I’d had to leave my apartment in disarray after baking cupcakes with Kai, and I cringed to remember the mess that would greet me when I returned home. The cupcakes were finished. Odd but finished.
Kai had won his argument with the bacon, but I conceded only to a monastic crumble of extracrispy bits, as underdone bacon would have violated every personal code I maintained. I forced him to make his own frosting and to include a maple accent, and the bacon/maple combo could only be used on half of the batch. The others, all mine, turned out beautifully and as previously discussed with Manda: strawberry-raspberry cakes with a light and airy lime frosting. I would garnish with a single perfect raspberry right before the party.
Kai was inappropriately confident about his creations, sure they would win the vote he was now prepared to initiate come party time. Honestly, if the man hadn’t been so ridiculously good-looking, I would have held fast to my rule never to allow the bacon trend to infect my kitchen. The guy looked amazing in jeans and a T-shirt, and suddenly I’m allowing pork products on my cupcakes? Would the real Charlie Garrett please show herself?
Standing now in the center of Thrill’s dining room, I felt every mile I’d walked throughout the day. I let myself down heavily onto the rustic wooden hearth that spanned the length of the fireplace. Its gas flames licked at a row of fake firewood. A tired sigh escaped my lips as I slumped. The elegance and beauty of the room enveloped me and reminded me why I loved working in restaurants. Every so often, I liked to come out to the front of the house. It was so easy to get lost in the abyss of the kitchen and to forget about the world beyond the swinging doors. The people who sat every night in the sea of plush chairs drank in this view, this landscape of wood and tile and color and flowers. They didn’t get bombarded with the intensity and unforgiving pace of the kitchen. They heard laughter and conversation vibrating around them, not the slamming of metal on metal, the cursing and tempers that flared over and over throughout one evening in the back of the house. The people who ate at Thrill loved this room—and lately, probably the idea that they could possibly make the final cut and appear in one of the episodes.
It was then that I noticed with a start the absence of all the TV production clutter: no cameras, no mics, no thick cords snaking along the floor. The uncomplicated calm was my scene-stealer in that moment. I sat in the chair, trying to bottle the peace of the room, trying to capture the way a patron must feel when waiting for her meal. I closed my eyes and hoped to bottle the serenity and take it with me.
My phone vibrated, and I retrieved it from my pocket.
Kai: Ready to get trounced in the Great Cupcake Throwdown?
I laughed as I typed my response.
Me: It’s late and you must already be asleep. Sweet dreams, dear boy. That’s the only place you’ll be trouncing.
Kai: Where are you?
Me: Just leaving work. Beyond tired and headed to bed. But happy I’ll be seeing you in the morning. I’ll still want to date you, even though your cupcakes will taste gross.
Kai: You are on some kind of arrogant, pastry chef crack. See you on the battlefield. Sleep well, pretty girl.
The door leading to the kitchen swung open, and I tucked my phone into my pocket before turning to see who was coming into the dining room. Avery picked his way slowly through the tables and chairs. He looked rumpled and every bit as spent as I felt. He offered a tired smile, pulling his chef’s hat off as he joined me at the hearth.
“Hey,” he said. “Are you as wiped as I am?”
I nodded. “I’m so glad we’re almost finished filming. I never thought I’d long for the days of boring old fifty-hour work weeks.”
He looked chagrined. “I’m sorry about that, Char,” he said. “You came out here for a saner life, and I feel like I’ve welcomed you into Insanity 2.0.”
Even my laughter sounded tired. “If I recall correctly, you were the one who pointed out that I had no friends. Now I finally have a few good ones in town, but they’re all irritated with me because I can’t ever see them.” I shook my head. “I’m not sure what’s worse: loneliness or knowing the cure is just out of reach.”
“Whoa, there, Aristotle,” he said. A smile broke through the deepening lines on his face. “You won’t be lonely forever. We’ll finish filming, do the promotional stuff, and then you and Wildflower Man can go frolic through all the fields you want. Until next season.”