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Augie nods, then replies, “It’s remarkable how chefs have become celebrities these days. For making donuts and cupcakes, am I right?”
Bishop’s expression tells me he and I are on the same page, unsure how to respond to that odd, backhanded compliment. We exchange glances, and I can see he’s searching for something to say to that.
“And what do you do, Augie?”
Augie says, “I’m an architect,” without hesitation. The truth is, he’s a post-graduate, third-year intern under the supervision of an architect, but I don’t point that out.
This would pre
sent itself as an easy topic to chat about, to my relief. “Bishop rehabilitated this very building, so you and he can talk shop,” I say. But Augie won’t even take the bait.
“Yes, when the foodie fad fades, architecture will still be here. I don’t know what our Cherise will do without her rock star status, but that’s where I come in, I suppose.”
I grit my teeth. “Food isn’t a fad. Food is food. Unless it’s fucking fast food, which is just grease, salt, and sugar.” All right. I admit it. That was a snobby thing to say. But this attitude about my accomplishments has lit me up.
“My goodness,” Myrtle gasps. “The language. I hope you two aren’t writing your own vows.”
She laughs at her own joke, but I, clenching my fist in my lap, sip my wine and try not to kick her shin under the table.
I turn my focus on Bishop. God knows why he hasn’t turned tail and run away from this table yet. “Bishop, I thought you had a plane to catch tonight?” I ask.
His eyes light up when they land on me. His jaw ticks under that scruff. He props himself up against the back of an empty chair, unbuttons his jacket, and leans in toward me. I feel ten kinds of turned on and also conscious of how wrong it is that I feel turned on.
“The annex project with the art gallery is going to be a bigger undertaking than I originally thought, and I’ve had to postpone a meeting with the planning board until three weeks out. So I’ll be showing up to bother you folks up until the wedding.”
Myrtle giggles in a way that I could construe as flirtatious, but I can’t let myself go there. “Bother us all you want, young man. We’ll be here for it.”
I shoot Bishop a wide-eyed stare, trying out mental telepathy. He needs to know he can interrupt us as much as he wants, and in fact, I hope he does. But since telepathy doesn’t work, I have to settle for body language. I press my palms together and make prayer hands, my brows raised in a pleading expression. He sees me, and there’s no mistaking the curl of that top lip. I didn’t get a laugh or even a natural smile, but I’m confident I just got a smirk. I’m happy.
Before Bishop leaves the table, he does something that I would consider to be brazenly flirting. Yet, it’s something between us that the others at the table would never pick up on. He points to me and says with a smile, “Would it be too much trouble to ask for more cinnamon buns for breakfast tomorrow?”
“Sure, how many do you need for your meeting, boss?” He knows I won’t say no. His hand goes to his chest and rubs his lapel in the exact same spot where he’d spilled icing this morning.
“No meeting. Just me,” he answers softly.
I nod my head slowly. “Of course, Bishop.”
A curt nod and he’s off.
After he’s gone, I have no appetite for the seafood in front of me. I’m gripping the napkin on my lap like I’m eager for the Grim Reaper to show up—goth outfit, scythe and all—to out of here.
“My, my. What a charming man,” Myrtle says. “And I see now how you got your hooks in him.”
Oh fuck. She noticed the flirting. Now, I must be not only a shitty fiancée lusting over another man, but I must be an obvious one. I snap my gaze at Myrtle and gasp. “What did you say?”
Myrtle takes a sip of her second drink, then sets her glass down, leans forward, and sets her sharp gaze at me. “I was wondering what on earth would compel a man like that to offer free use of his hotel at the last minute for a peon employee’s wedding. And not even his executive chef. Just a pastry chef. And now I see it. I can read people pretty well, and I see it all now.”
I swallow and wait for it. She’s going to call out what she sees, which is the same thing that I see. Too much attention. Knowing looks. Body language.
“Bishop and I are friends,” I say, a little too defensively. We are, though. He said it himself.
“Obviously, you’ve been trying to get his attention, make yourself stand out so you can get ahead. Climb the ladder. He sees it all the time, I’m sure. He probably enjoys people fawning over him, even if it’s insincere. He would never be straight with you about how far you can go making your little sticky buns because he’s too kind. So he’s hoping a nice gesture will keep you sucking up to him and gain even more of it from everyone else.”
I sit there in stunned silence, unable to believe what I’m hearing. My face feels hot. Augie does not rush to my defense. No shocker there. Instead, he says, “As always, Mother. You’re spot on. Isn’t she amazing?”
My face turns down into my lap as I try to let this go. Not to make a scene. Oh, Augie and I will have words later. Significant, meaningful words. Maybe loud words. But not here. Not in the dining room at Orchid.
I try to focus on what the counselor said in our virtual counseling session last week. “Try to remember why you fell in love, and think of that person when you talk to each other.”
