Page 15 of Dear Rosie

I look at the clock on the oven in my client’s kitchen. We’re twenty minutes ahead. Meaning we have just enough extra time to allow for one mess up.

Not that we’ll mess up.

Presley has been working for me for about six months now, and I wish I’d found her sooner.

For the past ten years, I’ve been the sole chef at Rosalyn’s Restaurant.

The name is a misnomer—I own a catering business, not a restaurant. And cooking on-site in my clients’ kitchens, instead of my own, is as close as I’ll ever get to a brick-and-mortar location.

But that’s okay, though. I make enough to survive. And to pay Presley—hopefully enough for her to stay.

I look around and let my shoulders relax.

The desserts are done. The appetizers are started. And we have all the ingredients we need prepped for the mains.

“You two doing okay? Need anything?” Hannah, our client and owner of this beautiful mansion, steps into the kitchen.

I try to keep my cheeks from turning red as I face her, hoping she didn’t hear me curse over burning myself. “We’re looking good, thanks.”

Hannah smiles as she takes in the chaos of food covering her kitchen island and counters. “It’s impressive how you keep this all straight.”

My own smile feels a little more normal now. “I wonder at it sometimes too.”

“Well, if you think of anything you need, just let me know. I’m gonna run up and shower now.” Her eyes move to the clock I just glanced at. “Shit, I’m more behind than I thought.” She starts to back away. “I have someone coming over in a bit to do my hair. If they show up before I’m back down, will you let them in and send them to the living room?” Hannah presses her hands together, grimacing like she hates to ask for help. “My husband should be home soon, but I don’t know who will get here first.”

I nod. “Not a problem,” I tell her, meaning it. If this lady only knew the sort of shit I’ve been asked to do before, she wouldn’t blink an eye at this.

“You’re the best, Rosalyn!” She grins and rushes out of the kitchen.

“She’s really nice,” Presley comments after Hannah disappears.

“Has been so far.”

Presley snorts. “You’re such a pessimist.”

I shrug. She’s not wrong. I’ve dealt with too many shitty people not to be.

My employee moves closer to my side and lowers her voice. “I heard her husband is a pro-football player.”

“Yeah, I heard that too. But I haven’t met him yet.”

This job was a last-minute booking. Apparently, their previous caterer fell through a few days ago, so their event planner from Meghan’s Moments, who I’ve worked with before, called and asked if Icould fill in. And since I could, I said yes before asking who the clients were.

As soon as Meghan said the husband was a retired football player, my insides started to twist.

Which was stupid because Nathan doesn’t play for Minnesota, so there’s literally no reason for me to have thought he might be the client.

But twenty-five years or not, there’s no way I could cater Nathan’s wedding reception.

That would be… crushing.

Which is ridiculous because we don’t have that sort of history. We were just kids. And we were just friends. And since then… Well, it’s not like I know him anymore.

I don’t even remember the last time I thought about Nathan Waller.

Okay, that’s not true. I thought about him two nights ago.

I was lonely.

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