I stood quickly, clutching my bag in both hands, and followed the movie star through her palatial home and back to the area of the house where I felt most comfortable. I air-kissed Tiffany as she walked away, leaving me alone to greet the rush and bustle of the team Avery had assembled from Thrill. They moved in a quiet, controlled manner, all under the watchful attention of the cameras and production crew that had been able to tag along only because of Margot’s promise that they would stay in the kitchen for the evening. Now that I knew Margot and Tiffany were old friends, I was sure this evening had been cooked up between the two of them. A pulse of doubt rippled through my thoughts, and I wondered if Tiffany and Mac really had liked what I had served at Thrill, or if it had all been preplanned before they’d set foot in the restaurant.
No matter, I thought as I caught Avery’s eye from across the room. It doesn’t matter how I got here, just that I’m here. I steeled my shoulders and walked toward Avery, stepping over a camera cord and a man fiddling with a boom mic. Linoleum-clad kitchens in Minnesota, galley kitchens in New York, commercial kitchens in Seattle, Architectural Digest kitchens in the homes of celebrities—I’d tried them all. And, I thought, as I moved toward the ovens and my crates of supplies, I knew how to make them obey me.
Avery approached. “Ready?” he said, his eyes shining.
I didn’t say anything in response. I didn’t need to. We both knew the answer to such a silly question.
19
THE following morning, I made a mad dash around my apartment, picking up stray newspapers, empty coffee mugs, shoes, and coats and gave myself a hearty verbal lashing on what a slob I’d become. Since when was it all right to leave little pools of Shiraz in the bottom of a wine glass to be scrubbed out when they became dry and unyielding a day later? When had I decided that flinging a drippy raincoat on the tile was a better option than shaking it out over the sink and hanging it above the tub, like any self-respecting clean freak would do? When, for sweet goodness’ sake, had my organic 1 percent milk curdled in a desolate and barren fridge and I hadn’t even noticed?
Since when?
I felt a smug smile form in response to that question: since I’d started meeting movie stars and cooking for them in their own houses.
I hummed as I continued my clean up, trying to create some sort of order before Kai came over to help with Zara’s birthday cupcakes. The images of the TiffanTosh event swam before my eyes as I swept the floor around the kitchen island. I remembered the warm, tawny light of a dining room bedecked with candles; how I felt when the dessert plates came back to the kitchen, practically licked clean; the way Tiffany introduced me to the entire dining party as “Seattle’s newest gift” and said that I was “nothing short of a sugar genius.” I wanted Kai to see all those memories, to feel them with me, but I knew that by the time I could tell him everything, some of the sheen would be lost, some of the sharpness dulled.
I was deeply involved in this remorse and a vigorous scrub of the kitchen sink when the phone rang from the concierge’s line. I pushed the button to allow Kai up, noting with alarm that he was fifteen minutes early. Plus, I’d given Omar the go-ahead to let Kai up without the need for that infernal buzzing. Strange, I thought as I tossed my sponge under the sink and reached for the trash can.
The elevator door opened, and I finished lining the bin with a fresh bag before popping my head above the counter.
I did a double take. “Avery! What are you doing here? I thought—”
“—that I was someone else?” He grinned, looking like a cat who had just enjoyed a plump canary. “I can see that. You never wear your hair down for me.”
My hand flew to my hair, self-conscious under his teasing eye.
“But listen,” he said, still grinning, “I won’t stay long. I brought you these.” He held out a dramatic, statuesque bouquet, bursting with birds of paradise, deep purple orchids, fully opened and fragrant roses. I took them and thanked him with a peck on the cheek.
“To the toast of the town,” Avery said, sounding a bit like a proud coach. “You absolutely crushed it last night.” His eyes shone. “Could you believe it?”
“No!” I said, giddy and relieved not to have to hide it. “The whole night was insane. Could you believe that house?”
“Unreal.” He crossed to the kitchen and took a seat along the counter while I rummaged for a vase. “And have you ever seen so many ridiculously beautiful people in one room?”
I shook my head. “It was unbelievable. Willa Olivier was far prettier in person. And so was her date. What was his name again?”
“Christian Bjornberg. Swedish star of Zeus: Prime Meridian.”
Avery accepted the glass of lemonade I offered. “I want to know every word they said to you. Out with it.” He lifted his eyebrows over his glass.
“From what I heard, they loved it all. The cherry almond fritters, the boysenberry brioche pudding—my personal favorite.”
I smiled. “Thank you. And the baked whiskey chocolate tortes. Mac asked for a second plate of those.” I blushed, remembering how the actor came back to the kitchen to put in his order personally.
“Could you believe it when they asked the two of us to come into the dining room for an after-dinner coffee? I talked with Roger DuPage for, like, twenty minutes. He’s the most powerful agent in Hollywood! And he asked me to pass the cream and sugar!”
“I know,” I said. “Tiffany introduced me to guests I’ve only seen in People while getting my hair cut. Margot said—”