Chapter 4
KENSEY
Isat down and put my hands in my lap like a good girl and told myself not to touch anything I didn’t have to.
Drew settled into the chair across from me like he’d been sitting at tables like this his entire life. Which, to be fair, he had. He picked up the menu card without a second thought, scanned it, set it down. Completely at ease.
He fit. His custom suit. Perfect hair. Handsome face. It was his scene.
I looked down at my shorts.
“Relax,” Drew said.
Of course he would know I was feeling self-conscious.
“I feel like I should be on the other side of this. Serving the food, not eating it.”
He frowned. “Why would you say that?”
“Because.” I gestured vaguely at the ocean, the linen, the crystal, all of it. “This is a lot, Drew. I know you’re used to it. But I’m a teacher in New Jersey. I live in a one-bedroom apartment and drive a piece of shit car.”
He leaned back in his chair. “You went to the same school I did.”
I traced the edge of the napkin with one finger. “As a scholarship kid. You know what it was like. Everybody’s parents had a lake house and a yacht and vacationed in France and Big Bear in the winter. I went back to my regular home and regular parents.”
Drew was quiet for a second. “I never saw you as someone who didn’t fit in.”
“I know.” I smiled at him across the table. “That’s why we’re still friends.”
“For the record, you belong anywhere you want to be.”
“That is a very sweet thing to say and also not how the world works.”
“Then the world is wrong.”
The chef came out. He introduced himself as Chef Dominic, shook Drew’s hand, nodded to me, and began explaining the first dish as two servers set small plates in front of each of us.
“Tuna tartare,” Chef Dominic said. “Ahi, sesame oil, avocado, micro greens, a light citrus vinaigrette. The acid cuts through the richness without overpowering the fish.” He paused, hands clasped.
Drew gave him an attentive nod. I gave him what I hoped was an equally attentive nod. I honestly had no idea what he said but it sounded good.
Chef Dominic retreated toward the kitchen doors, leaving us to it.
I picked up the small fork beside the plate. Took a bite. It was good. Really good, actually. The fish was cold and the citrus did exactly what he said it would.
“It’s tasty,” I said.
“But?” Drew was watching me.
“How did you know there was a but?”
“You made a small face.” He picked up his own fork. “What is it?”
I tried to find the right words. I didn’t know shit about food, but I knew what my tastebuds said.
“It’s very delicate. Which is fine. But you’ve got people at this party in cocktail attire, standing up, mingling, holding drinks.
And you want them to also be managing a fork and a little plate of raw fish?
” I glanced toward the patio railing, imagining it filled with people.
“Someone’s going to drop it on themselves.
Someone in a white dress. Then there will be drama. ”
Drew took a bite and chewed. “And the Blackwell Couture line.”
“Exactly.”
He looked down at the plate. I could see him actually thinking about it, listening to my opinion.
“The flavor’s right,” he said finally. “Presentation is right. It’s just not a practical choice.”
“We could make it bite-sized, maybe? On a cracker or something. Something that doesn’t require a fork?”
“Or we keep it at seated tables only. Not on the circulating trays.”
I nodded. “That could work.”
I pulled out my phone and made a little note of that, knowing Drew wouldn’t do it and he might totally forget it. Then I picked up my fork again and had another bite. It was delicious and there was no reason to waste it.
The second plate arrived before we’d fully finished the first. Chef Dominic returned with it himself, setting the dishes down with quiet ceremony.
“Burrata crostini,” he said. “Stone-baked sourdough, house-made burrata, heirloom tomato, fresh basil, a finish of aged balsamic.” He smiled with the quiet pride of someone presenting a child’s school portrait. “One of our most requested items. And all locally sourced.”
He left again. I bit into it and had to actively prevent myself from making a noise. I was going to embarrass myself like Drew had done with the muffins.
“Son of a bitch,” I said quietly.
Drew snorted a laugh, not letting interrupt his chewing. He was already halfway through his burrata crostini.
“Okay, this one they can serve on circulating trays,” I said, trying not to drool. “You can eat this standing up. You can eat this in a ballgown. You can eat this in a car.”
He grinned and shook his head. “So this one’s a yes, Mrs. Seuss? You can eat this in a car. You can eat it near or far.”
I was unable to stifle my laughter. “Whatever. All I’m saying is it’s good. Will it match the main course?”
“There’s no real food. Just appetizers and desserts. It’s a cocktail party, not a dinner.”
“Then this is perfect. Light, impressive, easy to eat. It checks everything.” I glanced at the empty plate. “I want another one.”
“You can’t have another one, this is a tasting.”
“Party pooper.”
The third plate was a miniature crab cake, golden on the outside, sitting in a shallow pool of some kind of remoulade.
Chef Dominic came back out for this one too, explaining the Dungeness crab, the Old Bay, the house-made sauce.
He was clearly proud of all his dishes. His hands moved when he talked about them, his passion coming through.
I took a careful bite.
“What do you think?” Drew asked, wiping his mouth.
“The sauce,” I said. “I don’t like it. Love the crabcake, hate the sauce. Can they serve it without it?”
“They can do anything I want them to.”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course, they can.”
“I mean, I’m the customer. And technically it’ll be cheaper.”
Chef Dominic nodded once, no argument, no wounded pride. “Of course. The crab cake can stand on its own. You’re right that sauces are for cowards.”
I tapped a few notes into my phone again.
“What are you doing?” Drew asked.
“Taking notes.” I showed him the notes app and showed him. “Tuna tartare—yes, but seated tables only, not circulating. Burrata crostini—yes, circulating trays, order a lot of them. Crab cake—yes, no sauce.” I looked up. “What else are we tasting?”
Chef Dominic listed off a few more items and disappeared into the kitchen. We spent another thirty minutes testing. I decided I liked tasting food. There were worse jobs.
“Okay,” Drew said when Walter returned.
He looked at me. I looked at my notes and told Walter everything we decided. Walter jotted down our requests with Chef Dominic nodding. We had given him specifics. He seemed to appreciate it.
“I’ll get the updated menu proposal to you,” Walter said. “Along with the revised staffing layout based on the patio walkthrough.”
“Great.” Drew stood. I followed his lead, tucking my phone back into my bag. “I’ll review it and get back to you once I get it.”
Walter shook Drew’s hand, then mine. I tried not to feel weird about that. Like I was somebody. Like I belonged at this table making decisions about crab cakes and burrata for a fashion party at a Malibu beach club.
I managed to smile like I did this every day.
We walked back through the dining room and stepped into the warmth of the day. The valet pulled up with the Escalade in under a minute. That was impressive. Drew opened the door for me. I climbed in and let the air-conditioning wash over me, exhaling slowly.
Drew shrugged out of his suit jacket and climbed in.
“That was good,” he said.
“The food was excellent.”
“Not just the food.” He turned to look at me. “All of it. The whole thing. You were a huge help and you made a chore I was dreading a lot of fun. Thank you for taking notes.”
I smiled. “I know you never write anything down.”
He laughed, pulled away from the valet, and stopped in the parking lot. “I want to ask you something,” he said.
I turned to look at him. “Okay.”
“And I want you to actually think about it before you answer. Don’t just say no on instinct.”
That was not a promising opening. “Drew, maybe I don’t want to hear this question.”
“Just hear me out. I need an assistant. Like, I needed one three months ago and I’ve been putting it off because I didn’t want to deal with the whole process of finding someone.
And Edith has been on my case about it, which means I’ve officially run out of excuses.
” He paused. “It’s a temp position. One month, maybe six weeks.
Just through the summer event and the immediate aftermath.
I need someone who can keep up with me, who I actually trust, who isn’t going to take three weeks to get up to speed. ”
I stared at him. “You’re offering me a job?”
“You’re here for the summer anyway,” he continued. “You said yourself you’re not working.”
I frowned. “Are you asking me to be your assistant?”
“Yes.”
I turned back toward the windshield and pressed my lips together. There were about a hundred different reasons why it was a bad idea. I was trying to sort through them in some kind of logical order.
“That is a terrible idea,” I said, deciding there was really no point in being specific.
“Why?”
“Because you would be my boss.”
“I’m a great boss.”
I turned to look at him with what I hoped communicated the appropriate level of skepticism. “I don’t want to be your employee. That’s weird. I’m your friend.”
“Kensey.” He leaned forward slightly. “Look at what just happened in there. We worked together perfectly. You were already doing the job. You caught the things I missed. You took notes. You helped me make decisions. I’m not asking you to fetch my coffee and my dry cleaning.
I just need help keeping this whole summer event on track. ”
We had worked well together. We always had. That was exactly the problem. We were friends. Really good friends.
“It’s different when it’s your job,” I said. “When you’re my boss and I’m on your payroll, it changes things. It puts you in the position of power. How could we be friends if you’re my boss?”
“It wouldn’t be like a boss-employee situation.”
“You’re not going to pay me?”
“I was planning to pay you.” Drew nodded.
“Then you would be my boss,” I said. “That’s weird. I have a boss and I would never joke and tease him the way I mess around with you. It would be very uncomfortable.”
He was quiet for a second. “I trust you more than anyone I know. I don’t trust people easily, you know that. The idea of letting some stranger into my schedule and my business right now, two weeks before a major event, is just not great. Please, just think about it.”
He started driving again.
I sighed. “I’ll sleep on it, but I can tell you I’m really not liking the idea.”
“If it helps sweeten the deal, you can do it for free,” he said with a grin. “Then you’re just my buddy helping me land this plane without crashing it.”