Chapter 4
Jamie
I walked along our stainless-steel counter, positioning a shrimp over the edge of each glass of seafood ceviche—all fifty of them.
Diced tomato, onion, cucumber, and peppers gave the ceviche a vibrant, fresh color. The lemon juice, garlic, and cilantro added a zesty pop of flavor.
“Looks beautiful,” my boss, Marissa, said. “You’re becoming a real pro. Pretty soon you can run my kitchen for me.”
I smiled at the compliment, but my heart wasn’t in it.
The seafood ceviche was a popular appetizer in the summer months, and I could make it in my sleep. It was all chopping and mixing. There was no real art, aside from making it pretty. Most of the other dishes I prepared were also repeats.
Working here would never be my dream.
I didn’t want to cater to people. I wanted to make treats for dogs.
Would such a niche business ever work in a small town like Granville? I really didn’t know. For now, seafood ceviches, Caesar salads, and braised short ribs paid the bills. But if I could build up a clientele, maybe…
“Check on those cupcakes for me, will you?” Marissa called as she peeked over Theo’s shoulder. “No, no, no. Slice at an angle. We don’t want a hatchet job.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled, cheeks reddening. Theo was new to catering work, and he wasn’t exactly a natural. Most of the time, he stayed on simple prep, dishwashing, and serving. But we were short-handed. Again.
I went to the oven to look in on the cupcakes. As I suspected, they needed two more minutes. I checked my phone while I waited, flutters of excitement hitting when I saw the ongoing text stream with my match.
The Matchmaking Mamas had actually come through for me. The guy was sweet and funny, and when Silas had egged me into flirting with him, he’d responded perfectly. With a little suggestive language, but nothing too crude.
Unlike hookups on the Thrust or Grindr apps, he didn’t ask about my sexual preferences or suggest we exchange dick pics. Instead, he teasingly asked what my favorite breakfast items were, just in case he ever needed to know, which was adorable and sexy at the same time.
My phone pinged while I stared at his last comments, moony-eyed as a twelve-year-old gay boy with his first crush. Sadly, it wasn’t my match this time.
My friend chat was popping off, as it did several times a day.
Silas:
Bridezilla alert! We’ve got a live one.
Maverick:
Uh-oh. Tell me she wants flowers out of Omaha.
Silas:
She does.
Maverick:
Score!
I entered the chat.
Jamie:
And catering?
Silas:
Sorry, my friend, but she loved the ladies garden party you all did last month.
Jamie:
So if she likes our food, maybe it won’t be so bad?
Silas:
Ah, sweet Jamie. I wish that were so. She had a list a milelong of ways it could be improved upon.
Jamie:
Delightful.
“Where are the cupcakes?” Marissa called out.
Shit, the cupcakes. I whipped open the oven door and breathed a sigh of relief to see they were the perfect golden shade. I grabbed oven mitts and pulled out the large tray.
“Jamie?” She walked down the kitchen toward me at a brisk pace. “Oh, you’re on top of it.” She smiled warmly. “Thank goodness.”
“Baking is my jam,” I reminded her gently. She always got a little tightly wound when we were nearing the deadline for a catering job.
“Right. Yes. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She patted my arm.
Guilt flickered. I really wished I was happier to be here, because she was a good boss. I was just tired of making other people’s recipes, of the night and weekend shifts to cover events, of the tension that took over the kitchen when we were on a deadline.
“Let’s get those cupcakes cooled and frosted,” Marissa said. “We’re on a tight schedule here.”
I couldn’t make the cupcakes cool any faster. I did a circuit of the kitchen, checking Theo’s work, and put the finishing touches on the entrees. I frosted the cupcakes last, got them packed up and helped load everything for delivery.
Luckily, this executive banquet was at a hotel with its own serving staff, so it didn’t require my attendance. I headed home to Lady and Tramp, stomach fluttering once again at the thought of texting with my match again tonight.
But first, I had groceries to buy, dogs to walk, and biscuit recipes to test. No rest for the wicked—or the small-town entrepreneur, apparently.
If I wanted to open a gourmet dog treat bakery, I had to build up a clientele, which meant developing recipes, testing them on Lady and Tramp—along with friends’ dogs—and establishing enough demand I could persuade my family to lend me start-up capital.
By nine p.m., the entire kitchen smelled of apples and cinnamon. I also had bananas and yogurt, and chicken, beef, and bacon prepped for two other recipes.
My phone buzzed, and Prince Charming flashed on the screen.
My heart leapt at the little nickname I’d given my match. Finally!
Prince Charming:
Hey, is it too late to text? I don’t know what time you go to bed.
Me:
Picturing me in bed already, huh? Naughty!
Prince Charming:
You caught me, lol
Me:
Sorry to disappoint. I’m still up and dressed.
Prince Charming:
What are you wearing?
Me:
An apron.
Prince Charming:
Sexy. What are you making at this hour?
Me:
I’m baking.
Prince Charming:
Ooh, that’s even sexier! What are you baking?
Me:
Don’t get too excited. I’m baking for the dogs. I’ve got some cinnamon-apple treats in the oven.
Prince Charming:
Those lucky dogs.
Me:
More like spoiled dogs. Look at them begging for their yummies.
I flipped my phone to camera mode and turned it on the two Labs who’d been haunting my footsteps ever since I came into the kitchen. They were ready with begging eyes, forlorn because their treats took too long to bake. Once they were out, they’d have to cool—another travesty in their doggy lives.
It took some coaxing to get Lady and Tramp in the same photo together. Eventually, I bribed them with apple slices dipped in peanut butter.
I took the photo of them still licking their chops, hungry eyes looking up at me.
Prince Charming:
How can you resist that? Bruno has me wrapped around his paw too. I always give in to these eyes!
He sent me a snapshot of a little French bulldog who gazed at the camera with a worshipful gaze.
Me:
I read somewhere that dogs hug you with their eyes. That little guy adores you.
Prince Charming:
The feeling is mutual.
The oven buzzer went off, and I got busy pulling out a tray of biscuits and whipping up my next batch of banana-yogurt treats.
I wanted to do an initial test of each recipe, and then I’d make notes about any tweaks I needed to refine them.
I had to get the balance of ingredients right so that the dogs enjoyed the flavor and they had the right texture.
I got lost in the work, setting out a dozen biscuits to cool and getting the next set in the oven. Lady and Tramp finally got their first taste, gobbling up apple-cinnamon treats.
I’d gotten the bake just right, the biscuit crunching in their teeth. The flavor must have been good, because they wolfed it down and looked at me for more.
The banana-yogurt test didn’t pass with such flying colors. Lady ate it, but Tramp took one sniff and turned back to me expectantly, as if to say, how about another of those yummy ones?
I picked up the biscuit and took a nibble. Even though they were for dogs, all the ingredients were things I wouldn’t shy from eating myself. Of course, the mix left a little to be desired. It was too dry for my tastes.
Hmm. Not enough banana. Too many grains. I made a few notes and set aside the notebook to clean up the kitchen. I hadn’t gotten around to the meat treats. Maybe tomorrow before work.
I packed up the ingredients, placed the biscuits into plastic containers to keep them fresh, and then loaded the dishwasher. By the time I finished that, I was tired out.
I took the dogs out for a quick potty break, then ran a bath. I had just sunk into the hot water, eyes drifting shut, when my phone rattled on the edge of the tub.
I dried my hands on the towel hanging from a rack next to the tub and checked the screen.
Prince Charming was back.
Sorry for vanishing. My brother was being a pest.
Me:
That’s okay. I had baking to finish.
Prince Charming:
Am I bothering you?
Me:
No, I’m done now. Just relaxing. How about you?
Prince Charming:
The same. Just getting ready for bed. I’m 33 going on 40. That’s probably not the best selling point for a boyfriend, though, huh?
I smiled. I loved how honest he was. The fact he considered this date a stepping stone to a real relationship and not just a hookup was reassuring.
Saturday couldn’t come soon enough.