Chapter 4
He was beautiful—tall, muscular, with chiseled features and a head of sandy blonde hair—the most beautiful man Jennifer had ever seen. She could hardly take her eyes off him as the warm, afternoon sun made his hair sparkle.
"Have you ever seen anyone more gorgeous in your life?" she whispered to Dee Dee as they arranged canapés on four large, round trays at their shaded work station.
"I can't believe you!" Dee Dee sighed. "We cater a wedding and you fall in love with the groom. What kind of self-destructive behavior is that? But at least you're looking. I'm glad you're looking." She surveyed the wedding guests from the brick patio of the rolling ranch-style house.
"Can't you feel the electricity?"
"The only electricity you're feeling is a wayward spark from the very complete circuit that's running between the newlyweds. John Allen could have any woman he wants. Everyone knows that—including him—and he chose Lily Dawber, first runner-up in this year's Miss Georgia pageant."
"He looks even better in person than he does anchoring the news on Channel 14, don't you think?"
"He's hungry."
"What?"
"He's hungry. They're all hungry."
"How do you know that?"
"It says so right here on the order. Bride and groom arrive at reception site. Drinks and hors d'oeuvres served. The bride's family says they're hungry, so they're hungry. Don't blow this one for us, Jen. It's spring, an especially warm spring, and the beginning of the catering season. There're a lot of important people here, even if it is a small wedding. We could get jobs from this."
Jennifer shouldered a large platter and tacked on an artificial smile. "I'm smiling. I'm serving. I'll be back when the hungry hordes have devoured these delicacies."
She moved into the crowd clustered around the edge of the oval-shaped pool. Dee Dee was right. They were hungry. In less than five minutes she returned with her tray stripped of its contents and retrieved a second salver. "I just hope we brought enough with us," she said over her shoulder to Dee Dee. "They act like they skipped lunch."
She headed out to a group chatting next to the cherry trees which were in full bloom. "Canapé?" she asked. The cluster broke and regrouped with her at the center as they made their selections.
One distinguished-looking, white-haired man, only two inches taller than Jennifer's five foot, six inches leaned close to her ear. "These are mighty good," he told her, taking a third sample. "Do you have a card?"
"I know you," she said, her eyes widening. "You're Steve Moore, twelve o'clock news."
The man smiled, the charming, worldly smile she'd seen so often on her TV set. "That's right, little darlin', and you are…"
"Jen, that is, Jennifer Marsh of DD Catering." She reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a business card.
"And I can reach you here?"
"We offer a full range of services," she stated.
His face was a little too close to hers, and the smell of champagne on his breath suddenly engulfed her as he moved even closer to her shoulder. "You don't say."
Jennifer blushed hotly. "If you'll excuse me, I'll get some more canapés." She escaped back down the other side of the pool where she offered two guests the last of the hors d'oeuvres.
As she headed back toward the work station, she heard a voice behind her.
"Moore scare you off? Don't let the rest of us starve because some old lech was breathing down your blouse."
The heat that was fading from her face returned with full force. She whirled, the tray almost clipping the ear of a dark-haired man who looked to be in his early thirties.
"Whoa! Watch it with that thing, will ya? I can just see the headline my editor would put on that story. 'Brash Reporter Decapitated by Beautiful Caterer Wielding Unbelievably Large Tray.'"
All of the blood in Jennifer's body had now accumulated in her cheeks. "Look, I'm sorry, really sorry. Did I hit you?"
"Just grazed me was all."
They stared at each other. There was something in those eyes, some kind mysterious inviting quality that said if she'd only give him a chance, she just might find him irresistible.
Fat chance! she thought and turned to head back to Dee Dee.
"You should watch out for Moore," he called after her, catching up to her side. "He's got a reputation for using his status as a TV anchor and that perfect smile to impress the ladies."
"You needn't worry. I'm not easily impressed."
"So I noticed."
She dropped the tray onto the table next to Dee Dee who was frantically spreading cream cheese on tiny bits of bread. The other three trays sat full.
Jennifer pulled at the elasticized bow tie at her neck. It plopped back into place. "What do you think about getting some other uniforms, something a little less revealing?"
Dee Dee stared at the crisp, pleated tuxedo shirt that was buttoned all the way up to the mandarin collar. "What did you have in mind? A gunnysack? You're an attractive woman, Jennifer, and there's nothing more appealing to a man than a woman offering food. Who was hitting on you this time?"
"Some old man from TV," she grumbled.
"And who's your friend that followed you home?" Dee Dee asked.
"Sam Culpepper, Macon Telegraph." He extended his hand toward Dee Dee. She opened hers. It was smeared with spiced cream cheese.
"Sorry. Dee Dee Ivers."
"You feed them," Jennifer interrupted. "I'll spread cream cheese and you feed them."
"All right," Dee Dee agreed, wiping her hands on a towel. "We'll open the buffet in about forty minutes. We only need one more tray full. And don't forget to add the prosciutto."
Dee Dee hefted a platter onto her shoulder and took off toward the crowd.
"I'd be glad to help," Sam offered.
"You can't. You're not licensed, and you haven't had a TB test." Jennifer slapped the spread onto a small rectangle of bread, added black olive slices, rolled it up, and stuck a tooth pick through it.
"You forgot the ham," Sam said.
"No, I didn't," Jennifer assured him.
"You're not really a caterer, are you?" he asked.
She stopped and stared at him. "Of course, I am," she stated emphatically before returning to the tiny sandwiches. "Why did you say that?"
"It seems to me this is probably the last place you'd like to be right now."
"Did you consider it might be the company and not the job?"
He laughed. "Could be, but that plastic smile you sport when you're serving is a giveaway. You're far too easy to read."
"And I suppose you're an expert on reading people."
"It's my job."
"You don't say."
"The best skill an investigative reporter can have is being able to tell when someone is telling the truth."
"Then see if you can decipher this: I've got work to do, and I'd really rather you'd just leave."
"Sure. That one is easy: you're telling me that you find me incredibly attractive, and you'd love to have dinner with me Friday night."
She looked him up and down and sighed. "Why do I feel like I just stepped into an enormous wad of bubble gum?"
Dying to Get Published Page 4
