I smile. It’s too big, butoooh, the way I’m looking forward to this… “Oh, did he agree? Who else?”
Fletcher doesn’t answer. He’s watching me again.
I purse my lips together to try to squelch the smile, but it doesn’t work.
“What are you planning, Hummingbird?”
“To learn how to cook myself a farm-to-table feast before I leave for London.”
“Huh.”
My hip twinges again. Has to be weather coming in.
Or else Fletcheristhe weather.
But given the way a swift winter breeze kicks up, it’s likely a normal weather system.
We reach our destination, and Fletcher leaps the last two strides to beat me to the door and hold it open for me.
“For your awareness,” I murmur to him as I pass through the entrance, “when I put my mind to being someone, I’mall in. And for tonight, I’m your publicity stunt.”
I don’t know if he’s smiling or scared now, or possibly both, but he puts his hand to my lower back as we walk up the newly opened stairwell to the side of the entryway to my favorite restaurant in the neighborhood.
Rosalia, the owner, waves at us from across the kitchen space as we reach the top. “Goldie! You made it. Please, come, come. We’re ready to begin.”
She’s always had a small market attached to All Clucked Up where she sells extra produce and local delicacies, but she’s expanded into the former office space above the restaurant and installed a U-shaped counter with barstools around it to host cooking classes.
Tonight is one of the first of her classes. I’m glad Fletcher agreed to this because I love the idea that she’ll get as much of a boost in visibility from this as the Pounders will.
Fletcher leaps into action to help me out of my coat as I stop next to the line of hooks at the top of the stairs, and then we continue into the bright cooking school space.
There’s an industrial-size stovetop behind the middle stretch of gleaming white countertops and professional-grade ovens stacked on top of each other along the back wall. Paintings of olive branches and tomato vines and fresh herbs are on the walls above the counters and cubbyholes for supplies.
Each of the seats tonight—there are apparently ten of us, including Fletcher and me—have cutting boards, knives, and bowls of colorful bell peppers in front of them, along with bowls of chips and salsa for snacking while we cook.
Fletcher puts his hand to my lower back as we head toward thetwo open seats. Honestly, the amount he’s touching me would make me squirm if I wasn’t constantly reminding myself of my bigger goal.
Oh, look. There’s Silas. And this is my moment.
The moment that my plan comes together.
I watch as my brother puts two and two together and realizes that I’m here as Fletcher’s date.
Silas’s usually arrogant smirk fades behind saucer eyes and a slack jaw for a split second before he snaps his mouth shut, his lips thinning and his eyes narrowing.
And lucky all of us—the last set of open seats are right next to Silas and his date.
“Nina!” I say, hugging my brother’s nanny. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
Yes, hisnanny.
My brother brought his freakingnannyas his date tonight.
His baby mama’s gonna kill him if they lose another nanny because of his antics.
“Oh my god, I didn’t knowyouwere coming,” Nina replies. She’s a little shorter than me with bright purple hair, white skin, and whatever shirt she’s wearing under her apron is probably hilarious. Her entire collection has cartoon animals with funny sayings on them.
Softer, she whispers, “He got stood up by someone he met at a bar last night and didn’t want to look like a solo loser, and IloveRosalia’s desserts. Don’t worry. Brittany won’t have to kill him.”
