Chapter 29 Butter
Butter
Poppy
“Stop fiddling with it.”
“It’s not perfect yet.”
“The plating doesn’t need to be set in stone.” I lean over the pass, watching as Jack moves a singular carrot an inch to the
left. He’s wearing his glasses again today. The way they’re slipping down his nose as he concentrates makes my heart cartwheel.
“Plus, it’s just Kiara and Chester and Herm.”
The look he gives me makes it quite clear that that’s the whole point.
“Aw.” I swipe a spoon through a tub of sauce and stick it in my mouth. “That’s so cute, you’re nervous.”
“Poppy.”
“Sorry, sorry.” I hold up my hands. “It looks great, okay? They’re going to love it. And if they don’t, we still have time
to make changes.”
He rolls his eyes at my teasing, shoving two of the plates in my direction. “Take them out.”
The days since Jack and I started doing .
. . well, whatever it is we’re doing, have been busier than ever.
We’ve spent nearly the entire time in Fable’s kitchen, trying out different ideas for the pop-up.
The actual restaurant menu will be expanded, but for the purposes of the event, we decided to go with four surefire entrée options: foil-wrapped red snapper; filet with a rich, coffee-scented rub; fresh agnolotti filled with chanterelles; and roasted carrots resting on a bed of lush cashew milk crema, topped with crispy chickpeas.
It’s harder than ever to concentrate now that I know how he acts in bed. What his beard feels like against my skin. How his
voice sounds when he’s strung-out and on the verge of coming. We haven’t slept together again yet, but I feel his gaze on
me all the time, and we share the bed every night. If it weren’t for Herman’s presence as we wrap up the dining room renovation—not
to mention Chester, who has started coming by to help out every spare moment he has—we’d never get anything done.
The mere thought of Jack sends a lick of desire through me so delicate, I shiver. It feels as though he’s waiting for me to
make a move, except I’m waiting for the same thing, and so we keep circling each other, a hungry undercurrent in every interaction.
In the real world, we’d never work. We’d fight constantly, then strangle each other. When I think of the perfect woman for
Jack, she’s nothing like me. She’d be equally driven, brilliant in a field like academics or medicine. Or else she’d own half
a dozen restaurants and be as self-made as him. Absurdly, whenever I think of this woman who, to my knowledge, doesn’t exist,
I have the urge to claw out someone’s eyes.
I shake my head to push those thoughts away as I walk into the dining room. Time to focus.
The dining room is a far cry from how it looked when I first arrived. The walls are painted pale blue, contrasting with the
dark floors and beams above. The wall of booths, which I’m sure is going to be a huge selfie spot, has come together beautifully;
the deep blue velvet of the cushions ties in nicely with the bright, tropical wallpaper above. The bar looks like new, already
stocked with liquor, surrounded by gorgeous bar stools I got at a discount from a local furniture company. The stained-glass
sailfish behind the bar remains the centerpiece. It glints under the light from the abalone shell chandeliers above.
We’re still bringing in odds and ends, and the toilet in the bathroom keeps acting up no matter how much Herman tinkers with it, but we’re nearly ready for the first test. I’ve curated the guest list for the pop-up carefully, prioritizing food bloggers and critics, influencers I’m friendly with, and even a few celebrities.
It isn’t for another week—with the official opening a week after that—but I’m already on edge over it, a confusing mix of
excitement and nerves. I want this to go well so badly. Jack deserves it. I deserve it.
I bring the plates to the long, family-style table in the middle of the room, which we designed with large parties in mind.
Chester, Kiara, and Herman are sitting at one end.
“Oh, wow,” Kiara says as I set down the plates. “They’re beautiful.”
“They’re just test plates,” Jack warns as he follows up with the other two.
“They look magazine worthy,” Chester says, reaching for utensils and digging into the steak without invitation. He shuts his
eyes as he chews. “Fuck. Tastes like it, too.”
“Chester,” I scold.
“What? This is amazing.”
“You didn’t even let us explain what you’re eating,” Jack says. But he’s fighting a smile as he watches Kiara and Herman taste
the food too. He rattles off the descriptions, nodding at Herman’s surprisingly smart observations about the cook on the steak,
the fish preparation, even the ways the carrot and chickpea dish is vegan.
“Any comments?” I ask, once the plates are practically licked clean. “Or questions?”
“They’re perfect,” Kiara says.
“The fish is Poppy’s concept,” Jack says.
“The others are Jack’s,” I add.
“What about dessert?” Chester asks, wrapping his arm around the top of Kiara’s chair. I might be imagining it, but it looks
like they’re sitting a little closer than usual.
“Poppy’s going to handle dessert,” Jack says.
I blink at him. “What? No. I’m front of house.”
“The dessert can be completed beforehand. Remember the idea you had for those little cakes?”
Last night, in between lessons in searing the perfect steak and Jack’s riff on a scallop dish that I swear is still lingering on my tongue, we tossed around ideas for dessert.
I showed him the account for Caroline’s bakery; she’s well-known for her petit fours, each tiny, perfect square decorated to perfection.
I thought it could be fun to do something like that, but with tropical flavors.
A perfectly Instagrammable bite to end the night.
“I’m not Caroline,” I say, fussing with my braid. “What if they’re terrible?”
“They won’t be.”
“I barely know how to cook now. What if—”
“That’s not true.” He gently pulls my hand away from my braid. His touch lingers, fingertips brushing my cheek. “You’re getting
good, and more than that, you have the right instincts. You’re ready. If you weren’t, I’d tell you.”
I’m very aware, suddenly, of the fact we’re not alone. I take a step back, smoothing my apron. “I don’t want to mess up your
chances of making this work.”
“This is your thing as much as mine, now.”
I press my lips together, fighting a smile.
“I’ve got a question,” Herman says, scratching the stubble on his chin. “Not that this isn’t heartwarming but, kids, how the
hell are we supposed to handle this without more kitchen staff?”
Jack looks up from the plates, pushing his glasses up his nose. “What?”
“The rest of the staff. Who are they going to be?”
“I . . . err . . .” Jack has the decency to look abashed. “I don’t know yet.”
“Seriously?” It hasn’t been hard to notice that he’s dragging his feet, but I would’ve thought he’d have called in a few favors
by now. “Jack, the pop-up is a week away. The invitations are out. We have the final health inspection tomorrow.”
He gives me a stony look. “I know that. It’s fine, okay? I have a few names in mind.”
“Fine. Fine.” I twist around, crossing my arms as I study the dining room. I tap my foot, working out my spike of anxious
energy. “But for the record, you’re the one who told me to stay out of it.”
“Heard,” Jack says with annoyance.
I walk to the front door, turning to take in the room from another angle. It’s missing something, but I can’t put my finger
on what.
I pull out my phone, looking at it through the lens of my camera. It looks beautiful. Airy and light-filled, yet intimate.
The tables aren’t set, but we have all the elements we’re going to use. The day of the pop-up, I’ll bring in cut flowers for
each of the tables.
“I could call up Jazz,” Herman is saying. “He went down to Boca, but he was always tight with Sal.”
“No,” I hear Jack reply. “I know who I want. I’ll give Hazel a call.”
My eyes catch on the stained-glass scene behind the bar. It finally slots into place.
It’s too new in here.
The Sailfish had a timeless quality. Fable is gorgeous and classy, but there isn’t a sense of the history of the building
and the restaurant that came before. The stained-glass sailfish isn’t enough. The restaurant is supposed to be telling a story
of connection. Memory. It can’t feel like it winked into existence out of nothing.
“Hey,” I say, “what did you do with the old décor? The photographs and stuff?”
Jack breaks away from his conversation with Herman. “Why?”
“The dining room is missing something.”
“What? It looks great.” He glances around. “And we have more cooking to do.”
“No,” I insist, rocking on my heels, thoughts whirring. “We need to bring in some of the old story in order to tell the new
one.”
He scrapes his hand over his jaw, looking a little uncertain.
“Trust me on this,” I say.
“They’re back at the house,” Kiara says. “Want to take a look?”
“Yes. Perfect!” I hurry to the kitchen. Jack doesn’t seem fully convinced, but he doesn’t stop me. “Let me grab my purse.
Jack, you better call Hazel right now!”
“I have something to tell you,” Kiara says once we’ve arrived at her place. “A good something.”
I slide out of her car, following her to the house. The pink front door makes me smile, like always; it’s what I’d want if I lived down here permanently. “Ooh. Mysterious. Spill it.”
“Chester and I went out to dinner the other night. And”—she leans in as she unlocks the door, biting her lip with excitement—“we’re
going out again tonight.”
“Oh my god!” I screech, pulling her into a hug.
“I know!”
“That’s so cute. I could tell he had a crush on you.” Or maybe a little more than that, according to Jack, but that’s not
my secret to tell. “How was it? I mean, great, obviously. Did he kiss you?”
“Not yet.” She gives me a knowing look. “Are you and Jack, you know . . .”
“Oh! No.” I laugh slightly, kicking off my shoes and following her upstairs. I don’t want to lie, but also, I don’t want to
betray Jack’s confidence. Besides, there’s barely anything to tell. We hooked up. I’d like it to keep happening until we return
to New York. The end. “We’re just friends.”