Page 67 of Sexy as Sin
“This is the second time this morning,” Willow said, “that I’ve been called a prostitute. That’s some kind of record for a skinny ginger, surely.”
Amanda sighed. “I did not call you a prostitute. I merely said—”
“That I’m too stupid to know when a man’s trying to get something from me. Well, never mind. Brett Hunter can get something from me anytime he wants, and he knows it. He doesn’t have to say nice things about my photography, and he doesn’t have to say nice things about my food. And yet he does. Because I’m a good photographer, and I’m a better chef.” She was losing the war for containment, let alone the war for control. Pity she no longer cared. “I’m also your partner, youneedmy ideas and my photography to land this event, and it’s long past time for me to assert myself. I’d like the login and the password to get into the books, please. I need to know what we’re doing here. I need to know where we stand.”
Two beats. Three. And Amanda said, “I don’t remember the current password. It fills in automatically. Anyway, Tom’s been doing most of the work on the books.”
Willow was sitting up absolutely straight. “Then go get your laptop, please, and ask to reset it.”
It was a staredown. Willow, though, had been raised with two tough Aussie blokes and an uncle who, rumor held, chewed on iron filings instead of gum. Amanda must not have had her advantages, because she blinked first.
“Fine,” she said. “One minute.”
It was more like five, and Willow stared out across the tiny patch of garden toward where the sea would be, if she could see it, didn’t drink her coffee, and listened. She could hear Amanda’s voice in there, back in the office, probably, talking to Tom. Sharp as a chef’s knife.
When Amanda came back, she was holding a slip of paper that she set on the table. Willow didn’t pick it up. Instead, she pulled her book out of her tote, removed the rubber band holding it together, flipped the cover open, and said, “Read it out to me, please, and I’ll write it where I’ll be able to find it.”
“Login NourishCatering,” Amanda said, her voice clipped. “All one word. Password IDoItB3++3r. I Do It all one word, with capitals, no word spaces, then Better. Capital B. Number Three. Plus plus. Number Three. Lower-case r.”
Thatwas the secret password? Willow nearly laughed, but she wrote it down, read it back, and waited until Amanda nodded. Then she closed her book, fastened the elastic around it again, and said, “I have a van full of veggies, dairy, and meat that needs to get into the cooler.”
“Good,” Amanda said. “Don’t let me stop you, please.”
“After that,” Willow went on, “I can start working on the Castle-DeAnza wedding for tomorrow, and wait for you to join me. Or I can... not.”
“I have no idea what you’re saying.” Amanda was holding herself rigid.
“Let me be clearer, then.” This was it. Willow put both palms down flat on the glass table, but she didn’t look at her hands. She looked at Amanda. Time to be a redhead. “When you assure clients that I won’t cook their food, that I won’t be at their event, you’re agreeing with them that I poisoned people. That I’m not to be trusted. That’s prolonging the problem instead of putting it to rest. I won’t allow you to tell them that anymore.”
A flush had risen into Amanda’s carefully pore-free cheeks. “Exactly who do you think you are to tell me what you’ll allow? You didn’t build this firm.”
“I’ll tell you who I am,” Willow said. “I’m a classically trained chef who doesn’t make mistakes with food safety, and who won’t allow my partner to suggest I did. I’m a woman with less than two thousand dollars in the bank and everything I have—my capital, my reputation, and my future—tied up in this venture. But I. Will. Not. Allow it.” Her hand slapped down onto the tabletop with every word. “I’m plating the food at that wedding tomorrow. I’m going to be front and center owning those recipesIdeveloped, those perfectly prepared dishesIcreated. And I’m going to be meeting with Stephanie Oxford, Nick Dean’s fiancée, and Nick Dean’s fiancée’s mother along with you, talking about what they’re looking for and suggesting ways we could give it to them. I’m a surfer, I’m young, and I know what’s going to make their wedding one to talk about. I’m going to match their food to their lifestyle. To her flowers and her colors. To her personality. To herday.I’m going to win that job, or I’m going to die trying.”
“You don’t know the first thing about it,” Amanda snapped, any pretense of patient elder-wisdom abandoned. “What do you know about what wealthy people want? About how they live? About any of it? You live in the kind of place I left behind as a student thirty years ago, and you dress like a... a...” She waved a hand.
“A crunchy-granola hippie,” Willow filled in for her. “And yet I am unmoved.” Ever since she’d heard Mr. Bennet say that in the BBC version ofPride and Prejudice,she’d wanted to say it herself. Finally, she’d got her chance. “Are you willing to back me? Are you willing to say, ‘I stand behind my partner?’”
“How can I say that?” Amanda asked.“Whywould I say that?”
All Willow had to tell her was that Rafe Blackstone was her cousin. That if Hollywood’s number one werewolf superhero and Australia’s favorite son happened to meet Nick Dean at some point, heard about his upcoming wedding, and suggested a brilliant Byron Bay caterer, Nick would probably find it in his heart to engage said caterer. But she wasn’t going to do it, for the same reason she hadn’t told Amanda about the connection in the first place.
She wasn’t Rafe Blackstone’s cousin, or Jace Blackstone’s, either. She was achef.
“In that case,” she said, “we’re done here.”
She stood up with a harsh scrape of chair legs on flagstone, and Amanda said, “Wait.”
Heart pounding. Blood boiling. She waited.
“I need your help,” Amanda said. “For the weddings this weekend. We’ll revisit this when things die down, when there isn’t so much talk.”
“No,” Willow said. “We won’t.”
Amanda’s lips were a single, tight, bloodless line. “Then leave me your recipes for the dishes you were making. We’ll make copies now, in the office.”
“I don’t leave my recipes anywhere,” Willow said, shoving her book—her bible, stuffed with all her creations—into her tote. “They go with me. Ring me when you’re ready to back me.” Maybe it was eighty thousand dollars, and she’d never get all of it back. Maybe she’d been stupid. She wasn’t stupid anymore.
“Cook the food for this first wedding, at least,” Amanda said. “And we’ll talk.”
