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She immediately jumped to her feet, as if she’d recharged in the half-second she’d touched the couch. “Are you going to do the demo here?”
“I can,” Clarissa said, shooting a glance at Cherry. “I think my sister wants to go to dinner though.”
“We can do both,” Cherry said. “Do you want to demo first or dinner first?”
“Let’s dinner first,” Leslie said, her face full of life and energy, as usual. Clarissa had known her for months, and she never took naps, never ran out of go-go-go. She was the perfect personality for chefing, as a cook had to be on their toes all the time.
“I know this great place for ribs that will blow your mind,” Leslie said, grinning for all she was worth. “Y’all in?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Clarissa said, noting that Cherry’s response was slightly less enthusiastic.
* * *
Clarissa peeredout of her sister’s windshield at the restaurant, the clicking of the blinker irritating her. “This is it.”
“Yes,” Cherry said. “I can’t stay here long, Riss.”
“Okay.” She got out of the car and collected her plastic bin from the back seat. “I’ll call you when I’m done.”
“I’m going to go put the car in a garage and go to the mall. Text me, and I’ll tell you where I parked. Then you can come meet me.”
“Okay.” Clarissa didn’t think wandering the outdoor mall sounded fun at all, but she didn’t want to cause problems for Cherry. Her sister had let her stay at her house last night, and she’d been nothing but kind and respectful when Clarissa said she didn’t want to talk about her boyfriend. She’d clapped at the end of Clarissa’s demo last night, and she’d let Leslie stay until almost midnight, even though it was clear Cherry had been bushed by ten p.m.
They’d watched the fireworks over the San Antonio sky from Cherry’s balcony, where she’d served sweet tea and lemonade, as well as chocolate chip cookies. She’d used Mama’s recipe, and Clarissa could still taste the cinnamon in the back of her throat.
Or maybe that was the pure fear she felt at walking into this restaurant before it opened and cooking for the head chef and owner.
Or maybe she needed a new throat.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she whispered to herself. “They don’t give people throat transplants.”
She hefted her bin onto her hip and started toward the double-wide glass doors with the words THE HOT ITALIAN above them. She’d brought along the nicest thing she had to wear, which had been a black pencil skirt and a peach-colored blouse with tiny, brightly-colored hummingbirds on it.
Cherry had deemed the two pieces together “inappropriate,” and she and Leslie had spent forty-five minutes last night going over Cherry’s wardrobe and the limited things Clarissa had brought for her weekend stay in the city.
They’d decided on a pair of black slacks, a sensible if a little tipsy pair of white heels, and a the blouse. Cherry had deemed her professional and “cute,” while Leslie said no chefs would ever wear a skirt that narrowed at the knees in the kitchen.
“What if you have to lunge for a burning pot?” she’d asked, her blue eyes wide.
Clarissa had never lunged for anything in the kitchen at the shoppe, burning or otherwise. She felt miles out of her league, and when she went to open the door, it didn’t budge.
Of course it wouldn’t. The restaurant didn’t open for another two hours. She gripped her bin with one hand and peered through the tinted glass with the other. Cupping her hand helped her see deeper into the restaurant, but it looked abandoned and vacant.
She looked left and then right, as the foot traffic on this downtown street wasn’t much…yet. More and more people would come out as the day wore on, and she didn’t want to be standing here like a doofus. Or worse, a criminal.
She’d just stepped back to call Marco when the door opened. It hit her bin, which she promptly dropped.
“Oh, sorry,” a man said, the accent familiar. Marco hurried to pick up her bin and straighten, and their eyes met. “You must be Clarissa.”
“Yes,” she said. “And you’re Marco.”
“Guilty.” He shook her hand and stepped back so she could enter the restaurant. “What are you making today?”
“Mac and cheese,” she said ahead of him. She wished she could turn and see his face, but her ankles already felt a little iffy in these heels. He directed her back into the kitchen and set her bin on a wide stainless steel counter.
This one was just like the one in the kitchen at the shoppe, and a boost of confidence filled Clarissa. She looked around and found a stove, a flat top, big prep bowls, and a walk-in refrigerator. She had all of those things too.
She exhaled and turned toward Marco. “So I just dive in, or…?”
