“Uh-huh.” She slides her sunglasses off her head, tucking them against the collar of her dress with a sly grin. She’s going to give me shit about this later, that’s for sure. “Is it safe to show me the kitchen?”
A little while later, the kitchen is spotless again, we’ve all eaten two pop tarts, and Poppy has somehow wrangled an invitation to Hazel’s art show next month. Talk finally drifts to the restaurant itself and our plans for the pop-up and opening.
“I appreciate you being willing to come down,” I tell Hazel again. “You’re saving my ass right now.”
“Who else do you have?”
I drag my hand over my jaw. “You, me, and this guy named Herman. He was a line cook when this place was the Sailfish.”
She blinks. “That’s it?”
“Poppy’s going to make dessert for the pop-up.”
“Allegedly,” Poppy says, briefly raising her gaze from her phone.
“You are.” I lean against the prep sink with a groan. “I didn’t want to do this, but I guess I can poach someone local.”
“Maybe we’d be okay for the pop-up, depending on the numbers, but definitely not opening night,” says Hazel. “Your dishes are complicated.”
“Sophisticated.”
“Complicatedandsophisticated.” She grins. “Well, do you know anyone local?”
“Oh! What about Owen?” Poppy says.
I scowl. “No.”
I left Owen in the lurch, with a pissed off client, after the mess with Jessica. If I were him, I wouldn’t want to see me either, much less do me another favor.
Poppy looks up again at my tone. “Why not? He’s in Florida already, for one thing. Even if he can’t help out himself, he could recommend someone.”
“Who’s Owen?” Hazel asks.
“He was Jack’s roommate,” Poppy says, before I can answer. She slides over to Hazel, pulling up something on her phone. “Take a look at his Instagram. He’s in Fort Lauderdale.”
“Is he on a yacht there?”
“I think he does private chef stuff sometimes, yeah. Right, Jack?”
“Right,” I say half-heartedly.
“Great.” Hazel plants her hands on the counter behind her, crossing her ankles. Between her, Poppy, and my executive dysfunction, I know I’m beat. “Can’t wait to meet him.”
Friday morning, Poppy and I drive to Fort Lauderdale.
She looks as mouthwatering as a macaron in a form-fitting blue sundress, her hair loose, heeled sandals on her feet. Paired with a delicate set of gold jewelry, she makes me think of a siren. The only thing ruining the effect is the huge pair of sunglasses that keep sliding down her nose, but they’re charming all the same. Whenever I glance over, my thoughts teeter from dirty to indecent, so I’ve studiously kept my eyes on the road. Gluing my hands to the wheel, instead of stroking the tempting few inches of Poppy’s exposed thigh, has been markedly more difficult.
We’ve been fighting over the radio station the whole time.She changes it when I least expect it, when I’ve been lulled into a false sense of security after several rock songs in a row, like a total brat. Clearly no one ever taught her about using her manners in a car.
“So,” she says, after yet another station switch, which leaves my lips twitching fondly, “are you going to tell me what happened with you and Owen? Ooh, did you fight over the same woman?”
I glance over. “How did you even—no. For one thing, he’s gay.”
She shrugs. “But it was something personal.”
The urge to push the topic aside rises first. The way Jessica humiliated me still stings, all this time later, and most of me would rather chew glass than share that with Poppy. And yet... part of me does want to confide in her. I’m tired of holding back. Burying everything while hoping it’ll fade away. She knows about my past in foster care, and the world hasn’t come to a grinding halt.
“Owen was always interested in the private chef gig,” I say reluctantly. “After culinary school he bounced around a bit, like me, but eventually landed down here. Started rotating between work in restaurants and stints on yachts.”
