6. Michael
I wipe the back of my hand over my forehead, already feeling the summer sun beat down on me despite it only being eleven A.M..
An hour of set-up time and three more of actual feeding frenzy, and I’ll be out cold tonight as soon as I get home.
Leaving me with no time for additional work or recipe research, unfortunately.
Not unless I want to be even more wiped for work tomorrow.
Sighing, I try to follow the camp counselor’s instructions as she walks me through Do’s and Don’t’s of feeding people.
I want to tell her—Daisy—that I’ve worked Michelin starred restaurants and am the last person who needs instruction on this.
But then I realize, yeah, she’s not talking about goat cheese foams or deconstructed fig and cherry tarts or any of the type of molecular cuisine we used to experiment with in my old restaurant.
She isn’t even talking about the fine catering I’ve been doing on the side to support ourselves while we get the restaurant off the ground.
She is talking about feeding children and their parents.
As if they were cattle. That is something I certainly do not have experience with.
“Just remember to put the gluten free stuff on the right side of the table and the dairy free on the left. We can leave the normal stuff in the middle to separate them. That sound good?” Apparently fancy cattle with a million food sensitivities.
When I got the brief for this request, I was shocked to find out just how many allergies were found to be so common with kids, and the liabilities the camp could incur if they were to provide any foods with certain allergens.
It was difficult to come up with an inclusive, yet varied kid-friendly menu, but I did it because I’m awesome at my job.
Daisy grins up at me, her cheeks blushing when I meet her eyes. Unconsciously—or maybe fully consciously—Daisy tilts forward, pushing her chest out.
“Er, yeah,” I say, turning away, fidgeting with the disposable tongs.
“We should probably have signs, right?” she asks.
“We do. They’re somewhere in the baskets with the rest of the utensils and napkins.”
Daisy tugs at her bottom lip with her teeth as she moves even closer still.
Immediately, I stiffen and take a step back.
“Don’t worry; it shouldn’t be too difficult to handle! You’re a big time chef, right? You must be so used to this type of craziness.”
I grimace, leaning away. “A kitchen of adults who act like children? Yes. A large group of actual children? No.”
She bursts out laughing, several octaves too high for it to sound natural, and reaches out to place a hand on my shoulder. Did she just… Yes, she definitely squeezed my bicep. Jesus.
“Uh.” I hesitate, trying to find the right words to let her down easy, gently grabbing her wrist and pulling her hand away. “I’m good here, if you want to move on.”
In more ways than one, please.
Daisy bursts into laughter once more, batting her lashes so hard for half a second I fear she’s trying to tell me something in morse code. Shit. Does she think I’m flirting with her? I was just trying to be funny!
“I’m sure you have more people to help out,” I tell Daisy, internally begging her to leave me alone. “More volunteers to guide.”
I use the term “volunteer” here very loosely, given that the email the camp sent out “asking” the parents to assist with the Field Day was passive-aggressive at best and served out enough of a guilt trip to make the purest of saints feel shame at worst. Even if I hadn’t been hired to do the catering, though, I probably would’ve ended up doing it.
The camp did not hesitate to mention I will fail as a parent if I don’t sign up to be part of this amazing day.
That I will be “missing out on being part of one of Rachel’s most important core memories.
” And I’m done not being part of them anymore.
“Now, just remember to use the biodegradable bamboo plates Mrs. McCallister brought and not the plastic ones Mrs. Santini did.” Daisy rolls her eyes at me as if to say Typical Mrs. Santini, amirite?
I simply nod because I don’t have a fucking idea who Santini or McCallister are, and there is no way I’m opening up another painful round of conversation with this overeager woman by asking. “Right.”
“I’ll send over the catering volunteer when they get here.
Let me see who it is…” She checks her clipboard, scanning the paper in front of her, but a part of me somehow already knows.
“Diana Castillo,” she confirms with a smile.
“She’s really nice. She has two amazing kids, Camila and Emiliana Guerrero.
Divorced,” she whispers with a disapproving expression on her face.
Defensiveness creeps up on me, my irritation with this counselor finally reaching its limit.
The only reason I don’t call her inappropriate and judgmental is because I’m too busy pretending to be unaffected by the news that Diana will be my partner for the next four hours.
Which I am, obviously. Unaffected by it, of course.
It’s why, when Diana shows up just a few minutes later, a small cooler in one hand, my heart doesn’t beat too far out of my chest; my stomach doesn’t drop all the way to my feet.
Okay, so maybe I’m not completely unaffected by the news of having to spend the rest of the afternoon working together.
But it’s only because our interactions, though civil since calling a truce, have not gone past a Hello or Goodbye at camp drop-offs and pick-ups.
And I’ve hated it. I’ve hated the way we left things.
I’ve hated the fact that she already made up her mind about who I am and doesn’t like it.
Above all, I’ve hated the way I hate the situation itself—the fact that I give a shit at all.
My chest tightens as I watch Diana walk towards me, a slow, hesitant smile on her face.
Her hair is up in a loose bun again, exposing her beautiful, slender neck.
I wonder what it would feel like beneath my lips, whether it’s really as soft as it looks.
I try not to be too obvious as my eyes travel down her body, taking in her soft curves, her tan thighs—the way they look as they slowly make their way to me.
Or maybe she’s not walking slowly. Maybe life has just started moving in slow motion. Because that’s what this feels like.
“Hey there.”
Her soft voice—like she’s doing her best to pretend everything is okay when we both know it’s been incredibly awkward—breaks through whatever the hell was happening in my brain right now. And thank god because what the actual fuck.
“So you’re my task buddy, huh?” she asks, giving me a wry smile.
“Don’t sound too excited,” I harrumph, handing her a branded Sugar Maple Day Camp apron to slip on.
I turn my back on her, pretending to busy myself with set-up when really I’m freaking the fuck out.
My breathing is ragged, so I do my best to control it, to push whatever intense reaction I just had to her to the back of my mind.
She takes the apron, staring down at it as if enthralled by the stitching or something.
Either that, or she really can’t stand to look at me.
The latter seems to be the more likely of the two, given our last real encounter.
This false truce of ours has been a nightmare.
Especially now that I just realized I’m attracted to her.
Fuck.
I hate myself. I truly, truly hate myself.
Though I can’t deny, given the current pressure building between my legs, maybe it’s for the best that she avoids looking me straight in the eye. The emotional separation helps lessen the physical need. Barely, but it helps.
“I’m just joking,” she murmurs.
“Are you?” And now I hate myself even more because why the fuck do I need to ask her these questions? Why put myself through more of this shit? Just let her hate me. I deserve it. She’s not wrong when she said I was selfish.
She heaves a sigh and finally looks up at me. “Yes. I was. Kind of?” She scrunches her face, tilts her head.
Cute, I think.
I laugh once at her expression, feeling myself unwind a bit, and nod.
“Fair. I get it. Things have been weird. I know you haven’t wanted to talk to me, so if this is really uncomfortable for you, maybe we can ask Daisy to switch you out for something else.
I would offer to switch only I’m being paid to cater this thing and—”
“No, I’m okay. Really. And I’ve been avoiding you because I’ve felt so ashamed of how I acted.
I don’t know if I would’ve had the courage to reach out to you to apologize, honestly.
So I’m glad we’re ‘volunteering’ together.
” She air-quotes the word, and I smile. She felt the threatening undertones of that email, too, then.
Great minds and all that.
“Forces me to be a big girl and tell you that…” She takes a deep breath and blows it out. “Tell you that I’m sorry. That I was an ass. That some things you said reminded me a little bit about my ex and so…”
Now my stomach really drops. I remind her of her ex-husband? Jesus. So she does hate me. I feel my face drain of blood, and I can no longer look at her.
“Right,” I say, busying myself by stacking some plates at either end of the picnic tables.
“Shoot. No, that’s not what I meant! You’re not as bad as my ex—”
“As bad? Fuck.” I scoff.
“I mean, no. I mean, yes. Ugh. Just let me explain.”
She exhales, hands on her hips. Wisps of dark brown hair loose around her face, wild and beautiful. They pair perfectly with her coffee eyes, large and doe-eyed.
“Well? Explain,” I demand after a painful thirty seconds.
“I just meant that the story you told me about your past—”
“Which was just surface level, by the way. You’re missing a lot of important details,” I mutter, crossing my arms in front of my chest.