Page 39 of Challenged By You
“I’ll pinch you,” she threatens.
Most of the back of the house is propping themselves on walls, tables, each other to keep upright. All except Chef Sterling, who merely raises a perfectly threaded brow before she says, “Carry on, ladies. I have a feeling it’s going to be an…interesting evening.”
As our boss wanders off, I hip bump Elle. “You’re going to get us both fired.”
I try my best for dignity and obviously fail when Elle retorts, “Maybe you should wipe the chocolate off your face, Chef. It looks like one of the kids had a blowout when you were zerberting their butts.” Her words are emphasized by her snapping off her gloves to replace them so she can continue preparing tonight’s chocolate-and-raspberry torte while I finish with the delicate strawberry filling of one of our signature desserts. I scrunch my nose at the drying chocolate on my face, but as I fold the whipped cream in, I know I’ll have to start over if I stop now.
But I can work and talk. “There’s no one like you, Elle.”
“Same goes, T. Forever and ever, you’ll be my bud before stud.”
And even as we’re off in another round of hysterics, it reminds me so much of the early days of pastry school, and crazily enough, those early days of having Will to lean on. “This—this is what I miss about having someone, Elle.” Even though I’m serious, I can’t keep the laughter from my voice.
“God, I feel like the chocolate just curdled.” All the humor gone, she makes her way to the sink at our station. Dousing some wet towels, she begins to scrub the chocolate from my face. “I left some on your lips. Now, tell me for real if it went bad since you insinuated you missed Will.”
Quickly, I dart my tongue out and think about it. “Nope. Spot-on. And I didn’t mean I missed Will, per se. Just that special someone you can lean on when things like this happen.” I wave a hand to encompass the chaos of the kitchen.
We clean up our station and resume working on the next item on our list. “Why on earth did all of this make you go there?”
“Because when I called to ask my mother to watch her grandchildren a few extra hours, I was given a lecture—again—about my poor parenting.” Elle makes a sound of disgust that causes me to chuckle. “Just say it and don’t spray it.”
She’s appalled. “Like I’d dare. I have too much respect for our customers. So, since we established your mother’s the gem of all humans, let’s switch topic and talk about what happened on your date.”
I roll my eyes as I plop the strawberry creme into a mold. Fortunately, Elle can’t see the blush on my face as she’s too busy frosting her torte. “What about it?” I ask, trying to keep the tremor from my voice.
Elle actually manages a whisper when she asks, “Did he kiss you?”
My head spins, knocking against hers. “I can’t talk about that here. I don’t know if…whatimpact that will have on everything.”
Her “What do you mean?” makes me want to fling the mirror glaze I’m beginning to mix at her. I limit myself to, “We’ve already caused one scandal on the night shift; I’d like to avoid another.”
“Oh, ohh! We’ll talk about it later.”
“Good plan. Now, how about you finish making more of the dessert of the day?” What was I thinking when I decided to create the dark chocolate mirror glaze for the strawberry dome mousse? Oh, that’s right. “I was reminded of his eyes before he kissed me,” I groan as the last of the glaze drips harmlessly into the pan below.
“What was that? I couldn’t quite hear you,” Elle singsongs.
“I’m not talking to you.” Crap.
“You were talking to someone. Just like you do in your sleep.”
I sigh. It’s going to be a long night.
* * *
It’s almostone in the morning. Elle called an Uber to take us back to the Bronx after we were relieved from duty. My phone has been blowing up alternately with texts from my mother and Jonas, and I’m so exhausted I don’t know which one I can handle answering first. I decide to send a quick message to my mother to warn her I’m almost at our complex. I’m about to drop my phone in my bag when it rings in my hand. I cringe at the ringtone. Elle emits a growl. “Put it on Speaker.”
“Only if you promise not to say a word,” I warn her before I press the button.
But I’m grateful it’s just the driver, Elle, and me in the car when after I answer, “Mom,” her verbal attack immediately begins. I don’t have to mask my exhaustion with the situation, my head falling back against the headrest.
“Trina. This is getting perilously close to triple time. I’m worried that waking the children this late isn’t good for their health with them being so recently ill.”
I don’t even have the energy to laugh. “Bill me what you feel is necessary, Mom. But my kids will wake up tomorrow morning at home.”
“But Trina,” she protests.
I just hang up the phone.
