go there. I tried taking a few deep breaths, but it felt like cheating. I quickly resumed my real-life shallow breathing.
“So, we must have fallen asleep,” Kai said, his eyes sparking with mischief.
I shook my head, a smile creeping into my voice. “I guess so. The last thing I remember is laughing at your lame Trivial Pursuit story—”
“That is a very interesting story,” he said, all seriousness.
“Please never, ever tell it again. Apparently it induces a deep, coma-like sleep in hapless victims.” I leaned over and kissed him lightly on the mouth, but he tugged me toward him and made me linger for more.
“I have to go,” I said in my kitchen voice when I pulled away.
He laughed, typically a response I did not receive when I used The Kitchen Voice. “So you’ve said. Just five more minutes? I’ll sprint with you back to your apartment.”
I shook my head and flicked a series of leaves off my jeans. “Sorry. I can’t. I’m freaking out right now and I have to go.”
“Hey, they can wait.” He tried pulling me to him, but I pushed back, feeling a chip descend on my shoulder.
“No, I can’t. I’m the new girl. Remember? I still have a lot to prove, and I don’t want to set a bad example.” And what I do is a little more complicated than frying eggs and flipping burgers, I thought, but did not say.
“Got it.” He stood and gathered the corners of the blanket. “How about dinner on your next night off? Indoors, with plumbing and everything.”
“I would love to,” I said, already backing away. “But I feel like I’m forgetting something. Now that we have the TV deal at Thrill—”
“Whoa, what?” Kai sounded fully awake. “What TV deal? You’re doing a TV gig at work? How did you not mention this last night?”
“I probably tried but I couldn’t bear to interrupt you when you got to the part about the Genus IV edition, and whether or not the geography questions are truly worthy of Trivial Pursuit.” I laughed when I saw him roll his eyes. “Call me,” I called as I grabbed my bag and booked it up the hill toward a quick hot shower before a day in the kitchen.
“Soon!” I added and smiled in spite of myself.
I arrived, wet-haired but tidy, at half past nine, a perfectly respectable start time for a pastry chef, but not close to my ideal. Barely pausing to hang my coat, I plunged into the walk-in refrigerator, clipboard at the ready. The chill felt good after all my rushing around, and I noted with pleasure all the neat rows of clear containers, each emblazoned with a stripe of yellow painter’s tape. Most of the handwriting was my own, indicating the ingredient, the amount, and the date and time it was stored. I noticed some loopy cursive in there, however, and I dropped to my knees to inspect Tova’s work. My nose wrinkled at an illegible weight of rendered lard, not because of the idea of pig fat but because Tova’s handwriting was cute and messy. If she started dotting her i’s with little hearts …
The sealed door of the walk-in broke open with a flourish and I jumped, juggling with both hands to avoid dropping the lard. Avery strode in, took the container out of my hands, and placed it onto the wrong shelf.
He faced me. “Are you ready?” The drama in his voice sounded like something on a luxury car commercial.
“Probably,” I said, not in the mood for games. “What are you talking about?” I tried turning back to my clipboard, but he held me by the shoulders.