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OLIVE
* * *
Donut wall. They have a freaking donut wall.
It's a thing of beauty, really. Heaven splitting open for a choir-of-angels-in-concert kind of beauty.
When I get married, I'm definitely getting one of these. Oh, and they're those gourmet donuts from Sally's Doughnuttery. A magical place I've only dreamed of going, where nothing is under six dollars. Even the donut holes.
But I can't touch these delicacies because I'm not a guest at this fancy wedding. I'm working. If I had an apron, I might get away with accidentally dropping one in my pocket, but the stern and moderately curmudgeonly owner of this new catering company I'm working for is adamantly against aprons.
"This isn't a gas station," he'd said when I showed up today. "Lose the apron."
Okay, in what universe do people wear aprons at gas stations? Maybe in the 1950s when they'd do things like check your oil and wash your windshield.
I like my apron. It's a classy one from when I worked at that steakhouse in Jersey. It holds the essentials like my wine key, pens, a cloth napkin for wine service... and donuts. Beautiful round cakes with maple glaze and bacon crumbles, or orange with crème brûlée icing.
I cast a wistful glance at the donut wall, and beyond the Seraphim singing, "Alleluia Blueberrium Glazeoremus', I hear my name from far, far away. I’m only jolted back to earth by the red-hot touch of the devil himself. Okay, he's not really a devil. Just scowly and strict in a Gordon Ramsay kind of way. He’s all frowns and salty looks. A force to be reckoned with.
I haven't caught his name yet, but in the few hours I've been working for him, I can see that nobody dares utter it—his trembling staff refer to him simply as Chef.
“Yes, Chef. Right away, Chef. Very good, Chef.”
He sweeps from station to station, tasting sauces. A formidable king lording over his lowly minions. It’s kind of hot.
And just now, his fiery touch is really just a tap on the shoulder. But I feel it shoot straight to my toes. (probably because I've never had a boss this good looking before and it's throwing me off).
"It is... Olive. Right?"
"Yes. Olive. That's me." I tug at the fabric of my shirt above my breast where a name tag ought to be. But of course, there are no name tags in Hell's Kitchen. Or in this case, Hell's Bougie Country Club.
His eyes glide over my chest and quickly slice back to my face as I yank at my shirt.
"What are you doing?"
Oops.Might as well commit to my brand of awkward.
"Uh, airing out. It's soooo hot."
His lips press together, watching me put on a performance about the heat. I'm flapping my collar, fanning my face like a sinner in shul.
"Whoo. That's better." I dip my chin and blow on my boobs.
"I meant, what are you doing in here? Cocktail hour is outside.”
Oh. What am I doing? Other than ogling the donut wall. And the boss.
“Presents,” I blurt. I don’t know why I blurt like I do. I just have an explosive way of talking, I guess. “A guest handed me a couple of presents.”
The party is mainly outside, but this room in particular is where everybody is supposed to put the wedding gifts. The woman who shoved two wrapped boxes in my arms couldn’t be bothered to do it herself, apparently. So sad for her, she’ll never know about this enchanting room of donuts.
My boss, or Chef as I should probably call him, squeezes his brows together, forming two deep lines on his forehead. It’s quite a becoming forehead, even with the lines.
“Are you done, now?” His voice is like wet sandpaper. Gravelly, yet smooth. And I take note of his attire. He’s not dressed like a chef. He’s in Armani. Black dress shirt. Charcoal gray tie with just a little bit of shimmer, which matches his slim-fitting slacks and jacket. Somewhere between the time that I arrived this morning and now, he’d changed his clothes. He looks very, very yummy.
Stop looking at Chef like he’s part of the menu, Olive.
But I can’t help it. I stare at him like it's the twenty-fifth hour of Yom Kippur and he’s a bagel. I might even be drooling.
