At this, Alex cocks his head and flashes me a grin, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Can I get that printed on a T-shirt?” His body language is channeling Aw-shucks, give me a break, I’m a nice corn-fed Midwestern guy. I’ve seen this work for him a million times. When we showed up at an off-Broadway play and realized we forgot our tickets at home. When he was trying to get a table at La Petite Poule and they were booked for weeks in advance.
But now he’s using his charms on me.
I press my palms to my frozen cheeks. Last time around, Alex said he agreed with me. I’ve known him for three years and he’s never, ever acted like Zach. Is it possible he’s just not getting it? I try a different tack. “Think how this kind of thing affects me. I created these amazing lavender lemon tarts today, and the Earl Grey fig cake yesterday, and the basil ricotta macarons the day before that. You know who gets credit for all my hard work because I’m only an assistant? The executive pastry chef whose lemon tarts taste like hand soap. And you know why he has that job, and I don’t? Let me introduce you to my friend, Dick.”
Alex’s eyes soften, and he grabs my hand, pulling me toward him. “I know you deserve that job. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make a joke of it.” He wraps an arm around me.
I push a hand against his chest, searching his eyes. “The woman Zach interviewed—whoever she is—she might deserve the job, too.”
He nods, his face earnest. “I hear what you’re saying, and tomorrow I’ll talk to Zach.”
“Dave might be open to discussing this,” I suggest gently. Alex has always had a close relationship with his boss. Dave took an interest in him at a networking event while Alex was still in grad school, and he was a big part of the reason Alex ended up on Wall Street.
“Maybe,” Alex says slowly. His gaze slides to the door of the bar where three men in suits and wool coats step out onto the sidewalk, chuckling over someone’s joke. I flinch as a couple of choice words drift my way. Those guys are not corn-fed Midwesterners and I’m pretty sure the cocks they’re referring to have nothing to do with farm animals. As they head down the sidewalk, Alex looks back at me. “There’s this whole culture in finance, and I’m still learning how to navigate it.”
“I know,” I say, squeezing his hand. The lines around his mouth deepen, and I’m sure he’s thinking of his dad right now. Alex had always meant to get his graduate degree and then move back to Wisconsin to work in his dad’s financial advising firm. But in the second-to-last semester of his MBA program, his dad died of a heart attack. All of a sudden, Alex’s mom found herself alone and in need of money, so she sold her half of the business to her deceased husband’s partner. Just like that, there was no family business for Alex to go back to.
When Dave and Alex hit it off over cocktails a few months later, I know Alex saw more than just an opportunity for a job. He saw an opportunity for a father figure.
The wind picks up, blowing through my dress, and Alex pulls me in for a hug. I decide not to push this anymore. I’ve managed to get my point across without making a scene, and Alex promised to talk to Zach. I won’t have a lonely cab ride home or hear the coldness in Alex’s voice tomorrow. And in a few months, Alex and I will still be together.
Everything is turning out exactly as I wished.
And if a tiny part of me feels as wobbly as a perfect batch of crème caramel, well, it’s better than the alternative.
Chapter 9
March
I’m spreading ganache on a chocolate orange layer cake when Xavier comes tearing into the kitchen. “Sadie.” He points a finger at me. “I need you to help the servers in the dining room tonight. We’ve got some VIPs who need extra attention. There’s a server’s shirt hanging in the break room.”
“But”—I drop my spatula in the pot of chocolate—“I’m not a server. I don’t know the specials or the wine selection, or—”
“Oh”—Xavier waves his hand as if he’s shooing away a fly—“you’ll be fine.” And with those words, a version of this exact same conversation slowly comes back to me. I dig deep in my memory to recall what Xavier is going to say next. It dawns on me at the same moment the words come out of his mouth. “Just smile and help top off the water glasses.”
Last time around, I’d slapped my hands down on the prep table, stood up to my full height, and told him that his words were insulting to the servers. “And did you just tell me to smile? Really? Like I’m some sort of ornament?” He’d stormed out of the kitchen before I could say any more, and I went back to making my cakes.
Just like last time, I feel my palms hit the table and my mouth open, ready to tell Xavier exactly where he can shove his smile. But as the words are forming on my lips, I manage to grab Sadie of the past and yank her back from the edge of the cliff.
Not this time around. This is my second chance, and I’m not going to risk my job over this. “Um, excuse me, Xavier? Can I have a moment?”
Xavier has already moved on to berating the dishwasher for some spots on the water glasses, and I’ve interrupted him in his happy place. He swings back around to me. “What?”
I clear my throat. “I have four cakes to decorate for the lunch event tomorrow. If you need more help in the dining room, I’m wondering if Doug wouldn’t mind.” I gesture to our newest line cook. Doug has only been on the job for about a week, so he’s mostly been training and doing a little light prep work. “It might be good experience for him to spend an evening in the front of the house.”
Xavier looks Doug up and down. “He can do the cakes.”
I can’t help myself, and I blurt out, “Doug will do the cakes? He’s been here a week. He doesn’t have any training!”
Xavier turns to Doug. “Hey,” he calls across the kitchen. “Doug. Can you finish making these cakes?”
“Uh—” Doug’s voice cracks and he looks wildly around the room, probably for someone to save him. “Uh—Yes? I mean…” He clears his throat. “Yes. Of course.”
“There you go,” Xavier says, and then he spins on his heel and leaves the kitchen.
As soon as the door swings shut, Kasumi comes running over. “Oh my God. I can’t believe that just happened.”
“Right?” I say, pulling off my apron and slapping it on the table in front of me. “I mean, he told me to smile? What the hell? And I can’t wait to see this shirt I’m supposed to wear.” I stop muttering and look up to find Kasumi giving me the side-eye. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You’re not actually going to let Doug make your cakes so you can go work the front of the house—are you?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“I don’t know.” Kasumi lifts a shoulder. “Maybe? I mean…” She trails off, giving me a sly smile. “You are the one who unionized our entire class to get the school to pay us for our internship hours.”
I laugh at the memory. It was a culinary school requirement for students to gain experience in the school’s restaurant, and it never sat right that we were required to work for free in order to earn our degrees. “Well, I couldn’t have done it without your amazing social media campaign.”