2. Wesley
2
WESLEY
R eginald Willard III is the absolute last person I want to deal with right now.
Unfortunately, he’s not someone I can ignore.
Everything you need to know about this man can be found in his office. The right-hand wall is all books with a few gaudy knick-knacks mixed in to break up the monotony of the gilded first-edition showpiece books. They’re in such pristine condition, I’m willing to bet that my quitting my job and becoming a stripper is more likely than his ever having read any of them.
Tastefully arranged photos of himself—done by a decorator, no doubt—dot the walls, him grinning with the governor and a buck in front of his country house, gripping the mast of his sailboat with his hair artfully flowing in the breeze (probably from a fan because anyone who actually knows how to sail would be able to tell the boat is stationary), holding a fish outside his yacht club, lounging in the driver’s seat of his classic muscle car, and at the golf club mid-round with every high-ranking person in the state government.
Then there’s the desk. I can’t even begin to explain how much I despise that desk. It’s the most expensive, cheap-looking copy of the Resolute Desk I’ve ever seen. How do I know it’s expensive?
Great question. He tells me every chance he gets.
“Don’t linger in the door, Brooksy, come have a seat. Put your coffee down and breathe,” he instructs. “Hold on, let me get you a coaster. Can’t have it making rings on my replica Resolute.”
He chuckles pompously.
Remember what they taught you in anger management.
Slowly, I count to ten.
By the time I’m done, he’s settled into his chair.
“So, Reggie, what did you need?” I ask.
It’s not the most mature thing, but I feel a little flicker of satisfaction when he scowls in annoyance at “Reggie”.
I don’t always call him that. Most of the time, I call him Reginald. That’s what he prefers, but on days like this when I’m already agitated, I let myself call him Reggie as a little treat.
“I was hoping, Wesley , you could help settle a disagreement in the scholarship review committee,” he says stuffily.
Old dogs can learn new tricks. Maybe I should call him Reggie more often.
“What’s the issue, exactly?”
“As chairman of the review committee, I know that my vote will have extra weight and influence the other members, so I always insist on voting last. Usually, a majority is reached before it’s my turn, but this time, they’re at a deadlock and I’m the tie-breaking vote.
“You’re one of the first mentors we approached for this academy, so I have no doubt you are well aware that our students come from only the best families,” he says, lifting his nose in the air, “and while we’re proud of the charity work we do for the… less fortunate members of society, we can’t award a full scholarship to just anyone.”
Trust fund babies being exposed to something beyond the boundaries of their country clubs? Perish the thought.
“It would do them no good to be exposed to vulgar manners and bad habits. It could ruin their future,” I say, mimicking his pompous tone.
“Just so.” He nods.
Right… I keep forgetting sarcasm is a skill he doesn’t have… yikes.
“As I was saying, we are very selective when it comes to our scholarship students and the arguments during review meetings can get quite heated because of it. Some of the committee members were downright ruffled after viewing this submission. I was worried it would come to blows.”
I rub the back of my neck and sigh.
“I appreciate the context, Reginald, but I do have a meeting with my sous chef this evening and I can’t be late again. Would you mind getting to the meat of the issue?”
I don’t have a meeting with Suzanne, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Yes, of course,” he says, turning his computer monitor to face me. “This is the applicant in question. We’re considering her for a full scholarship.”
He scrolls through her photo portfolio first. It’s a food lover’s dream—gorgeous tiered cakes with classic icing work, pies that belong on the covers of magazines, and cookies that make my mouth water from the photos alone.
Things only get better from there because after she showed us the basics—not that I’d consider any of the work I’ve seen merely basic—she gets weird with it. There’s an isomalt terrarium with realistic gravestones and moss, a three-story Southern Gothic mansion made from gingerbread, and a realistic carousel with sugar work horses so perfect it nearly brings me to tears.
Going by the photos alone, I’m either going to have to hire this woman or marry her—maybe both.
Don’t you think that’s a little extreme? My brain asks.
Absolutely not. Did you or did you not see the same pictures I did? My stomach retorts.
“I don’t see any issue whatsoever from those photos. She’s exceptional. What exactly is the problem? Does the committee hate edible art or something?” I demand.
“The issue is more in the application video. Let me pull it up for you.”
The video opens with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen (although I may be biased after seeing her food) chopping strawberries and explaining how she’s about to show us how to make a strawberry shortcake. She’s wearing a hoodie, which is odd for a kitchen, and I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something off about her left hand.
I can see why they were waffling. Her knife-handling tactics are making me extremely nervous. It’s way too close to her fingers. She’s chopping where she should be slicing and her movements are erratic. I can physically feel the tension forming in my lower back.
The scream I let out when she chops off her fingers is in an octave only dogs can hear.
Why the hell did he show me this?
I brace for the blood and the screams, but none come.
Instead, this absolute madwoman cackles and pulls back her sleeve to reveal her real hand.
My horror morphs into awe.
“What I’m actually going to demonstrate today is how to sculpt a realistic human hand from fondant. By the time I’m done, you’ll have the skills to shock and delight the guests at your next Halloween party.” She smiles wickedly. “Or any party that might need spicing up like your boss’s retirement party or a spoiled nephew’s birthday. I won’t judge.”
I’m captivated by how skillfully she mixes the flesh tones for the hand. She even takes the time to go over the different formulas needed for skin types other than her “blinding snowy hue” (her words). The way she stays engaged with the camera the entire time is incredible. I can barely cook while talking to my sous chef, and here she is, making it look easy.
If they don’t add her to this program, I’m finding her and hiring her myself.
Since she can’t exactly mail in pastries, Avery included a testimonial section including a live tasting of her food.
“This is a new recipe for me,” she says, “so none of the people you see here have tried this before. Any reactions you see are genuine.”
I watch the faces closely, looking for any twitches or tics that might belie their verbal reactions, but the way they seem to melt or float off their chairs after their first bite can’t be faked. It’s a wonderful vicarious experience, and I’m more determined than ever to taste the real thing.
One interview in particular has me in a fit of laughter.
“Okay, Mia, tell the review board what you think.”
“It’s [bleep] amazing,” she gushes.
“Mia!”
“[Bleep] sorry.”
“You promised I wasn’t going to have to bleep you out in editing,” Avery scolds.
“Hello, Committee People, please don’t hold this against Avery. She is a consummate professional and the best [bleep] cook I’ve had the pleasure to work with… oh, crap. Sorry, Avery. I’m not doing it on purpose. I promise. This is just that good.”
I sober up when I see Reginald frowning.
The personal statement piece is last.
I thought she was attractive before in her casual wear, but seeing her dressed in her best… well, there’s no other word to use except stunning. Her light hair hangs around her face in loose waves, shimmering from the sun peeking through the window.
She has an eye for the small details because the blue of her blazer matches her eyes and her lips are tinted the same shade of pink as the blouse underneath.
I'm so focused on the perfect shape of her mouth and the delicate movement of her hands as she talks that I’m barely processing what she’s saying.
Just like that, I'm whisked away into a fantasy.
I’d take her on a tour of my industrial kitchen and see that gorgeous smile bloom across her face when I tell her to raid the pantry and experiment with desserts.
Watching her work would be a bigger aphrodisiac than a barrel of oysters. I only saw the highlight reel of her pastry creation, but I want to see it all. I want to see her splotched with flour, food dye on her hands, and that determined glint in her eye.
I’m not sure I’d even be able to wait for her to finish whatever she’s making before I dropped her on top of a counter and had my way with her. I don't know what I want to taste more, her or her cooking.
What the hell is wrong with you? You'll likely be her mentor if she's accepted and you’re acting like a creep. You’re no better than the men who went around groping the waitresses at Cowboy’s Steakhouse.
Shame twists my stomach into knots.
I remember working with those girls when I was younger. I saw the bruises from the pinches and the hollow, empty look in their eyes after the times it was far worse than a pinch on the ass. I’d held some of them when they cried in the walk-in fridge, and I’d tossed more than my share of men out of the place.
Then I think about the day I found Suzanne curled up in a ball and crying in the breakroom.
That day had ended with my first misdemeanor charge and a friend for life.
With how badly I’d lost my temper during my “talking to” with that customer, I was worried she wouldn’t be able to look at me again.
Instead, when I finally started my own catering company, she’d been the first to apply, insisting that I was the only man she would ever feel safe working for.
She wouldn’t be very proud of me right now.
I take a breath and imagine putting all the inappropriate thoughts about Avery inside a box in my brain. Then I tape it shut, shove it into a back corner, and pile a ton of other crap on top.
I’d always thought Phillip was full of bullshit with this visualization stuff, but it really does work—not that I’d ever admit that to him.
“You’ve seen my talents, you’ve seen live reviews of my cooking, and now you’ve heard why I think I’d be a good fit, but you haven’t yet heard my why.” She sets a photo in front of her on the table. “This is my son, Leo. He just turned two recently. When he was born, I had to choose between going to school and being home to give him the care he deserves. I chose him.
“Earning these certifications will allow me to widen my opportunities in the culinary world exponentially. Not only will I be able to provide my son with the life he deserves, but it will also show women in similar situations that they can follow their dreams while still being able to care for their children. All they need is a little boost at the right time.” She smiles brightly. “I’m hoping that Age Gap Academy will be that boost for me.”
Reginald turns his monitor back around and looks at me expectantly.
“What are you waiting for?” I ask incredulously. “Give that woman the full ride. How is that even in question?”
He fidgets nervously.
“Well, the optics are?—”
“What? Great?” I scoff. “ AGA Gives Famous Pastry Chef Her Start . That’s going to be the headline. This woman is extremely talented already, and she’s only self-taught. Can you imagine how much more she’ll be able to achieve if we give her formal training?
“Even if we ignore the incredible good we’d be doing for someone who seems to deserve it, helping a single mom achieve her dream is pay dirt from a marketing standpoint. Everyone loves an underdog story.
“You need more? She has a website and a vlog which—according to her—are doing fairly well. Do you know how much publicity that will bring us when they find out where she went to school? I’d bet good money she’s already posted a video about applying.”
“She has,” he says, nodding his concession.
“So why haven’t you put the approved stamp on it yet?” I demand.
“Half the committee has issues with her…” He gestures vaguely at his chest area. “Presentation.”
If I clench my jaw any harder, my teeth will break.
“And she doesn’t quite fit the image of a struggling single mom. Besides, what message will that send to our…” He clears his throat awkwardly. “More elite clientele if we bring in a?—”
“So you want to deny her application because what? She happens to be on the busty side and doesn’t look like a dirty street urchin? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Yes, it was,” I say flatly.
“Don’t you have to leave to meet with your sous chef?”
“Oh, Suzanne won’t be mad at me for being late after I tell her about this lovely little chat.”
“How, um, kind of her.”
“Let’s get back to the point. The senator’s son I was mentoring today has three baby mamas and has been pulled into court several times for failing to pay child support, and you let him in. Care to explain how that’s different?”
“It’s a delicate situation, you know,” he says, quailing under my glare. “His father?—”
“Not another word, Reggie. If you deny this woman’s application because of her body and maternal status, I promise you I will go right to my friend who writes for the City Chronicle and tell them exactly why she wasn’t let in. Are we clear?”
“I will, uh… I will take that recommendation under strong advisement, Mr. Brooks.”
“See that you do,” I say curtly. “Goodbye, Reginald.”