Page 97 of Tasty Cherry

I touch it self-consciously. “Suze asked about the refreshments for the orientation.”

“Right. Yes. Of course. We have had a mishap, and it slipped my mind. I will get it sent down right away. Coffee and water?”

“And cookies.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you, sir. I mean, Chef.”

He laughs. “Do not look so frightened. You didn’t short a banquet by six cakes!”

“Couldn’t they cut the pieces smaller?”

He laughs. “We could have, if someone had counted the cakes before we started cutting. But I like your thinking. Tell Suze we are on our way.”

“Thanks.” He strides for the noisy kitchen and Monique.

Nope, not getting near her again.

I decide not to cut through that way, but to escape to the main corridor, when I hear Brooklyn.

That’s right. She got the kitchen this morning.

I turn around to see if I can spot her.

Her voice is shrill. “Don’t even look at me, buster!”

Who is she talking to?

I move closer to the delivery door so that my wild hair and I aren’t too close to anybody cooking. When I pass the first row of work tables, I see her, an apron over her black vest, a white cap covering her blonde hair.

I inch closer as she says, “Find your own work station!”

Then I see the culprit.

Maverick. He must have been given kitchen duty, too. Or else he’s still on dish room duty. The far corner hosts a line of sinks and commercial dishwashers, as well as three workers madly loading stacks of plates, probably from the banquet. Brooklyn and Maverick stand between the sinks and the last row of work tables.

“Don’t be like that,” Maverick says. “You know we were a good time.”

Two of the dish washers glance at each other with a smirk.

Brooklyn lets out another indignant squeal. I think she’s about to smack him with a ladle when Monique arrives.

“Interns, knock it off. Maverick, you’re wanted in Sebastian’s office immediately. Brooklyn, I assume you will be able to complete your soup without the distraction.”

“Yes, Chef,” she says.

I step to my right so Monique won’t see me again. I’m trapped, but I want to check on Brooklyn.

When the head chef has moved on, I approach Brooklyn’s stove. She stirs a pot of something lemony yellow.

“Hey.”

She looks up. “Oh, thank God for a friendly face. This has been the worst day.”

“Has Maverick been here the whole time?”

“No, he just showed up. There’s a banquet, so everyone has been insanely busy. I don’t think my soup is edible.” She dips the ladle in it and lifts it, letting the thick, chunky yellow liquid fall back into the pot. “It’s the only task I’ve been given.”

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