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“Wait!” I follow her into the staging area, out of sight from the guests. She’s wiping her clothes with a kitchen rag.
“Sorry about the towel,” she says. “I’ll wash it and… return it somehow. I’m also sorry about the cake. And basically ruining the wedding.”
“It’s just a cake.” Why am I even here with her? I should get back to the party. Do some damage control and see if we can replace the cake with something. But no. Dad always taught me to take care of my staff. Even the ones who no longer work for me. “You… shouldn’t be driving. Take an Uber.”
“No, no. I’m good.”
“Are you sure?”
“Mmmm. I’m better than good.” She swipes a finger through the frosting on her temple and dips it into her mouth, sucking it clean with a smack of her lips. “Delicious.”
I’m suddenly extremely uncomfortable and itchy in this suit. I need a glass of cold water.
“It’s… dulce de leche,” I say, my mouth dry as sand. It’s so dang hot.
“Welp. I guess I’ll go now. You don’t have to pay me for the hours I was here.”
“I’ll pay you,” I snap a little too harshly.
She shrugs and gestures over her clothes. “I figure I’m wearing about fifty dollars' worth of cake.”
Fifty dollars' worth of cake. I don’t know what she thinks this job pays, but it’s a lot more than fifty dollars.
She picks up her bag and that hideous apron she was wearing when she first arrived today. It’s green. I’d say she’d be better off working as a barista in that thing, but I wouldn’t trust her around hot liquids.
“Goodbye Mr. Chef, sir.”
And with a salute from her dulce de leche brow, she walks away—backwards—until she’s out of sight.
