Chapter 6
SIX
With unfortunate timing, just as I finish cleaning up the kitchen (erasing the evidence), Luke walks in wearing a three-piece suit.
I wonder if being aggressively visually appealing is a technique he uses in his meetings to disarm opponents and win more deals.
As a supplementary aide, his blonde hair is perfectly tousled with an attitude that causes one to imagine him running of his own fingers through it as he stands basked in artistic light and thoughtful repose. It’s devilishly roguish.
Fallen angel tempting mortals to sin , I think again, finding myself momentarily speechless.
Luke, however, is not.
“What are you still doing here?” he demands.
I can’t admit I co-opted his kitchen for personal reasons without permission and had to work overtime to recover because that will lead to more questions. So instead I stammer, “T-the cake.”
“Yes.” Luke looks to the kitchen island where a pink chiffon cake waits for collection.
“It took longer than expected,” I argue.
“Is that so?”
He walks over to the cake and bends his head down to inspect the creation.
Visually, it looks like an oversized flattened donut made of sponge.
Regular chiffon cakes are yellow in appearance, but this one is light pink since I added rose tea-infused water to the batter.
Yet at first glance, even with the rose tea addition, there is a quality of simplicity to the whole thing.
Even the ingredients support this opinion: eggs, sugar, vegetable oil, flour, and optional rose tea buds for flavoring.
That being said, I can spout off soliloquies regarding its ethereal lightness, the foaminess of eggs turned into meringue, and the sheer muscle strength required to beat in maximum fluffiness to the batter.
There are aeration properties at work. And the chiffon cake differs from its closely related cousin—the traditional sponge cake—in that it uses oil instead of butter to achieve a more tender, more moist crumb.
Though in support of how Luke is currently raising one haughty eyebrow as he looks down at the donut, what is not so delicate is the frosting work at the top.
It’s rustically applied.
And rather one-dimensional in contrast to the finesse achieved by the Kremna rezina I made last week. That was a luscious cream cake, golden pastry, artful vanilla custard, whipped cream, and thin, buttery dough topped with icing sugar.
The frosting work today is a near-sighted child finger painting while distracted by their favorite television program.
“ This is what took you so long?” says Luke, doing very little to hide his obvious disbelief. “How strange considering you usually flee the premises right after your shift, a decision I fully support as it avoids us having to see each other.”
“Seeing as I know you don’t have enough rudimentary knowledge to microwave a cake in a coffee mug, I don’t believe you would understand how long a cake takes to prepare. I had to supervise the steeping of the rose tea buds in hot water. The process is delicate and requires special attention.”
Technically-mostly-kind-of-true, though I was a poor supervisor today. The buds steeped far too long, so the flavor of the tea is too aromatic, which means the cake is going to be heavily floral. All because I was busy submitting my Tandoori Mac ‘N’ Cheese to the CUM competition.
His eyebrow goes up. ”Should I have a slice to see what all the fuss is about?”
“I—”
What? He never eats my cake! He’s already called my food serviceable before, and for this to be the first sweet item of mine to indulge in…
He can’t!
Luke’s eyes are gleaming as if he has somehow caught a whiff of my duplicity and is keen to uncover it. He grabs a knife from the drawer and is rummaging around for a plate while I attempt to ward off early-stage hyperventilation.
This can’t be happening. Should I come clean?
Perhaps I’ll tell him a half-truth of how a contest caught my attention, and I wanted to enter as a way to test my abilities against other talented cooks.
Nothing serious. Nothing to give away how desperately the prize money would change my life, and how interviewing at MealKits Masala could be the opening I’ve been waiting my whole life to get.
Maybe he’ll enjoy the single portion of Mac ‘N’ Cheese I’ve squirreled away in a container hidden in the back of the fridge?
Then again, he might fire me because I used his kitchen without permission. Or will he fire me for sub-standard baking if he tastes this cake? I don’t know him well enough to know for certain.
Luke finds a plate and is poised to slice into the chiffon cake when I jolt forward and grab his arm. The bicep underneath is stone-hard. “Don’t ruin the presentation,” I beg. “Save it for your guests. If you cut into it prematurely, it’ll make the cake appear more homely than it should be.”
“I don’t think more homeliness is possible.”
“Yes, it is.” My fingers apply more pressure. “Since nothing about you is subpar, the desserts you serve should remain elegantly whole until everyone is ready to eat.”
“How unnecessary of you to worry.”
“No. You are the one who is too kind.”
“And you are a most gentle person,” says Luke with the cheer of a person complimenting under threat of a firearm.
“Go on,” I urge with a saccharine voice. “What else do you think of me?”
“That’s not?—”
“Can’t think of more?”
“Or I don’t want to encourage someone who is so clearly starved for compliments!”
We both know I’m delaying Luke so he doesn’t taste my cake, although for me it’s no longer just about protecting him from tasting a cake below my usual baking standards, but also about winning this tête-à-tête.
I want him to give up, however that happens, because although this is only our second physical meeting, I’ve never known another person who can inflame me into nonsense and argument so successfully. It feels like this is Luke’s secret, hidden, villainous talent.
He actually makes me forget the stakes and difficulties of my real life, and somehow compels me not to grin and bear it , but to attempt clawing back. And unlike under Janice’s treatment, I’m not ground into silence, but properly and vocally incensed by him.
In the honeyed air of a kitchen recently used and the setting light of an evening starting, it’s ridiculous to me that I debate stepping on Luke’s foot to stop him from shaking me off.
As he casually steps back (taking me easily with him), I also realize with a shock that he’s had the strength to disengage our contact any time. Why hasn’t he pried my fingers off?
Instead, Luke jostles his elbow as an indicator I should let go. It’s a surprisingly gentle approach, and while it doesn’t have the force to actually work, there is enough movement to bring the shoulder strap of my top down.
I tilt my chin in a way that draws Luke’s attention to the area as well.
I’m wearing a gingham patterned apron that my friends have jokingly implied looks like a maid’s uniform.
As a person prone to overheating in the kitchen, I also pair my apron with a camisole tank.
That means my arms are always bare, but right now they seem inappropriately bare since the strap of my camisole tank wilts down by my armpit.
Any further drooping and I risk top breast exposure.
Luke says nothing, but we spontaneously spring apart. Hurriedly, I correct the modest wardrobe malfunction by tugging my strap back up over my shoulder. Quietly, he clears his throat.
“We should—” I start.
“Yes,” Luke agrees promptly without knowing what he is agreeing to.
“Don’t eat this cake,” I find myself saying. “Eat the next one I make for you.”
“Fine. Yes. Sure.”
A swell of guilt washes over me as Luke puts away the knife. Today, I put my own interests above the job I’ve been hired to do. The chiffon cake wasn’t my first priority, and the end result shows. It’s not fair to any employer to half-ass my efforts, even an employer like Luke Abbot.
I make a mental promise to work twice as hard on the next dessert.
I also pray that—if chosen to continue in the contest (fingers crossed!)—the timing of the challenges come over the weekend or in a way where I don’t have to pick between myself and work again.
A moral dilemma I’ve got no idea how to face.
Luke is about to say something when the kitchen door opens again.
The man who enters is visibly old with thinning white hair, a white goatee, and deepened wrinkles, but everything about him emanates sprucely energy.
His gaze is measured and hawkish as it rakes over both Luke and I, the craggy lines of his cheeks unmoving as he neither smiles nor frowns.
He seems the sort of person who makes snap judgements about the worth of those around him, then gambles on those assumptions, and then wins big on their accuracy.
He is close to my height (five feet, four inches) and carries his weight at the waist where a buttoned dress shirt strains hardest to stay closed.
He wears not a suit jacket but an oversized cashmere cardigan.
The buttons shine as if gold-plated, a fat Rolex sits on his wrist, and the leather of his boots looks to be from a protected species.
“I didn’t expect you until later, Mr. Duncan,” says Luke, straightening immediately.
“I had time free up,” says Mr. Duncan. “And since we are meeting about chasing a white whale behind the backs of your investors, I didn’t think you would mind me showing up.”
“Let’s move to the dining room and I’ll get dinner arranged for us—” Luke glances at the chiffon cake as if wondering whether to include it on the menu.
Then he glances at me.
I shake my head in the negative. Twice.
Luke goes around the kitchen island. His hand moves to the door in a silent shall we?
“I already ate.” Mr. Duncan shifts his gaze to me. “And this is?”