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I ignore Carl and read out loud, “‘I would say the chocolate ganache was too miserly between the layers of the obviously box-mix cake, but honestly, I wouldn’t have wanted another bite of it. I would have had to order a ten-dollar glass of grass-fed milk to balance out all the sweetness. St. Germaine should consider hiring an actual pastry chef instead of phoning it in. Desserts are not meant to be an afterthought.’”
By the time I finish reading, I’m red-faced. Not from anger but from laughter. Carl shakes his head.
“That’s it. I have got to meet whoever wrote this article. And would you close the sliding door? It’s freezing in here.”
Instead of enjoying a rare day off before flying off for a food tour to promote my latest cookbook, I’m scrolling social media for everything I can find about editor Cecily Williams. Her Facebook profile makes this easier. She has it locked down pretty tight, but I gather that she has a huge family.
That’s when I look closely at the profile photo and realize Cecily is Polly Pocket. Or, rather, Polly Pocket is a fake name that I should have recognized the instant she said it. I thought it sounded oddly familiar. And then it clicks: my niece in Philly had some toys with names like that.
Furthermore, the woman who approached me right after my conversation with Cecily? Her sister. I knew it. I thought I noticed a familial resemblance. While I admire Cherise’s pluck in coming right out to ask for a job, I had to turn her down.
Desserts are not our specialty at Urban Fruit.
And oh, boy, does Cecily remark on that in her article.
I re-read this line several times just to torture myself. “When I say the chocolate cake is dry as a bone, I mean a dinosaur bone because that’s how much Milo St. Germaine is up to date on what people want in desserts.”
“Wow,” is all I can say, laughing at this woman’s relentless skewering of me.
Carl chuckles dismissively as he steps indoors to look over the receipts from opening night. “Going over the top with dessert steals focus from our mission,” he says.
Still, Cecily sure doesn’t agree. She has strong opinions, and I want to know all of them.
Not going to lie; she scares me a little. Because someone who put that much thought into panning a Michelin-starred chef? She gives no fucks. And I need to know her.
Chapter Five
Cecily
“I’m telling you, the G-spot is a myth, and multiple orgasms are also a myth.”
That declaration comes from the former sex columnist for the Meadows Monitor, Seth.
Thank god I took Seth off that job and gave it to someone else. The current sex columnist, Vanessa, is arguing with Seth on the subject while we’re in the middle of putting the paper to bed for today.
Sometimes I wish the paper didn’t even have a weekly sex advice column. But it gets students talking, so we keep it. I mostly wish my staff at the paper would stop discussing orgasms while I’m trying to work.
Not because I’m a prude. But because I’ve never experienced one, and that fact is brought home to me every passing day. Also, it’s late. I’m tired and cranky and ready for bed.
Thankfully the news desk phone interrupts this orgasm chat, and Seth answers. “Sure, hang on,” he says, extending the receiver to me.
“Is it the printers?” I ask. I’m anxious to speak to anyone not discussing orgasms. “No, he says he’s that chef guy, and he wants to talk to you.”
I take the receiver and say hello with more than a hint of suspicion in my voice.
“Cecily Williams? This is Milo St. Germaine. I wanted to commend you on an extremely well-written article in the paper today.”
I know this is not Milo on the phone. “I’ve met the man, and he has a much sexier phone voice than you.”
The voice on the other end laughs, as does everyone in the room.
“He does? Like how? So I know next time I harass someone.”
I roll my eyes and stand from my office chair at the computer, where I’ve been copy-editing a story about the cafeteria raising its prices.
“He’s got a lower octave than you. He’s very tall, see. But gravelly. You sound like a pimply 16-year-old boy.”
The voice replies, “You’re a striking woman who makes me nervous. It’s possible my voice went up. But it’s definitely me, and I’d like to invite you to give us another try.”
