Page 41 of Yours Temporarily

Nico and Wes, Jill and Naina, mingle with some office employees. Damien and Olivia stand with two others in their circle while Lexi moves around snapping photos.

I smile as Jeremy, my perfect—even if fake—fiancé, ambles toward me, plate in hand. The most relaxed I’ve ever seen him, he’s dressed in jeans, his casual short-sleeved button-down untucked. A grin splits his face, and my heart melts.

“The basil sandwiches hit the mark, Zee.” He offers me his plate with a half sandwich. “Eat something.”

Gratitude swells within me, a tiny, fragile bubble. “Thank you.” He knows I haven’t eaten, proof he’s been by my side throughout the afternoon. I’ve been too wound up making sure everything was perfect and I had enough food on the tables.

I accept his plate and offer him the small frosting bowl I forgot to put out earlier. “I made this for your cookies.”

His jaw drops, and his exaggerated gesture somehow doesn’t feel out of place. “Thank you.”

Something warm unfurls in my chest at the exchange.

“Have you tried the southwestern sa–salad yet?” That catch in my voice betrays my apprehension as my gaze flits to the table where the salad’s still untouched. I wanted it on the menu, but if it’s not appealing to anyone now, no one will order it either.

“You made the mistake of making me the spring rolls and jalapeno poppers first.” Jeremy offers a lifeline, his presence a comforting constant. He hadn’t been able to come to church with me, probably so he could arrive to help me set up.

“Here’s my critique now.” We turn to see Nico moving toward us, plate in hand with his half-eaten pasta and grapes. He forks the rigatoni noodles. “You’re a decent chef.”

“The best.” Jeremy plucks a grape from Nico’s plate.

Nico’s eyes gleam. “You got a pen and paper? You’re gonna need to take some notes if pasta’s going to be on the menu.”

“We’ll remember,” Jeremy says.

I don’t miss the “we,” meaning partnership. I like that. I didn’t realize I was in need of romance until he took residence in my heart.

“If we forget, I know where to find you,” he adds, and I assure Nico I have a good memory too.

Nico’s brows rise, and as he clears his throat, I ready myself for his blunt assessment and brace for whatever facts he has to share. “This pasta needs more salt. It’s too bland for my Italian taste buds.”

“If you listen to Marino…” Lexi remarks from across the counter where she snaps a photo of the lights. That, too, is a new addition.

“Don’t listen to her,” Nico jests, pointing in Lexi’s direction, his critique now a battle waged on multiple fronts. “You wanted us testing the food for honest opinions, right?”

I nod, stifling a laugh as Lexi grumbles about her annoyance with her boss.

Jeremy’s apologetic glance is a balm, a silent promise of support as I devour my sandwich, a small defiance against the critics that loom large.

Critics, I realize, are a necessary evil, the crucible through which my culinary creations must pass.

Jeremy winks and mouths his apology, no doubt for his friend’s bluntness, but while I fear critiques, I’d rather know what to change now before I serve it to customers.

“To truly consider this Italian…” Nico seems to overplay his accent now. “It needs a real tomato or a cream sauce, not just a brush of butter and herbs, then”—he brings his fingers to his lips and kisses them—“bellissimo.”

“Not everything is meant to overwhelm your taste buds, Marino,” Lexi's retort slices through Nico’s culinary critique with her characteristic sass. She shifts and redirects her camera toward us, immortalizing the moment.

“I bet you’re a terrible cook.” Nico arches a brow at her. “Bad cooks can’t handle criticism.”

“Like you can cook,” she snaps back. “It’s your lack of sugarcoating that needs work.”

I understand why Lexi often claims she can’t stand her boss. She detests being micromanaged, and Nico is unapologetically outspoken about everything.

“As usual, everything tastes so good.” Olivia walks toward us.

“Thanks, Liv,” I say as Jeremy takes the empty plate from me.

Damien discards an empty foil pan into the trash, apparently savoring the last bites of his meal.

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