“Oh hey. Morning, Charlie. How are you feeling?” He put his pen down and walked toward her, his concern feigned.
“What do you want, Austin?”
He ignored her. “What do we have here?” He picked up her messy draft recipe sheet, and it was all she could do to keep from tearing it out of his hands. It looked like the demented scribblings of a person who was out of her league, which was precisely what it was. “Inspired by the flavors of an Aperol Spritz?” He glanced at her over the top of the paper. “But you’re a teetotaler, Char. Have you ever tried an Aperol Spritz?”
Right. “I’m not, actually. I just don’t drink often. And this particular cocktail is pretty light, especially if you cut back on the prosecco and up the soda water.”
“You don’t need to explain it to me, Charlie.”
“Well, I would never make something I haven’t tasted, Austin,” Cass said, but she was distracted by Sydney, who was taking the gelée out of the blast chiller. She felt a sliver of panic when she saw it still hadn’t set enough for the cupcake cutouts. “As pleasant as this has been, Austin, I need to get back to it.”
“Looks like you do,” Austin replied, smirking as he took in the pan of gelée.
Cass quickly walked over to Sydney, who was staring at the pan in her hands with dismay.
“Don’t worry about it, Sydney. We’ll get it fixed,” she said. Inside she was collapsing, but she dug deep to find her confidence. “I’ll be right back. Just need to grab something from the supply room.”
In the back room she searched the shelves for gelatin. She’d used a fruit pectin in the recipe, thinking a mostly plant-based cupcake would be in line with the tastes of the L.A. crowd—but that had clearly been the wrong call.
When she found the box of gelatin she was looking for, she went back out to her prep station. She and Sydney worked quickly. With moments to spare, and thanks to the blast chiller and some prayers, the gelée set beautifully, the small circle cutouts were perfect additions to the cupcake. The rush of adrenaline Cass experienced as she placed the first cutout—seeing the beautiful reddish-orange hue of the gelée poking out from under the buttercream—gave her a dawning sense of what Charlie probably felt daily on the show. It was stressful, yes—but it was also thrilling.
Now Sasha had arrived, and she was calling out orders. She paused at Cass’s station, just as Sydney was helping her plate the cupcakes and adding the dollop of prosecco foam and candied orange to the tops. “Those look interesting.”
“Aperol Spritz cupcakes,” Cass said, letting her shoulders relax slightly for the first time that morning. She felt wrung out, but quite pleased with the final result.
Sasha took the spoon Sydney handed her, which held a tiny sliver of the cupcake, a speck of candied orange and prosecco foam on top. Cass held her breath as Sasha popped the piece of cupcake into her mouth, watching Charlie’s boss’s face carefully.
Sasha nodded before handing the spoon back to Sydney. “That takes me right back to Venice,” Sasha said. “I could eat that every day. Well done, Charlie.” She started to head over to Austin’s station, and Cass was pleased to see the small frown he now sported, but then Sasha stopped and did an about-face. In a whisper she said, “Oh, almost forgot . . . Did you bring that stuff for me?”
“Uh . . . I’m sorry, what ‘stuff’？”
“Remember yesterday? I asked about your skin, and you promised you’d bring me some of your family’s starter.” She stepped closer and lowered her voice. “You know I like to keep my personal life out of the workplace, but my ex is going to be at the gala this weekend with his new trophy wife. I need to look ten years younger. I need that bread mask.”
Had Sasha actually been serious about that? Looking at her sister’s boss now, she could see she had been dead serious. And now it looked as though Cass had screwed up. Yet again.
“Right! I’m so sorry. I’ll bring it tomorrow, I promise.” Cass picked up the pen on her workstation and wrote down starter on the back of her hand; it was a reflex. This was how she remembered details at the bakery—if she put them on paper, inevitably she would misplace it—and often her entire forearm was covered in short-form scribbles. Walter always teased her that it looked like she was trying to write a recipe book on her arm, and one day she would turn the bread dough blue with her inky hands. She smiled at the memory, but Sasha and Sydney were staring at her hand, eyes wide and horrified.