Macaroni.
An afternoon out for the ridiculously rich and not-so-famous, and I was on macaroni duty.
Not caviar or oysters or even amuse-bouche, butmacaroni and cheese.
Mind you, it was the super fancy, non-Kraft kind, but how fancy could macaroni really get?
The bread crumbs were a little unsettling. Maybe science had gone too far.
And as one may have guessed, grown adults sipping on cocktails and enjoying the live band weren’t exactly interested in dropping by my buffet table for a hearty serving of mac and cheese.
I was ready to pull out Noah’s Music Theory flash cards for entertainment after the first twenty minutes.
By the end of the first hour, I was just winning a debate with myself on whether or not I could get away with discreetly playing a phone game underneath the buffet table when my phone burst to life in a flurry of vibrations.
With a subtlety I wasn’t known for, I fished it out of my waistband and checked the well-timed text.
Noah: What’s your favorite flavor to add to coffee?
I bit my lip to stifle an untimely squeal. I wanted to tease him a little by saying it was impossible to pick a favorite and depended on the day and my mood, but I was too tickled by the fact Noah texted me that I could only answer honestly.
Emma: That’s easy. Caramel.
And like I should’ve expected, it took a good sixty-four seconds of me staring at the unchanging screen to realize Noah probably wasn’t going to text back anytime soon.
But I wasn’t willing to let it go yet.
Emma: Why do you ask?
His response was instantaneous.
Noah: Call it curiosity.
“Texting on the job?” a familiar voice tutted from behind me.
I jumped a foot into the air and fumbled for my phone as the little bugger flew from my hands.
I watched in paralyzed horror as it soared through the air, performing an impressive double axel before landing in the macaroni with a wetplop.
A few noodles sprayed out of the container, and one landed directly on my cheek as I winced.
“Uh.” I tried to think of a viable excuse, blinking down at the phone slowly sinking further into the vat of macaroni. Swallowing, I reluctantly turned around to face Mr. Everton’s raised brow. “I can explain.”
He frowned, and the exasperation coating his features looked eerily similar to my father’s. “That better not be my son you were texting.”
“Your son?” I shifted my weight as I debated whether or not Mr. Everton would fire me for touching the food if I tried to save my phone from the macaroni quicksand.
His first rule of catering was you were not allowed to touch the food unless you were wearing gloves.
I’d forgotten my gloves.
“Finn Everton. The boy you were talking to the other week.”
Right.
That son.
“It wasn’t Finn.” I delicately pulled the piece of macaroni off my cheek with a wince. “It was my…”
