Chapter 3
Eight years later…
Emily wove between crowded banquet tables, collecting dessert plates, offering coffee refills, and topping off champagne flutes before guests even realized they were dipping low. The ballroom was packed to the rafters, the air thick with perfume, cologne, and the lingering scent of catered seafood.
Tonight’s awards banquet was already shaping up to be a marathon—endless introductions, donor acknowledgments, and heartfelt speeches from people who loved the sound of their own voices.
And they still hadn’t reached the man of the hour.
Rather, the Humanitarian of the Year. Soon he’d take the stage, accept his oversized crystal plaque, and deliver the predictable “giving back to the community” speech she’d heard at least a hundred times.
She could practically recite it from memory.
When the lights dimmed and the giant screens flickered with the opening frames of the honoree’s video montage, every head in the ballroom turned toward the stage. Perfect cue.
Emily caught her serving partner’s eye across table nine, tapped her wrist in the universal signal for taking five, and waited for the answering nod before slipping into the service hallway.
The shift to the back-of-house—chaos vanishing into sudden quiet—was almost dizzying but welcome.
She pushed through the metal door and stepped onto the loading dock.
It was a lousy place for a break. The only seating was an upside-down milk crate against an unyielding brick wall, and the dumpster reeked of rotting food.
But after hours on her feet, any chance to sit, no matter how grim the surroundings, was a blessing.
Miami still steamed long after dark and thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance—threatening rain, though whether it came down or not hardly mattered. Her sweat-dampened shirt already clung like a second skin; a downpour might actually be refreshing.
She closed her eyes and tried to block out the city noise—the distant wail of a car alarm, a plane roaring overhead, honking that never quite became white noise.
Her day had started at four a.m. at her first job—the breakfast shift at the Waffle House.
Two midday classes had consumed the afternoon, followed by a frantic dash across town to set up the banquet.
Exhaustion wasn’t just in her bones; it was a living, breathing thing inside her.
She couldn’t keep up this pace forever. Even with the increase in tipped wages, it did not equal a future.
She only hung on to her morning job for the benefits—health, dental, paid sick time—because she was one root canal or appendectomy away from losing her parents’ house and whatever else was left.
If she hadn’t walked away from everything eight years ago—home, school, and especially Alec—maybe things would be different. Maybe she wouldn’t be sitting on a milk crate behind a fancy ballroom, too tired to remember the last time life hadn’t been survival.
“Peterson!”
Her boss’s voice sliced through the heavy air.
Emily straightened and forced a polite smile as the catering owner filled the service door: sculpted hair, precise makeup, oozing with stern authority.
Regina Richmond ruled her kitchen and staff the way a general ruled a battlefield—constantly strategizing, eyes trained for trouble, a sharp order on the tip of her tongue.
What a crappy turn Emily’s life had taken. At twenty-seven, she should have been an experienced chef calling the shots in her own kitchen by now, not at someone else’s beck and call.
“Have you quit?” Regina snapped.
“I’m on break with two minutes to go,” she dared to respond.
Smarting off to the two-star Michelin chef who had graced the cover of every culinary publication in print over the past two decades and made Gordon Ramsey seem like a choirboy, was risky.
She gobbled up sous chefs and spat them out for insolence and was far less forgiving of her wait staff.
But she knew the labor laws; they’d covered them in class.
If an employee worked six hours, they earned a meal break.
All she’d wanted was a few minutes of peace and to pee.
“Breaks are honored when we’re fully staffed,” Regina hissed. “When we’re not, I pay you to work through them. Get your ass in there and push the champagne. The markup on it is 200 percent, and I won’t be happy if we have to drag any of it back up I-95 at the end of the night.”
Since arguing was pointless, and no doubt her two minutes were up, she got to her feet.
When she faced the fifty-year-old gourmet chef turned caterer, Emily met her gaze eye to eye, which wasn’t saying much at only a few inches over five feet herself.
Funny how her daunting presence made her seem six feet tall instead.
“You’re not usually a problem, Peterson. What’s going on with you—boyfriend trouble?”
“No, ma’am. I’m single.”
The older woman’s mouth twisted. “We can’t have attitude. Nip whatever it is in the bud.”
“I’m on my fourth double shift in a row, but that’s my problem, ma’am. I’ll work on the attitude.”
“I don’t like my staff spreading themselves so thin. I need you sharp and attentive to my clients.”
Regina’s rate was above industry standard.
Special functions sometimes came with a bonus; tonight was one of them.
Beyond that, a paycheck was all she got.
And her hours weren’t consistent. Whether she worked was up to the whims of the Miami social calendar.
The weeks between New Year’s and Valentine’s Day were dead.
Spring and summer were ridiculously busy, with weddings and graduations coming out of their ears.
In fact, she had something scheduled every night for the next three weeks straight.
Because she needed this job, she plastered on her best fake customer service smile. “I’m sharp, ma’am. I promise.”
When she tried to move past her, Regina put out an arm and stopped her.
“Are you a prude, Peterson?”
Shocked by the question, she thought perhaps she’d heard her wrong. “Excuse me?”
“Do you have a stick up your ass about sex?”
“I, um…” This was another violation; she was sure of it, just not one they’d ever covered in class. “Is there a reason you’re asking?”
“I have an exclusive event next Saturday. There will be things going on you won’t see at Sunday school, but the pay is excellent.
I have an open spot for a server, but not if your virginal sensibilities are going to be offended if you see a naked breast or a man’s bare ass. If so, I’ll find someone else.”
What on earth kind of function was she talking about?
Without giving it another thought, because she really needed the money, she blurted out, “I’m neither a virgin nor a prude. I’ll do it.”
Regina studied her a beat then surprised Emily with the barest lift at one corner of her mouth. In the entire time she’d been working for her, she couldn’t remember her smiling, let alone laughing even once.
“Be at the kitchen to load at two on Saturday. Do a good job, and it could become a regular thing.” All hints of a smile vanished. “You’ll have to keep your mouth shut about what you see. The attendees are all sticklers about their privacy. One slip and you’re blacklisted.”
“I won’t say a word.”
“Hm,” she grunted and then turned to go inside.
Emily saw her chance slipping away, and blurted out, “There is one other thing.”
Regina stopped and glanced over her shoulder, one black brow arched.
That subtle action was completely intimidating, and Emily almost lost her nerve.
“Spit it out, Peterson. We both need to get back.”
“If you ever need a sous or prep chef in your kitchen, could you consider me?”
“You’re trained?” she asked, now with both brows arched. “Why didn’t you say so before now?”
“Actually, after a hiatus of several years, I just returned to culinary school. I have another semester, but I’d be honored to learn from a Michelin chef.”
Regina grunted, her lips curving downward. “Why the hiatus?”
“There was a tragedy in my family. I lost everyone within two years.” She shrugged rather than cry. “At nineteen, it messed with my head.”
“So you’re juggling two jobs and school.
No wonder you look like a strong breeze would knock you over.
” Regina studied her a moment. “I admire your tenacity, Peterson. I’ve been where you are, and it’s not easy.
But I kept my nose to the grindstone with one goal in mind, and it eventually paid off. ”
Words of wisdom and admiration from Regina? Had she fallen asleep during her break and dreamt it?
“I don’t hire just anyone to work in my kitchen,” she warned. “You’d have to start out as a prep cook, meet my stringent standards then, maybe.”
“Of course, I wouldn’t expect otherwise.”
“This is June, our busiest month. Perhaps when the wedding season is over, I can find the time.”
“Thank you, ma’am. You won’t be disappointed. And thank you for trusting me with your event Saturday night. I promise I won’t let you down.”
“How about doing what I’m paying you for tonight before making more promises?” She aimed her thumb over her shoulder. “The champagne won’t serve itself.”
“No, ma’am.” Emily rushed past her, uttering, “I’ll get on that right now.”
Emily wouldn’t call a bonus shift and an indefinite chance in Regina’s kitchen a light at the end of the tunnel, more like a glimmer of hope. But her feet didn’t ache so much when she hustled into the ballroom with a tray of flutes.
The lights were up, the montage over, and the string of speakers singing the honoree’s praises was underway.
She suppressed a sigh because the night wasn’t nearly over.
Amid forced laughter at corny jokes and intermittent applause as one speaker ended and another was announced, crystal clinked as she and her fellow servers kept the bubbly flowing.
Emily was heading to the kitchen for another tray when hushed voices and rustling from a shadowed alcove snagged her attention.