AllFreeNovel
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The chef is Italian.
He’s been ordering me around for months, and for months, I’ve been trying to set boundaries with him. But faced with Bret’s aggressive tone, I fold every time.
Do I have problems asserting myself? Yes.
Do I tend to let people walk all over me rather than risk an uncomfortable conflict? Also yes.
Trust me, me and my motivational self-help podcasts are working on it, but in the meantime…
I take a deep breath, air filling my lungs till it almost hurts. “I don’t think I’ll be able to help tonight.” I tell him carefully. “I’ve got my hands full.”
With wallowing and wine, but still.
“And?”
“It’s almost seven o’clock.” I argue. “And most bakeries will be closed.”
“So?” he asks. “You’ll find one that isn’t. The restaurant’s in Tribeca, I need the cake for Letty’s birthday, I forgot about a gift so you need to make it special.”
I plant my feet, trying to hold firm. “I don’t think that’ll be possible.”
“I don’t pay you to think,” Bret says snidely. “And I don’t even have to pay you at all, if you can’t do the job…”
The threat dangles. His ultimate trump card. My pesky need to pay rent, buy groceries, and, you know, exist as a human adult in New York City without a trust-fund or mega-rich partner. Or any kind of partner at all.
Dammit.
“Fine.” I fold.
“No cutesy cupcakes or grocery store cakes, either. ‘Happy Birthday, Letty on the top. L-E-T-T-Y.”
The line goes dead.
O-K-A-Y.
I give myself one long sigh outside the Bassingers’ door, my shoulders slumping in defeat. Then I hand off the shampoo to the house manager. She takes Henri without question when I mutter, like a swearword, “Bret.”
She winces. “Good luck.”
No further explanation necessary.
It takes me one hour,three bakeries, and calling in a bunch of favors from my network of other assistant contacts to get the job done. But I hurry into the restaurant on time, panting but carrying a gorgeous confection withHappy birthday, Lettyin dairy-free icing script. I’m flushed from a frantic hour but also, if I’m honest, glowing from the accomplishment, too. It has nothing to do with Bret, obviously. But I like a challenge: Pulling off the impossible when all the odds – and non-dairy requirements – are stacked against me.
And I like a job well done, even if it’s for the apex of human rudeness.
The hostess smiles prettily. “Name on the reservation?”
“Bassinger.”
“Hmm.” She leans into her tablet, pursing her lips. “It seems like both parties have already arrived. Are they expecting you?”
“I’m the family’s PA.” I lift the cake so she can see above the podium. “Just delivering a requested item.”
“Oh, um.” The hostess has a look on her face like I’ve held up a small rodent. “So, we don’t allow outside food at our establishment… Obviously…”
C’mon, Grace. Luckily, my name also serves as a reminder that this poor hostess may be having just as crappy a day as me. I tack a smile onto my face and try again. “Then perhaps you could deliver that message to Bret?”
The hostess’s eyes travel from my now-messy hair to my workout clothes. She sneers. “I’m sorry. I have to move to the next guests in line. If you could please step aside…”
