Page 5 of Off the Grid
@TheGourmetGoddess: Do you actually need my advice? Or do you just enjoy putting me through mental torture?
@TheBakingBandit: The second one!
@TheBakingBandit: Definitely the second one :P
McKenzie snorted under her breath and shook her head. If being neat and orderly and not wanting to discuss code-brown situations at the crack of dawn was a sin, she’d be going straight to hell. But she was pretty sure her friends would be right there with her—for other reasons, of course.
@TheBakingBandit: I’ll help Addy out! Don’t you worry! Good luck with that presentation today, I know you’re going to kill it!
@TheGourmetGoddess: Thanks! If either of you need help with that ganache, just holler. If any other code brown situations come up, leave me out of it.
McKenzie turned her screen off and gathered the trash. It was already six thirty, and she needed to be at the restaurant by 8 a.m. to start preparations. The head pastry chef had gone off on a rant last week and quit. He’d done it before—like she’d said, the food industry in this city was enough to drive anyone insane, and the French seemed predisposed to dramatics, at least the ones she’d met. This time, however, his dismissal had stuck. The head chef and the owner were done putting up with his bull, and now there was a job opening she intended to fill. Given that she was only twenty-five and a woman, the odds were definitely stacked against her. But she could do it. She’d been the pastry sous-chef in this kitchen for three years, she knew the menu inside and out, and the rest of the kitchen staff loved her—well, tolerated her, anyway. This job was hers to lose. All she had to do was knock her presentation out of the park.
The head chef had been interviewing candidates all week, and today at noon, it was her turn—her do-or-die moment. She had to prep six brand-new desserts for a taste-testing with the head chef, his chief sous, the owner, and two investors. The menu was one she’d been working on for a year, just in case an opportunity like this presented itself, and it was good. French-inspired, but with a creative twist, which was exactly what she did best. Her favorite dish was probably her high-end take on the classic s’more—marshmallow crème brûlée with a caramel-chocolate drizzle served flaming with a cinnamon biscotti on the side. The owner would probably like her traditional croquembouche the best—an impossibly high tower of profiteroles held together by a butterscotch drizzle, stuffed with chocolate buttercream, decorated with spun-sugar poufs and gold-leaf accents. He liked to display one at the front of the house every Christmas season, and McKenzie had never found the prior head pastry chef’s to be particularly inspired. Along with those two was a peanut-butter-cup-inspired soufflé, an assortment of éclairs (her absolute favorite dessert—to make and to eat), a berry torte perfect for the summer, and a colorful selection of elegant macarons to complete the set. McKenzie had prepared as much as she could earlier in the week, but the few remaining hours in the kitchen this morning were when the magic would happen.
She’d considered forgoing her run altogether for the extra hour in the kitchen, but in the end, McKenzie knew she needed the time to think. Which was exactly what she did as she laced up her sneakers, turned her phone to airplane mode, and took off toward the park. For forty-five minutes, as her feet pounded down a trail her body knew by heart, McKenzie went over every meticulous detail of the day—a down-to-the-minute schedule, from the time it would take her to shower and travel to the restaurant, to how long she would need to bake each aspect of each dessert, to the exact minute she’d need to take them out of the oven before presenting them to the chef. Her focus was acute. On her run, in the shower, as she dried off, got dressed, and gathered her hair into a tightly coiled bun, she thought of nothing but the details spinning in her head. McKenzie was a pastry machine and today, not a single thing in the world would get in her way.
At least, that was the goal, until the doorbell to her apartment rang.
What the hell?McKenzie looked at the clock on her microwave. It was 7:34, which meant she had exactly ten minutes to catch the subway downtown if she wanted to roll into the kitchen on time. The walk to the station would take two of those minutes, the wait for the train anywhere from two to five more, which left her three minutes to answer the door. Her mysterious caller would be lucky to get even that.
McKenzie took five seconds to glance through the peephole. A man wearing jeans and a plain black T-shirt stood before her door with what appeared to be a backpack slung over his shoulder. He was attractive, there was no denying it, with his bronze skin, hazel eyes, and scruffy black hair, but he was also a complete stranger, which meant she simply didn’t have time to deal with him right now.
“Please go away,” McKenzie called through the door.
“Miss Harper?”
At the sound of her name, an odd spike of fear flared in her chest. McKenzie was used to New York. There were stalkers, criminals, harassers, and plain-old crazy people, and she’d seen them all, but none of them had ever called her by name.
Whoever this guy was, she wanted him gone—now.
“I’m—”
He stopped talking and widened his eyes as soon as she opened the door, which suited McKenzie just fine. It gave her the opening to fill the silence. “Hi. Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested. I don’t know how you know my name, and I don’t know how you got past the doorman downstairs. If you come here again, I’ll report you. Have a nice day. Goodbye.”
Then she closed the door in his face and looked down at her wrist. She still had two minutes spare.If he’s not gone in one, I’m calling the cops. Nothing—and I mean, nothing—is getting in my way today.
- 3 -
Leo
Leo stared at the closed door with his mouth agape. When she’d first opened it, he’d been struck dumb by her sheer beauty. Reading stats on a screen—blonde, five-foot-nine, blue eyes, slim—and seeing them in person were two very different things. Her features were striking, and they’d slapped him good. But the second she opened her mouth, that smooth skin gained sharp edges, and now he suffered from a very different problem—verbal whiplash. It wasn’t that he was used to having women fall at his feet—okay, it was partially that he was used to having women fall at his feet—but the abrupt dismissal stung.
It’s the jeans, he reasoned as he lifted his arm to knock again. Normally when he was on the job, he wore a suit, which automatically gave him an air of authority. The plain clothes were working against him. Leo straightened his shoulders and plastered a suave smile across his lips before he gently rapped his knuckles against the wood a second time.
“Miss Harper, please open the door. My name is—”
“I’m sorry,” she cut him off. “I’m not interested.”
He ground his teeth. Leo wasn’t used to people getting under his skin. He knew how to keep his cool. He was the smooth, good cop to Nate’s grumpy stickler.Be charming. You catch more bees with honey. Don’t get annoyed.
“My name is Leo Alvarez.” He finished his previous thought, making his voice a touch louder. “I’m a special agent with the FBI, and I was sent here for your protection.”
Let’s see what you think of that.He stared at the door, expectant.
Nothing.
Oh, come on!he grumbled silently. This girl was something else.
