“I need to know what the entrée options are so they can be included in the invitations. You mentioned he’d be planning the food when you asked for my help with this…” Grave negligence of anything resembling a boundary. “…wedding.”
“Ah. I need to talk to him about that, actually. I haven’t told him yet that he’s not the one catering.”
“Well.” I push off the wall. “In that case, there’s no better time than now to watch those fireworks go off.”
?
Like a haughty prince meeting the one who actually owns the castle his kitchen lives in, Birch lifts his nose an entire centimeter higher when Iverson and I enter the chef’s domain.
Immediately offended, my little brother crosses his arms. “If you don’t lose your attitude, I’m shearing a hundred bucks off your Christmas bonus. For the first minute. Every minute after that you lose another fifty.”
Birch’s nose lowers, though his jaw tightens. Then he sees me, and all his insubordination washes away as he retrieves a metal bowl from the industrial-sized fridge. All pleasant, he asks, “Do you need something from me, Maleficent?”
“There are several things I need from you.” Iverson slides onto a stool at the counter and sighs, nose scrunching when he adds, “Unfortunately.”
Birch’s mood levels, and he drops his chilled bowl against the dark marble countertop. It clatters while he snatches a whisk from a drawer. “I don’t care how much you pay me, I cannot make a croquembouche in three hours. It is physically impossible.”
While I settle in on a different stool to enjoy the explosions, Iverson’s eyes narrow. “I wasn’t going to ask for a croquembouche.”
This time, no doubt.
“And your inability to speak respectfully to youremployerhas just lost you money.”
Birch glances my way, for help possibly, but then his attention catches on my throat. His whisk lifts, finger outstretched. “Uh…”
“It’s romance,” I say. “Romance is black and blue.”
“Actually,” Iverson cuts in, “it’sgoldand blue. Which brings us to the point.”
Birch says nothing, funneling his irritation into his whisk as he turns cream into whip.
“I need you to plan a menu for a ball. There should be a sit-down dinner as well as hors d’oeuvres. Drinks, too, if you can manage it, but I am not against hiring an expert for you to work with on that end. I expect this to be done as soon as humanly possible, and by that I mean you have one week—”
“Three days,” I mention. “If at all possible. Azalea’s rather on edge about making sure invites are sent soon.” Though, to befair, she’s rather on edge about a lot of things at the moment, but I would certainly prefer if they’d all involve solely me.
Ivy smiles with gleeful malice. “Even better. Three days, Birch. The ball will be on June 14th. Flag Day and romance are the themes. As mentioned, blue and gold are the colors. If you do not believe yourself capable of completing this task, let me know now so that I may find someone who is.”
Beyond the counter between us, dairy splatters the kitchen floor as Birch’s bowl drops, clangs, and rolls. The whisk shuffles after it, tanging against tile.
“A ball?” Birch breathes. “A ball formeto cater?”
Heh.
Joy limitless, I behold the sparks as they light fresh bombs. I adore Birch for around seventeen different reasons. High on the list sits his tendency tolittle brothermy little brother, thus creating a sort of karmic justice.
Iverson stands and points a long, authoritarian finger at Birch. “Stop that,” he orders. “There will be none of that in front of me. You’re not catering. You’replanning the menu.”
“Aball,” Birch repeats, eyes shiny with unshed emotion. “I take back all of the horrible things I’ve said about you.”
“Please don’t,” Ivy grunts. “And stop emoting so hard. It’s giving me heartburn.”
“I’ll make something low-fat and non-acidic for dinner, then,” he replies. “Or I’ll heat something low-fat and non-acidic from the freezer, more likely. I’m taking the night off from cooking. I need the time to plan for aball.”
“You do not know how blessed you are to be your sister’s only brother,” Ivy declares. “She’s doing the bulk of the heavy lifting in stopping me from strangling you right now.”
“I’ve just learned that Ivy’s a big fan of strangling, so you may want to tread at least a little lightly,” I point out. “By the way, while you’re getting that low-fat, non-acidic dinner from thefreezer, would you mind grabbing me a few pizzas? I’ve run out, and I probably need to head back home and start heating one up if I’m going to eat tonight.” Grazing my neck with a fingertip, I murmur, “It’s been a long day.”
Birch jumps, abandoning his grand ballroom fantasies—and the mess of almost-whip strewn across the floor—to produce no less than ten olive pizzas from an industrial freezer stacked two deep and at least twenty high with them. “If I had known you were low, I would have sent some over,” he fusses.
