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“Today will be different.” He gulped down the last of his lukewarm latte and tossed the cup in the trash.
He marched past the Peach station where Sylvia had been working on her own projects while Casey had been sweating bullets at Tomato. Appropriately enough, a bowl of peaches sat on the end of the bench, their aroma tickling his nose as he flung open the pantry next to Sylvia’s office.
“Today I shall conquer Marjolaine Donatien if it’s the last thing I do.”
His father had always shouted that Casey could cook properly if he’d just pay attention, although Donald had never acknowledged that his presence looming over Casey’s shoulder and watching his every move was one sure way to draw his attention from the task at hand. Today, though, there’d be no distraction, not even Sylvia’s unobtrusive pottering or the noise of the Manhattan streets.
“First things first,” Casey muttered. He patted the sheaf of folded papers in his back pocket. He’d had to do a lot of research, because Donald’s recipe said unhelpful things like make the ganache and make the meringue and make the Italian meringue buttercream—seriously, couldn’t they come up with names that weren’t so similar?—but didn’t actually say how to do it.
He collected the ingredients and schlepped them to Tomato, although he needed to make several trips, because between all those meringues, this thing used fifteen egg whites.
“I can do this.”
He extracted the bundle of instructions and smoothed them out on Tomato’s marble countertop. All he had to do was follow the steps, one by one, and he’d surely end up with a decent result. It might not be as pristinely perfect as anything served at Chez Donatien, not yet. But if it tasted good, that was the most important thing, right?
Besides, the line cooks could make anything look good with the right garnish.
He pulled out a heavy All-Clad saucepan and glanced at the first page. “Step one. Make the caramel.”
I’m doomed.
Somehow, the budget spreadsheets had acquired even more red than they’d had yesterday. How did that even happen? Garlan had clearly hooked the books up to some kind of automated billing system—more than one, had to be—but Dev still hadn’t figured out where all the transactions were coming from. They all hit the check register, but from where?
The low-key panic that simmered in his belly whenever the numbers danced on the screen in front of him was back again. Because what if he missed something? What if there was a critical bill—like that mysterious Maintenance: DO NOT SKIP thing that showed up every month from somewhere Dev still hadn’t tracked down?
Banks. Fuck, don’t get me started. They wouldn’t talk about their accounts with you, even whether or not an account existed. Garlan had put him down as a transfer-on-death beneficiary, so at least he was able to access the accounts he knew of. But the ones he didn’t? After eighteen months, things were still popping up.
He sighed and picked up the empty water bottle from this morning’s run, not bothering to suppress the smile as he set it on the credenza behind the desk with the others. Thirteen empty water bottles. He shouldn’t be sentimental about freaking plastic bottles, and in fact should recycle them right now. But Casey had presented each of them to him, the first one on the day after Ty had found the abandoned kittens. Somehow, Casey had been at the Market again when Dev finished his run. Then Kat had mentioned casually that Casey had told her that since he started classes every day at eight he’d arranged his schedule so he could get one of Kat’s lattes every morning at 7:30, and after that Dev had timed his runs so he arrived at the Market at exactly 7:35.
They’d met there every morning since. Walking back to Harrison House with Casey gave Dev the fortitude to face another day attempting to save Home.
He scowled at the monitor and brought up the records for the antique fair, the reddest of the red pages, since many of the expenses—damn Port-a-Potties—had to be paid before vendor registration fee balances were due. A couple of the dealers who never missed Antiques at Home had already paid in full, but most of the money wouldn’t arrive until the deadline at the end of June. Dev couldn’t blame them. They had cash flow issues just like he did, but understanding the delay didn’t make staring at that ever-growing red bottom line any easier.
Was it too soon to head over to the summer kitchen with the shelf unit? Sure, he could go more than an hour without seeing Casey, but if he didn’t have to? Didn’t he deserve something good—really good—to balance the financial bad news? Besides, installing the shelf was a totally legit excuse. Maybe if he—
An ear-piercing klaxon shrilled from outside, sending Dev’s heart directly into his throat: the summer kitchen smoke alarm.
Casey.
Dev leaped out of his chair, sending it crashing against the credenza and toppling the empty bottles like ninepins. He sprinted out of his office and down the hall toward the kitchen. When he burst out the back door, he sucked in a breath. At least flames weren’t licking out the windows or dancing along the roof.
When he yanked the door open, though, smoke billowed out, sending him into a coughing fit.
“Casey!” he called between coughs. “Are you”—cough—“okay?”
The strrsssh of a fire extinguisher answered him, and his pulse dialed down a notch. At least he’s ambulatory.
The smoke cleared enough that he spotted Casey at the Avocado station, his T-shirt pulled up over his nose, just setting the canister by his feet. At the Tomato station, a metal pan dulled with the extinguisher’s potassium acetate mist burped sullen black smoke, a cocktail of burned sugar and something indefinable but acrid that caught in his throat and made him cough again. But Dev didn’t spot any actual flames, so he threw open all the windows and switched on the exhaust fans at each of the other stations.
After the smoke alarms stopped shrieking, Dev pulled out his cell phone and speed dialed the firehouse. “Hey, Cap. It’s me. False alarm at the summer kitchen. You can stand down.”
She chuckled. “Thanks, Dev. Casey again?”
“Yeah.”
“You sound a little hoarse. Need me to come by with the oxygen?”
“I think we’re good, but I’ll let you know if Casey’s in need of assistance.” Dev disconnected the call and turned to face Casey, whose eyes were red-rimmed and mournful above the T-shirt collar still stretched across his nose.
