Chapter 4
Savannah
Most Saturdays, my favorite client’s house is empty because the family always has a million things going on, which is why Mrs. Shafer gave me a key to her house and full use of her kitchen when I’m doing my weekly meal prep for her family.
Her kitchen is so much bigger than mine, and it’s nice to get out of my cramped apartment without feeling like I should be out shaking down new customers.
After the stunt Beef Wellington pulled with the bookshelf two weeks ago, costing me a client I couldn’t afford to lose, our roommate situation has been strained.
When I got home from the clinic, Beef growled at me the entire time I reset my bookshelf, like fixing his disaster was inconveniencing him.
I got wall anchors the next morning like Moxie suggested, and only minutes after I secured the shelf, I found my monstrous cat on top of it, trying to knock it over again by stuffing his paws down along the wall. The punk.
I’m annoyed. He’s annoyed. And coming to the Shafers’ is a much-needed break.
As I sing along with Liam Connolly’s latest album, I finish the last meal for the week, rearranging the enchiladas in the pan and smothering them with homemade enchilada sauce.
I threw in a couple of new recipes this week, but this one is a Shafer staple and a favorite of mine.
Since I started cooking for the Shafers, I’ve probably made this recipe fifty times and could make it in my sleep, which is likely why my thoughts start drifting while I add the finishing touches.
Drifting to my bank account, specifically, and the fact that the balance never gets higher.
It doesn’t get much lower, thankfully, but I need to figure out how to get some traction before long.
I knew starting a business would be hard, but lately I’ve been feeling like I’m walking on an endless sheet of ice while wearing the world’s most slippery shoes.
Working hard to get nowhere.
My parents have no idea how dicey my financial situation is right now, but if they did, I have no doubt they would be flying to California to “rescue” me and drag me back to South Carolina so I can marry some fancypants doctor they’ve held on reserve for me.
I can easily imagine what my mom would say to me because she’s said it before: You’re wasting that ambition of yours on a failing whim when you could be using it to better society!
Why do you insist on pretending you don’t have plenty of opportunity here?
“Oh, honey, that looks extra good today.”
I shriek and toss a handful of cheese shreds into the air as I turn to face the woman standing by the door leading to the garage. “Mrs. Shafer! I didn’t hear you come home!”
Grinning, she plucks a piece of cheese from her hair. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I dive for my phone and turn off the music, glad I wasn’t listening to anything inappropriate. “I’m embarrassingly easy to scare, actually. Um, I’m almost done, so I’ll clean up here and get out of your way.”
“No rush, Savannah. Pretend I’m not here.” She inches around the cheese scattered between us and settles at the kitchen table with a weary sigh, suddenly looking exhausted. It’s been a while since I saw her last, but I don’t think she’s ever looked this worn down before.
“Everything okay?” I ask as I grab a broom to sweep up the cheese shreds.
“Oh, I just have a lot on my mind. It’s nothing.”
She’s only in her early-forties and is a powerhouse, helping run a highly successful marketing and PR firm.
She intimidated the heck out of me when I first met her because she’s always so confident and strong, which means her unusually breathy voice says so much more than her actual words. Whatever this is, it’s not nothing.
Once the cheese is cleaned up, I hurry and cover the enchiladas with foil, pop them in the fridge, and then grab the container of sorbet I whipped up last night from the freezer. With that and a spoon, I make my way to the table and place both in front of her.
She looks up in surprise, her gray-blue eyes fixed on me. “What’s this?”
“Comfort food? Or a bribe to convince you to talk about it, if it will help.” I give her a warm smile and pull the lid off the sorbet. “No added sugar, so zero guilt.”
Mrs. Shafer smiles warmly as she reaches over and grabs my hand. “You might be the best thing to ever happen to me, Savannah Blair. Never leave me.”
“Oh wow. Who knew that a few meals and some frozen fruit could earn me that kind of praise?”
She sighs, offering a weary smile. “Promise you’ll never leave.”
I don’t want to add to whatever is wearing her down, but I need to be honest with her. “Mrs. Shafer, you know I’m trying to build up my client list. At some point, I’ll be hiring more people and won’t always get to do home calls like this.” If I’m lucky…
Who am I kidding? Without her signing on as my first big client, I never would have gotten this far. I owe her too much to ever leave her behind. Unless, of course, my business fails and I have to run home with my tail between my legs.
“I know I’m being ridiculous.” She inhales and holds her head high despite the tired set of her shoulders. “I hope you can expand like you want, but…” She squeezes my hand. “Promise you’ll make time for us when you’re making your millions. You’re the only reason we don’t starve.”
Before I can assure her that I’ll always keep her on my client list, the door to the garage bursts open with a bang, followed by a wave of noises and smells and bickering.
The two Shafer boys, Kacen and Blaze, barrel inside, drop their lacrosse gear in the middle of the kitchen, and go straight for the pantry.
“Hi, Sav,” Blaze says from inside, though I don’t think he even glanced in our direction. “Did you make us any good snacks this time?”
Kacen whacks him in the arm at the same time he reaches for something over his brother’s head. “Don’t be a jerk.”
“I wasn’t!”
“You were.”
Blaze throws his shoulder into his older brother’s stomach, knocking Kacen into the shelf and sending a literal rumble through the house.
Mrs. Shafer groans, but it looks like her teenagers have successfully distracted her from whatever’s weighing on her. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers to me with a roll of her eyes.
When the boys eventually emerge with arms full of homemade protein bars, fruit leather, and whole grain crackers, I grin at them. “Looks like you’re fine with my gross food.”
“Didn’t say it was gross,” Blaze argues through a mouthful of…
cereal? Yep, he has the box tucked under his arm, and the pair of them look like they’re hunkering down for the winter with the amount of food they’ve grabbed.
“I’m just saying you could make us some junk food while you’re at it. Mom doesn’t have to eat it.”
Kacen kicks his brother in the rear as Blaze passes him. “I like the stuff Savannah makes. And you need to bulk up if you don’t want to warm the bench.”
“Junk food won’t help you do that,” I agree. “But I’ll make sure I add more protein-rich snacks to next week’s menu, if your mom is okay with it.”
“Give them whatever they want,” Mrs. Shafer says, the words a little garbled. She finally dug into the sorbet, I notice with a grin. She swallows. “If I have to listen to them complain about being hungry one more time…”
“It’s not my fault I’m always hungry!” Blaze argues and stuffs another handful of cereal into his mouth. He dumps his gathered snacks onto the counter and goes back to the pantry for more.
Kacen grabs the cheese ball I made from the fridge, reaches for a cracker, then changes his mind and uses his finger to scoop a giant hunk and stuff it into his mouth.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Mrs. Shafer moans, watching her oldest inhale another bite of cheese, chased by an entire protein bar all at once. “Savannah, never have kids. And if you do, don’t have boys. They’re a nightmare.”
I laugh. “I’m going to work on building up my business first, and then I’ll consider adding a husband into the mix. We’ll have to see what happens after that.”
Do I want kids? Sure. My older sister’s kids, my niece and nephew, are spoiled stinkers but adorable, and they need cousins eventually.
And there’s the whole biological clock thing, but I’m twenty-eight, not forty, and still have time.
My mom would disagree, but she’s always been more traditional when it comes to a woman’s role in society.
She hates that I moved across the country to pursue a career instead of settling down with some rich Southern beau the way my sister did.
Callie does some phenomenal charity work with her husband’s money, but that’s not where my passion lies. I want to make it on my own, doing something I love with no one restricting what I can do with it.
Besides, Beef Wellington is turning out to be as much work as a kid anyway.
We’re clearly in the teenage stage, with the way he scowls at me every time I walk into the room he’s in.
I swear, ever since my little threat at the clinic, he acts like I’m not the best thing to ever happen to him when he’d probably still be at the shelter without me.
Fur-Ever Homes told me he’d been there for a while.
“This is good, Sav,” Kacen says as he finishes off the cheese ball, licking the plate clean. Did he even taste it? He ate it so fast! “Make more of these.”
“I dare you to make double fudge brownies healthy,” Blaze says, narrowing his eyes at me in a challenge. But then his gaze drops to the table. “Wait, Mom, is that ice cream? I want some!”
As he darts forward and Mrs. Shafer cradles the sorbet against her chest like a precious treasure, I figure I should take my leave. I have some mediocre leads to follow and cold calls to make; my business isn’t going to grow itself.
Unfortunately.
“I’ll see you next week!” I call as I grab my oversized bag and head for the door. No one responds. When I look back, Kacen is now between Blaze and their mom, keeping the peace and—oh, no, he’s trying to get the sorbet too. Noted. Bring enough for everyone next time.
Snickering, I slip out the front door and wish I didn’t have to shlep so much stuff around as the straps of my bag dig into my shoulder.
I try to use my clients’ appliances and utensils as much as I can, but Mrs. Shafer has never been much of a cook.
Nor has her husband. And while I’ve tried to teach the boys a few things, they’re too focused on lacrosse to care about the kitchen except for the food it provides, courtesy of me and frozen breakfast burritos they get from a grocery warehouse in town.
I should bring up the idea of prepping breakfasts for them too, but the last time I mentioned something six months ago, Mr. Shafer was convinced they could handle that one meal.
I’m not sure he’s right. The boys eat lunch at school, and I assume their parents go out for lunch while at work, but breakfast is the most important meal of the day.
And if Blaze wants to gain muscle, he should…
I stop halfway down the driveway, my eyes locking on a car parked across the street. It was there when I got here a little over an hour ago, which makes my stomach twist. First, no one’s allowed to park on the street in this neighborhood. Second, someone’s sitting in the driver’s seat.
And I’m pretty sure he’s watching the Shafers’ house.
Moving slowly, I grab my phone out of my pocket and work my way toward my car, pretending I don’t see the man in the street.
I debate whether I should take a picture or call the cops, but instinct tells me to dial 911, since I can’t get a good view of the guy in the car.
Still walking at a snail’s pace, I type the three numbers, only realizing that I should go back in the house and then call the cops.
I don’t want to alert the watcher and make him drive off.
I stop, pretend to realize I forgot something, and turn to head back inside.
The car door opens.
Panic washes over me at the sound, and I stumble forward while looking back at the person who’s coming to murder me now that I’ve seen him.
Then I freeze, because I know the man who pauses halfway out of his car and gapes at me with the same confusion I’m feeling.
It’s Logan. Moxie’s beefy friend who got on the wrong side of a beefy cat’s claws and looks like he’s made entirely of muscle and irritation.
What is Logan doing casing a house in Studio City?