Yet standing in front of this delectable little caterer making vaguely flirty comments about how well spicy goes with sweet is a temptation I cannot seem to resist—even though it makes me feel a bit pervy. Especially now that I’m accusing her of the very thing I’m doing—stalking. If I were still an altar boy, there would be penance to pay for a sin of this magnitude. Luckily I’ve let my Anglican membership lapse.
As soon as the whole spicy/sweet comment flies out of my mouth, Aimée’s eyes grow wide and her lips part slightly. The tip of her pink tongue darts out and rests on her top lip like she’s really thinking about my suggestion. Good god, she’s cute. Seriously adorable. Today she’s got her hair up in a ponytail, and she’s wearing grey yoga pants and one of those baseball shirts with pink sleeves and a white mesh front. It’s a sporty, girl-next-door look that we men generally find irresistible. “Are you all right?” I ask her since she still hasn’t answered.
“Yup. I’m good. I don’t like raisins,” she says with a shrug, turning her head and picking up a tiny vial with three saffron threads inside. She asks, “Why aren’t these ever on sale?”
“A couple of centuries ago, they used to be considered as valuable as gold.” You don’t spend the entirety of your adolescent years studying British history without picking up a random thing or two to impress the ladies. Up until now, I haven’t met anyone who would actually care about that little tidbit, which is too bad really, because I can talk up cinnamon like a Sri Lankan farmer.
She nods. “That’s why they used to lock the spice cupboards up. No sense tempting the servants with something this dear.”
For some inane reason, I lift my hand and run the tip of my finger up and down the tiny vial in her hand like I’m caressing her and not her saffron. Then I decide to one up her knowledge of the spice and wing it. “Too bad about the shortage.”
“What shortage?” she demands.
“The shortage that caused the price of saffron to rise to such ridiculous levels.”
“Riiight …” she says, putting the vial down. A thin smile crosses her lips, and she glances up at me. “I never did hear what caused that shortage. Did you?”
In for a penny, in for a pound. “A fire. Huge, forest fire. Several really. Jumped the road and took out all the saffron trees,” I say, suddenly feeling slightly too warm. “Tragic really. Who knows how long it’ll be before they regrow?”
Raising one eyebrow, she says, “Saffron comes from crocus plants.”
“Yes, that’s what I meant. The fire took out the fields of …” I let my voice trail off, then say, “I’m dying here, aren’t I?”
Aimée smiles at me, then covers her mouth. “Beyond resuscitation, I’m afraid.”
“I’ve been working so hard these last months, I must have blown a fuse up there.” I point to the general vicinity of my brain.
She lets out a laugh—not a big one, but audible, nonetheless. The sound makes me want to jump on a couch like Tom Cruise did on Oprah. Note, I didn’t actually watch Oprah, I just caught one or two thousand of the replays. Poor wanker.
“Let’s hope it comes online soon,” she offers.
I’ve completely lost the thread of this conversation and have no idea what she’s talking about. “What’s that?”
Narrowing her eyes, she says, “Your brain. I hope your brain comes back online soon.”
“Oh, right. Yes, that,” I say, snapping my fingers. Then, giving her a grave look, I add, “It’s not looking good, I’m afraid. The poor thing’s been so well-used, it may never be the same.”
“Occupational hazard?” she asks, with a look in her eyes that tells me if I keep this up, I may be able to turn this “accidental” meet-up into a drink. Perhaps even dinner. I am so glad I came all the way to this dodgy shop. Well done, me.
“Yes, it happens to architects, especially ones who fly too close to the stars.” I shake my head. “Sad, really.”
This time she rewards me with a full laugh, the sound even more pleasing to my ears than her gingersnap cookies were to my tongue. “You’re smart to be in your chosen line of work. No danger of overusing your brain.”
Her smile fades and her head snaps back. “Excuse me?”
Oh, bugger. Why did I say that? “I … no, I didn’t mean—”
She’s glaring now. Actually glaring. “To imply catering doesn’t take any brainpower whatsoever?”
“Yes, that,” I mutter. “Of course it takes mental energy. I just meant you probably didn’t have to go to university for six years to get your masters in catering. It’s more of a learn on the job thing, isn’t it?”
Her face turns red, but unlike yesterday’s shower scene, this time, it’s with indignation. “So only jobs that you have to go to a university for require intelligence?”
“No, obviously not. Yours requires a lot of skill, I’m sure. There’s planning and buying ingredients and putting it all together.” Stop talking, you knobhead. Just stop. “It’s just that you can follow a video on YouTube to make a recipe, whereas designing a skyscraper is something that takes immense skill.” So much for stopping.
Yeah, I should not have said that last bit. Her nostrils are flaring right now. They have literally doubled in size. What a cock-up. I’ve definitely ruined the moment. And it was such a nice one at that.
Aimée raises her eyebrows before saying, “Okay, I’m just going to walk over there so I can mindlessly put things into a basket and take them home. Gosh, I hope there’s a good TikTok video for me to watch that will show me how to make a sandwich. Otherwise, I’m going to be in big trouble.”
She tries to squeeze past me without our bodies touching, but it’s impossible in this narrow aisle. I breathe in and am gifted with the same delicious scent on her dress (that I should definitely not have been sniffing like some sicko—twice). My mind goes temporarily blank as I try to salvage the moment. “I … I apologize. I didn’t mean to …”
Turning back to me, she snaps, “For both our sakes, just stop. Good luck with your dinner.”
I don’t think she means that.
“Good luck with your curry.” I try to bring the energy of the conversation back to a congenial level. “It’ll probably be better without the raisins, actually,” I ramble. “I’m sure most people agree with you and don’t even like raisins. Just dried-up grapes, really. Properly overrated if you ask me.”
But she’s already disappeared down the next aisle, leaving me and my dried-up grapes all alone.
Chapter Eleven
Aimée
“What a jackass!” I say for at least the hundredth time since running into Noel at Spice-zing!.
“I seriously love you like a sister,” Teisha says, “but I can’t take it anymore. You have got to stop complaining about Noel Fitzwilliam. Like right freaking now.”
I slam a jar of olives down on the counter and reply, “I’m sorry, but do you remember that guy who asked you to suck his toes? You talked about that for weeks, WEEKS, and I never told you to stop.”
T rolls her eyes at me. “If that gorgeous hunk of man, Noel Fitzwilliam, asked me to suck his toes, I’d be on that like white on rice. But Dwayne was no aristocratic British god and his feet smelled. His feet smelled and he asked me to suck his toes. Now, I ask you, is that something you would have gotten over right away?”
“He told me it didn’t take a brain to be a caterer, T. He insulted the very foundation of who I am!”
“You’re a caterer at your very foundation?” Her eyebrow is quirked in such a way as to indicate she’s not buying it. “At your foundation, you’re a lovely human being. You’re kind, you’re funny, you’re charitable. Yes, you are a caterer, but it is not who you are.”
“Hand me the buffalo mozzarella, will you?” I ask.
“What are you making with it?”
“That caprese salad with the plum tomatoes, Kalamata olives, basil chiffonade and mediterranean vinaigrette.” Then, because I don’t kn
ow when to leave well enough alone, I add, “You know that salad any old monkey at the zoo could throw together.”
“Gah! No more!” Teisha throws a kitchen towel at me. “I’m going to work. I’ll see you tonight, and for the love of God, woman, Noel can be as big of a butthole as he wants. He’s going to launch you into the position of full-time caterer, no-time waitress. Please remind yourself of that.”
After Teisha leaves, I hurry to put together the yogurt and cucumber salad before wrapping up the dessert. I made lemon bars and fudge brownies. Lemon and chocolate are one of my favorite combinations. That whole sweet/tart thing sets my tastebuds dancing, unlike Noel’s stupid spicy and sweet suggestion, which I used to like but never will again. On principal.
Once the van is completely loaded, I run back upstairs to get Cindy’s pants and to take one last look in the mirror. After all, it’s important to look your best while spending the better part of your day sitting in traffic.
Somewhere around Sixty-Third Street, I start to wonder if there is any way I could pack my stuff efficiently enough that I could manage to take the subway in the future. With my luck, I’d probably be mugged for my goodies and left for dead on the tracks.
By the time I get to my old neighborhood, forty-five minutes has gone by. Damn and double damn.
Brown, Brown, and Green Real Estate Developers is located three blocks north of Fitzwilliam & Associates on Wall Street. By the time I get there and park, I only have an hour to haul everything upstairs and set up lunch service before their meeting.
No one is nicely waiting to take me back to the kitchen like Byron did. In fact, when I walk into the lobby, no one is there at all. It’s a typical office, with black leather couches and a tall reception desk under fluorescent lights (but no receptionist). I sit for five minutes waiting for somebody to emerge, but when no one does, I start peeking my head in various offices. While doing this, and coming up dry, I stumble upon the kitchen. I decide I’d better get everything ready to go. Where is everyone?
Twenty minutes before I’m supposed to serve—in a room I don’t even know the location of—a handsome youngish guy pops his head in. I remember him from Friday’s lunch as a two baguette and no salad guy. “Hey, are you Aimée?”
I wipe my hands on a clean kitchen towel and reach out to shake his hand. “I am.”
“I’m Walter Brown Junior. We were really impressed by the spread you put out at that meeting over at Fitzwilliam. Thanks for taking our luncheon on such short notice.”
“No … yeah … I mean, thank you for thinking of me.”
He winks. “I’ve been thinking of your cookies since Friday. My dad even took all the leftovers home with him. He gave me a couple though.” Then he says, “Sorry about no one greeting you. We’re all back in the conference room brainstorming ideas.”
“Sounds painful,” I joke.
“You got that right. We’ve spent years in the planning stages of a new skyscraper that will literally change the way the world views skyscrapers. No pressure, right? Anyway, we’re down to deciding between the last couple architectural firms and we get some distressing news that has us questioning the integrity of the design we were leaning toward.”
I can’t help but wonder if it’s Noel’s design, but there’s no way it would be appropriate for me to ask. Instead, I say, “Better to find out now than after you break ground.”
“You’re a smart lady, you know that?”
Oh, how I wish I had a recording of him saying that. I’d call Noel and leave that sentence on a loop on his voicemail. “Say, I know this is a crazy question, but would you like to have a drink with me sometime?”
Would I? I think about it for a moment too long, because he says, “I’m sorry if I’m being too forward.”
“No, no, no, … yes,” I finally say.
He laughs nervously. “Is that a no or a yes to the drink? I’m a little confused here.”
“It was a no, you weren’t being too forward, and a yes to the drink,” I clarify.
“Just so you know, you could turn me down and we would still hire you. Having a drink with me is not a prerequisite to working for us.”
“And because you just said that, I’d love to get to know you better.”
He breathes a sigh of relief and offers me another smile. “Okay then, I’ll call you in a couple days and we can set something up.” He points to the trays on the counter and asks, “Can I help you carry something?”
“No, honestly, that’s my job,” I tell him.
“I have to show you where the conference room is. You might as well take advantage of a couple extra hands.”
I give him the tray with the curry chicken salad croissants while I pick up the salads. “Thank you, Walter. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.” Now I wish this whole scene was caught on video so Noel could see how a real gentleman behaves.
I’m guessing if I fell into Walter’s arms stark naked, he would have hurried to hand me a towel instead of grabbing my butt like he was laying claim to me. Is it getting hot in here?
After making sure everything is ready for lunch, I leave the conference room. Walter leans his head out and says, “We should be done in a couple of hours. I’m sorry you have to wait for us to clean up.”
“No problem,” I tell him. It’s not like I’m doing it out of the goodness of my heart. They’re paying me to sit around.
After getting back to the kitchen, I tidy up as much as I can before making a fresh pot of coffee and kicking back on a stool. I pull my phone out and text Byron.
AiméeT: Your boss was at Spice-zing! in the Village on Saturday! How crazy is that?
FitzAssoc: Not that crazy. He’s a very worldly man, you know.
AiméeT: He’s got no game with the ladies.
FitzAssoc: Really? What happened?
AiméeT: He told me you didn’t have to be smart to be a caterer.
FitzAssoc: I’m sure he didn’t mean it like it sounded.
AiméeT: I’m pretty sure he did. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. It’s not like I’m dating him or anything.
FitzAssoc: Would you like to? I mean, I could drop a couple hints his way if that’s something that would interest you.
AiméeT: No, thanks. I did get a date with Walter Brown Junior though.
FitzAssoc: WHAT?
AiméeT: Impressive, right? The guy talks to me for less than five minutes and he’s asking me out for drinks.
FitzAssoc: That’s a huge red flag. HUGE. I wouldn’t go. He’s definitely a player.
AiméeT: I didn’t get that vibe from him. I’m pretty sure he’s just a nice guy. If anyone’s a player, it’s your boss.
FitzAssoc: Trust me, he’s not a player. He rarely ever dates.
AiméeT: Probably because he tells women how much smarter he is than they are before asking them out.
FitzAssoc: I’m sure he doesn’t. Are you still coming by this afternoon?
AiméeT: You bet. I’m bringing you some treats too.
FitzAssoc: Shoot. I’m not going to be here. Mr. Fitzwilliam asked me to do a couple of errands for him and I’ll be leaving early today.
AiméeT: No! I was looking forward to laying eyes on your gorgeous self. Don’t worry, I’ll leave some goodies for you.
FitzAssoc: You’re an angel among women. Now, I have to hustle out of here. But before I do, I really think you ought to cancel that date with Walter Junior. Seriously, you deserve better.
AiméeT: Well, until you start playing for the other team, I’m going to have to settle for second best.
FitzAssoc: Let me know what night you’re going out so I can light a candle for you.
AiméeT: Lol. Have a good day, my friend. I hope I see you soon.
I spend the next three hours watching Netflix on my phone, waiting for the meeting to end. At four, I finally peer through the window to see what’s taking so long.
I catch Walter’s eye and he holds up a finger before s
aying something to the people in the meeting. Then he comes to the door and opens it. “Aimée, I’m so sorry! We’re still going strong in here. Why don’t you come in and clear so you can get going?”
“Oh, okay, that would be fine, thanks.” I make several quick trips back and forth to the kitchen. Every time I come back to the table the room gets so quiet, you’d think I was alone.
When I leave with the last load, Walter slips an envelope into my apron. “I’ll call you in a couple of days, okay?” Then he closes the door and goes back to work.
When I finally have everything loaded into the van, I open the check and find the exact amount that we contracted for. No tip. It’s not necessarily considered bad form not to tip on a catered event, but it’s not exactly classy.
I briefly wonder if Walter Junior is asking me to drinks because he’s too cheap to spring for dinner. God, I hope not. I’m due a decent date after the last few disasters.
By the time I park at the Liberty Bank Building, it’s after five. I hope they haven’t locked up already. I need someone to let me in so I can drop off Cindy’s pants and pick up my dress. I’d text Byron and ask, but I know he’s already gone for the day.
Chapter Twelve
Noel
I stand in the quiet of my office, staring into the building across the street. Tiny, cramped cubicles that have been abandoned for the night as their former occupants hurry home to their families. The fading sunlight bounces off the windows, giving them a faint pink glow. I hate this time of day and the emptiness it brings. Most people wish for west-facing houses so they can watch the sunset, but I would much prefer an expansive view to the east. First thing in the morning is when the world is just waking up and the day is filled with potential. It’s a lot less lonely then.
I sigh and check my watch. It’s nearly five thirty and I’m alone, waiting for Aimée to appear to collect her dress and drop off Cindy’s POT, as she put it. I grin at the memory, then, like a punch to the gut, I remember she’s agreed to go on a date with Walter Junior. Why that should bother me is anybody’s guess. I’m certainly not going to ask her out for two excellent reasons.
Text Me On Tuesday: All is Fair in Love and Texting ... (An Accidentally in Love Story Book 1) Page 6
