by Olivia Luck
Oh, my god, I realize, this is what it’s like to have a crush.
Oscar
“What’s the problem, Clint?” My business partner yammers about the funding for our next venture—a neighborhood café at an affordable price point. He’s talking about a delay in construction. Surprise, surprise. You would think after two gut renovations, Clint would learn that contractors always underestimate the time it takes to complete a project.
Jesus. My relaxing afternoon was interrupted with this shit? Ridiculous. “I don’t know why you’re surprised. We factored extra days in the timeline for construction delays.” I don’t try to hide my boredom. “And we both know you won’t stop riding the project managers until they’re finished. I predict there won’t be more than a two-day postponement.”
“If it weren’t for my persistence, we’d be months late,” Clint snaps.
Pausing underneath the Mercer Club entrance awning, I hand my ticket to the valet. “Is there something you want to say to me, Clint?” I ask evenly.
Tense silence reigns. I imagine Clint taking deep breaths on the other side of the line. “No,” he says shortly. As much as I know he wants to tell me off, he won’t because without my name, he wouldn’t be at the helm of this restaurant trifecta.
The valet idles my S-Class coupe in front of the awning. I slip him a tip and climb into the car. “I’ll be there in fifteen. We’ll talk then.”
“Good,” he grunts, and the line goes dead.
I blow out an annoyed breath of my own. Questioning my partnership with Clint is happening more and more frequent. At first, Clint was the ideal partner. He’s a fucking shark. When I was executive chef of Centered, a restaurant on the north side of the city, he found me and convinced me to get my own spot. From there, he found the investors. Once we had enough cash and street cred, the two of us moved on to more restaurants. Clint was the one who convinced me to participate as a judge on The American Chef, a television show with incredible notoriety despite it being a reality show.
Shifting the car into drive, I glide away from the curb and toward the site of my latest venture.
My shoulders are tight with tension. I need a massage. Better yet, I need to get laid. I can’t remember the last time I took time off and didn’t have Clint clawing at me. Today was the first time in months I’ve had time to myself. When Violet asked me to hang with her and her friends at the Mercer Club, I jumped on the invitation. It wasn’t until I met up with the group that I realized Iris might be there. Seeing her, I felt an instantaneous jolt of . . . something. She’s entertaining and, on some level, beguiling. Unlike most of the ass kissers I come across, she’s authentic. She can’t hide anything with that expressive face.
One glance in the rearview mirror and I realize I’m grinning. A second later, the smug expression slips into a look of disgust. No matter how appealing I find Aurora, I won’t pursue her. I avoid inexperienced women at all costs. Sweethearts like Iris Harper are looking for something I don’t have to give. Those guileless navy eyes seek a committed relationship—marriage, kids, stability. I don’t fuck around with serious relationships or women like Iris. I’ll enjoy ruffling her feathers when I run into her, but it will end there. Conversation. Light flirting. She won’t give me her number, and I won’t take her on a date with the sole purpose of getting her between my sheets, against my wall, or splayed across my kitchen countertop.
I don’t have time in my cramped schedule for a woman. Hell, I hardly have time for myself, let alone another person. Even if I did have the time for a relationship, I don’t think I would pursue one. At thirty-five, I’m self-aware enough to know I’m not an ideal partner. Business comes first. Women don’t like being left at home on the weekend because the restaurant calls. The service industry has punishing hours. Truthfully, the unpredictable schedule doesn’t bother me. What I’m less than thrilled with is my role in the Oscar Alexander Empire. When Mariposa first opened eight years ago, I ruled the kitchen. With each additional restaurant, I became less and less involved with the actual cooking. Sure, I am the driving force behind menu development, but instead of spending my time in the bowels of the kitchen, I’m the face of the operation. That means showing my face around the restaurants, fielding the press, and making appearances at events related to my reality show contract.
Complaining makes me feel like an ungrateful asshole. When I was in the thick of my education at The Culinary Institute, playing sous chef at a restaurant in Brooklyn, I would have killed for the opportunities I have now. All of the roadblocks are gone. Not to sound like an arrogant prick, but the facts are the facts. When your restaurant consistently rates within the top five in the country, doors open. With great success comes great responsibility or something like that.
“Enough with the self-pity, Alexander,” I grunt. I have exactly what I want out of life. When I parallel park my car in front of our latest venture, Mariquita, I push the negative thoughts aside. I’ll mess with Clint. That never fails to cheer me.
Iris
“One of the bridesmaids was ‘over severed’ and is causing a scene in the restroom. Do you want to take it or finish here?” Violet carefully piles clear plastic boxes of candy and glances at me with an arched brow. Security must have relayed the information to her via the hidden device in her ear.
I glance back at her with an arched brow. It’s baffling that she continues to ask questions like this one. Violet knows confrontation is at the top of my list of fears.
“That sounds like something you’re better at. I can handle arranging the party favors.”
Violet chuckles. “One of these days you need to learn the difference between assertive and aggressive.”
“I’m not aggressive.”
“Not in the least,” Violet agrees. “But you think that being assertive equals aggressive. That is absolutely not the case. More on that later. I have to take care of a wayward bridesmaid. You know how to arrange these, rights?”
“Yes, Mistress Harper.” Violet beams, spins around, and scurries off to handle the most recent disaster.
What I’ve learned about event planning is this: no matter how well prepared you may be, something always comes up. A vendor may be late, flowers show up wilted, or an outbreak of salmonella forces a last-minute menu change. All this unpredictability causes me an immense amount of stress, but Violet thrives on it.
Tonight is a three hundred person wedding in a grand ballroom overlooking the Chicago River. An explosion of lavender, white, and silver flowers, linens, and lighting transforms the massive space into a dreamy, romantic escape.
From my vantage point in the rear of the ballroom, I’m able to watch the bride sway languorously in the arms of her groom. Without fail, every wedding I work elicits pangs of longing. The most pathetic part is that I don’t even know what I’m missing. Yes, it’s true . . . I’m a twenty-seven-year-old woman who has never had a boyfriend and barely had a first kiss. Father didn’t allow me to attend any school dances with friends, let alone date. Not that I had many offers. Being the pastor’s daughter didn’t help me much with guys except for the one Father picked for me. I’m aware that I need a bit of experience before I can graduate to a full-fledged committed relationship.
With a discouraged sigh, I finish stacking the giveaways. As the clock approaches eleven, the first round of guests will likely start making their way from the party, though it will last until one a.m. That means Violet and I will remain at the hotel until at least two. Most likely, I won’t be in bed until four.
The irregular hours stink. Confronting tearful or angry clients and guests terrifies me. I am a tried and true introvert and being around all these people with my personality ‘turned on’ exhausts me emotionally and physically.
All that aside, I truly love spending time with my sister and watching her creative concepts blossom into breathtaking events. She does what she does incredibly well, and it’s inspiring to watch her passion for her career.
Violet built a business
that represents an ideal we both value tremendously. One of the cornerstones of Expertly Planned events is community service. Violet’s events have a minimum budget (think huge). The clients are typically society types throwing weddings or influential organizations and people. All Expertly Planned events must have some aspect of charity.
Take tonight’s wedding, for instance. Each plastic box containing candy for the guests also has a card saying that the couple made a monetary donation and spent time contributing to the Chicago Food Bank in honor of their guests. It was Violet’s idea, and the bride and groom cottoned on easily. Their egos are big enough to see that a little community service makes them look like good people. Expertly Planned doesn’t care about the reason for the community service, just that it must happen. Truthfully, it turns away some prospective clients, but it’s a key differentiator for this business model.
“Thank goodness for security,” Violet grumbles appearing by my side. “This bridesmaid was so drunk she could hardly stand.”
“Did she get into a cab safely?”
“A mortified boyfriend hauled her away. It’s all good.” Violet assesses my work with the party favors. “Perfect, Iris. As always, you save the day.”
“It’s only a party-favor arrangement,” I murmur, cheeks heating. Accepting praise doesn’t come naturally to me because I’m not used to it.
“Sister, sister, I won’t stop telling you that you are a gem until you believe it.”
Nudging Violet with my shoulder, I try to divert her attention. “Do you think there are any extra slices of wedding cake we can steal? Strictly for baking research, of course.”
Violet’s eyes dance with humor. “I like the way you think. Let’s go to the kitchen.” I hobble along Violet’s side past the partygoers who somehow master heels much better than I do. These are the best moments of working with Violet; when the party goes on autopilot and we’re able to sneak moments together.
At a quarter to four, Violet gives me an exhilarated grin from her spot in the back of the Town Car driving us to our apartment. “That was a great party, wasn’t it?”
“Wonderful and exhausting.” A yawn sneaks out, and I cover my mouth to muffle the sound. “Thank goodness Cameron insists on hiring us a car to bring us home after these late ones.”
“Don’t you think it’s a bit overprotective? We have a car; it’s not a big deal to drive home,” Violet asks a little anxiously.
“Not a big deal, but it can be dangerous for two young women walking around the city at almost four in the morning. It would be too overprotective if he waited in the wings until the end of the event and drove us home. This, I’m okay with.” Sinking back in the plush leather seat, I kick off the pointy black torture devices covering my feet.
Violet hums a noncommittal sound. “You’re probably right.”
“Definitely right.”
A few minutes later, the driver parks the car at the back entrance to our apartment.
“You okay if I go straight to Cameron’s? I don’t think I’ll come home at all tomorrow.” Violet’s eyes show her concern.
Instinctively, I reach out to her. “I love your concern, Violet, I truly do, but there’s no need to worry. We’ll meet up tomorrow night for that dinner at Tucker’s, right?”
The evening’s adrenaline starts to dissipate, and tiredness makes Violet slump into her seat a bit. “Right. I’ll see you at Tucker’s. Do you want us to pick you up?”
Laughing, I shake my head. “That would be completely out of the way, considering Tucker lives two streets away from Cameron. I’ll drive. No worries. Love you. Sleep well.”
“Love you,” she whispers, signs of fatigue starting to show on her weary smile.
Shoes dangling from my fingertips, I climb out of the car and join the driver at the trunk. I collect the bags of our supplies from the trunk and gingerly make my way inside and then up the stairs. With a thump, all of the bags, my shoes, and my purse meet the hardwood floors. I scurry into the loft, turn on the lights, and then make my way to the window overlooking the alley and wave down at my sister. Only then does she instruct the driver to take her away.
My throat gets tight, and my eyes sting with tears. What a blessing for someone to love you so much that they wait to confirm your well-being. To think, our father’s rules robbed my sister from me for ten years.
Most of the time, I avoid thinking about the time we were separated because it’s too painful. Once Violet declared that she would attend a four-year college away from home, Father took it as an all-out action of defiance. My brave sister didn’t back down, and at eighteen, she left home without looking back. We tried to communicate, talking on the phone until my parents found out. Father demanded that I cut off all communication with Violet and because I was too afraid of the consequences of defying him, we stopped talking. I worried that by maintaining a relationship with my sister, Father would somehow seek to harm her new life.
While Violet was getting her degree, moving to Chicago, and getting married, I finished high school. Under Father’s watchful eye, I lived at home and earned an Associate’s Degree in Business Management. I worked part time at the church, volunteered at the local retirement home, and hung out with John Tyler. Father tried to push John and me together romantically, but try as we might, neither one of us developed anything more than platonic feelings for the other. John Tyler became my best friend by default. He was my only friend.
Then out of the blue, Violet re-emerged. After her firefighter husband had died while on duty, Violet eventually gained the courage to return to Winter. While it took less that one breath’s time for Violet and me to reconnect, Father couldn’t be separated from his grudge against my older sister, and Mother listened to whatever he said.
Seeing my sister again reignited my desire to leave Winter and never look back. If she could chase her dreams, why couldn’t I? It’s sort of like the chicken and the egg; I’m not sure what happened first. Either Violet asked me to work with her, or I told her I wanted to move to Chicago. It doesn’t matter because I ended up moving to the city, and Father disowned me instantaneously. Mother, with her silence, went along with the shun. Because Mother never took a stand against Father’s wishes, I wasn’t surprised that she ignored me. Nevertheless, I wanted her to call me back. She’s my mother.
Life in Winter was oppressive. Stifling. There was no light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. Still, it’s all I have ever known. It was safe. Chicago is uncharted territory and downright scary—but also, exhilarating and teeming with possibilities. Best of all, I have my sister here.
I make quick work of my nighttime routine, scrubbing off my makeup and brushing my teeth. When I finally climb into bed, it’s nearly four thirty. I pull the covers up underneath my chin, curl onto my side, and tuck my knees close.
Only then does the loneliness filter in.
Shifting back and forth on flat, metallic sandals, I wait for someone to answer the door at Tucker Smithson’s modern townhouse. I spent the majority of the day lounging, catching up on rest, and then baking my thank-you gift. I glance down at my short seafoam-blue dress, hoping it's appropriate for a home dinner party cooked by a world-renowned chef.
Okay. I did something else in my spare time today. Google helped me find out more about Oscar Alexander. One website described him as a wunderkind. The thing is, Oscar is mellow and, although a touch arrogant, the trait isn’t a turn-off. The guy should be prideful; his list of achievements is longer than the world’s largest sheet cake. I’m even more impressed than I was when we first met.
The door swings open with Cameron on the other side. “Hey,” he greets amicably. I step into his open arms for a quick, friendly hug. “Come on in. You’re the last one to get here.”
“Oh, I’m not late, am I?” I ask nervously.
Cameron laughs and slings an arm around my shoulder. “You’re fine, Iris. Even if you were late, I’m not certain a soul on this Earth could get angry with you.”
I smi
le faintly, allowing him to lead me through the townhouse and into a living room where six other people are milling around, sipping cocktails. No Tucker to be seen. There’s a general greeting; my sister stands to hug and welcome me into the room.
“Do you know where Tucker is? I’d like to give him this,” I say to my sister once I’ve greeted the two other couples, who, thankfully, I have met before. She glances at the colorfully decorated plate in my hands.
She tilts her head in the direction of a hidden room. “Kitchen, harassing Oscar.”
“Be back soon.”
I follow the sizzling sound of a sauté pan and the heavenly scent of garlic and spinach, maybe, into the next room. My feet stall at the top of the room. Oscar moves around the space masterfully. With his focus intense as he plates an appetizer, he looks every part the culinary artist. My breath catches in my throat. He’s Picasso, da Vinci, and Bernini. A master in his element, and it’s breathtaking.
“Are those for me?”
Thank goodness for these flats. Otherwise, I would have stumbled forward when Tucker walks in my direction, grinning broadly. Oscar looks up sharply, and the moment his gaze catches mine, his expression softens. My heart gallops in my chest, and my cheeks go hot. I’m completely flustered. I shove the cookies in Tucker’s direction.
“Kitchen sink cookies. Thank you for inviting me.”
Tucker takes the plate from me and sets it on the marble countertop. Then he pulls me into a hug, lifting my feet off the ground until I squeak. “Damn, you are considerate, Iris.” He drops an affectionate kiss on my forehead when he releases me. “These are my favorite.”
“Kitchen sink?” Oscar says wryly, a smirk playing on his lips. Now, I can’t see his eyes because he’s focusing on the plates before him.
“Yes, that’s the technical name,” I say shyly, looking at Oscar though his attention is elsewhere. I can’t stop myself. In his element, the man is too magnificent. “I throw everything into them except the kitchen sink. Oats, walnuts, banana, chocolate chips, peanut butter chips, butterscotch. They’re pretty darn good if I say so myself.”
