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“You said Slash doesn’t have a lot of crap though. I mean, he’s been on the road for years, right?” Willa asked.
“Yeah.”
“Well, maybe give him the benefit of the doubt. I’m sure he’s just used to cleaning up after himself because he’s been single and older than you are.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I said.
Conversation drifted, and more food was brought to the table. The server kept the drinks flowing, and before I knew it I was full and all my concerns about Slash had slipped away.
“Well, how’s the food?” Seb asked as he stood at our table dressed in his white chef’s coat.
Brielle looked up at him. “It’s a smash.”
“Speaking of smashed,” he grinned. “How many of those lychee martinis did you have?”
Brielle looked at Jazz, who looked at Willa, who looked at me.
“Three,” I said with a grin, answering for Brielle.
“Have a drink with us,” Willa said. “Can you?”
“Yeah, I can have a drink. The rush has died down.”
“Take my seat,” I said. “I need to go to the ladies’ room.”
I walked through the restaurant, down the hallway near the host stand and turned the corner. The restroom was empty when I entered. It was painted navy blue and the mirrors and lighting fixture were silver. If I hadn’t known any better, I would’ve thought I was in a fancy club in Manhattan.
As I washed my hands, the door blew open and a red-headed glamazon stormed in. Mascara tracked down her cheeks, and her face was white. She wore a gold dress that hit just above the knee, but it had the lines of a modern flapper style. Her gold heels were Manolo Blahnik.
“Oh,” she said upon seeing me, and then promptly burst into tears.
Feeling overcome with emotion lately myself, I wasn’t the least bit uncomfortable by her tears. I went to the tissue box resting on the sink counter and pulled out a few.
“Here,” I said, handing them to the woman.
“Thanks,” she mumbled, taking the tissues and shoving them at her dripping eyes.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
She paused and then answered, “I’m getting married in three weeks and my pastry chef broke her arm and now I won’t have a wedding cake!”
She broke down again, and I grabbed the entire box of tissues and set them next to her. “What kind of cake was it going to be?” I asked.
“Chocolate and raspberry. Six tiers high.” She sniffed. “That’s not the only problem though. It’s an all-weekend affair. She was supposed to make the desserts for the rehearsal dinner on Friday and the dessert pastries for the brunch on Sunday. I can replace a cake, but the theme wouldn’t match, and no one wants a weekend-long job. I’m fucked. Well and truly fucked! And the worst part isSouthern Living Magazineis coming to do an entire spread on my wedding. My dream wedding is turning into a nightmare.”
“I might be able to help you,” I said.
“You? How?”
“Have you heard of Pie in the Sky bakery?”
“No, sorry,” she murmured.
“Well, that’s okay. I’m the owner,” I said, sticking out my hand. “Brooklyn Palmer.”
“Imogene Oglethorpe.” Her fingers with French-tipped manicured nails wrapped around my palm, and she gave me a hearty shake. “Have you catered an event before, or are you just a pastry chef?”
“As it happens, I’ve shifted focus recently from in-store purchases exclusively to catering.” I smiled. “Also, I used to work as a patisserie chef at The Rex Hotel in Manhattan. I’m positive I can handle anything you want. Hold on a second.” I riffled through my purse and pulled out my phone. I navigated to my photos and showed her my creations from recent parties. “This is the kind of stuff I can do.”
