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“That’s so kind of you, thank you, Bishop.”
He nods politely, his eyes twinkling at me. How does he do that without smiling? And why does he never smile? How can he be the nicest bazillionaire on earth and be so unhappy throwing his money away?
I don’t know how much time passes, probably five seconds, but as far as I’m concerned, time and space no longer have meaning. This man is looking into my soul like he’s looking to get a reaction from me.
I change the subject to him. “How was your meeting yesterday?”
He steps all the way into the office and shoves his hands into his suit pockets. “Great. You know, nobody ever asks me that. I’m really excited. I’m buying the abandoned city building right next door. I’m going to turn it into an art gallery under the Orchid umbrella. Free to the public and to guests. I’d love it if you took a tour with me and tell me where you think we might put in a small snack bar.”
I grin. “That’s nice, but wouldn’t that input come from the executive chef?”
“Oh, right,” Bishop says. “Well, no reason I can’t get input from the both of you. And when we have the grand opening, I’m going to need some serious chocolate art from you, Cherise.”
I beam at him. “I’d be honored.”
He levels a severe gaze at me. “I want you to come up with the craziest thing you can think of that you’ve always wanted to do. It’s an art gallery, after all.”
The very idea of doing whatever the hell I want with chocolate makes my hands itch with excitement to get started. My mind pops with ideas as Bishop’s mere presence inspires my creativity. Talking about something other than the wedding sets my imagination on fire. Bishop’s eyes fixate on me. He feels the anticipation, too.
“I’m grateful for the opportunity, sir.”
He squints at me. “I have a gut feeling you’re a rising star about to shine much brighter than being pastry chef here at Orchid, and I want to show you off while I still have you around.”
Before I can stop myself, I blurt, “You can have me whenever you want me, Bishop. My…my talents, I mean.”
Am I seeing things, or is that an upward curl of his lip?
No sooner do I dare to let my mind wonder what those lips could do to me than my phone blows up again. Same ringtone. It’s Augie. Again.
Bishop looks down at my phone, and that gray cloud passes over his face again. He nods and backs out of the room, taking with him the chance for me to make another excuse to keep talking to him. And oh, do I enjoy talking to him.
I mean, because he’s a self-made billionaire, of course. I want to know how his brain works.
Henrietta looks down at her clipboard then back up at me. “You know what? I think I have plenty to get started. I’ll update you tomorrow?”
I stand to leave, but I stop and turn back to her. Ignoring the phone call, I speak up. “Henrietta? On second thought, I absolutely love your idea for a Midsummer Night’s Dream wedding. Let’s do that.”
Henrietta squeals and bounces up and down slightly, as much as anyone can in heels.
“Wonderful. Oh my god, I’ve wanted to do one of these. I’m so glad you changed your mind, honey!”
I laugh, enjoying her excitement. “We only get married once, hopefully. What the hell?”
Chapter Four
Bishop
“You know, there was a time when you’d never see waitresses with tattoos. Now they’re just everywhere, even in so-called fine dining establishments.”
The comment comes from an older woman seated at a table with two other dinner companions. I can only assume she’s spouting opinions about their server.
What I should do is remain mentally clocked out and enjoy my dinner solo. But I’m never truly clocked out.
As I take my seat, I glance over at that table, and the sight knocks the wind out of me. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. How did I not recognize her immediately when I arrived for dinner? The older woman with tattoo opinions is sitting next to a man in his late 20s, clearly related to her. Across from the man is a woman of similar age to him. The younger woman is drinking a glass of wine and looking right at me. When I finally pull my head out of my ass, I realize who it is. Maybe it’s finally time to get my eyes checked at the age of 45.
I hardly recognize Cherise out of her chef’s uniform. She’s styled her hair in a low side ponytail, cascading past her shoulders, and she wears a colorful vintage dress. She looks like a 1960s painting come to life and makes everyone and everything around her appear flat. While the older woman continues to comment on the number of tattoos and piercings and appearance of the wait staff, the man is dully scrolling on his phone. I doubt anything in his feed could be as interesting, entertaining, and engaging as the luminous beauty right there across the table from him.
And then, I piece it together. The woman is Cherise’s soon-to-be mother-in-law. The man is her fiancé. The puzzle is complete, but watching them together, none of it computes.
