“That’s the one that doesn’t need to rise before you bake it? The bicarb one?”
Nero nodded.
“And you’ll use the sourdough for the pizzas?”
“Some incarnation of it.”
“So, a bakery by day, pizza and beer by night . . .” Tom appeared to speak to himself.
Nero rolled his eyes and went back to his work. He’d danced this dance with Tom before. “It needs something else, though, right? You’ve done the street food and booze crack at Misfits.”
“Do you think we can beat burgers and champagne?”
“Champagne is for arseholes.”
Tom laughed. “Yeah, yeah. So what do you suggest? The pizza and beer concept works, but you’re on point about it needing an extra layer.”
“Why are you asking me? I’m just the hired help.”
“You’re far from the hired help, Nero. You’re the backbone of this business.”
“Piss off.”
Tom sighed. “Suit yourself. I’ve got to go. Have a think on it and give me a call if you come up with anything good.”
“What if I come up with something shit?”
“Call me then too. What you think is shit might be gold.”
Tom left. Nero loaded his soda bread into the oven and considered the fact that neither Tom nor Jake had mentioned Lenny. Perhaps they didn’t know about him, but that idea didn’t sit well. Five years ago, Cass might have kept this from Tom, but things were different now, Cass was different, and the longer Nero thought on it, the more certain he became that Tom and Jake knew all about his bewitching lodger.
“Bewitching”? Enid Blyton now, are you? Nero had no idea, and he was no wiser when Lenny appeared in the kitchen ten minutes before evening service, dressed in his borrowed chef whites.
“What you doing down here?”
Lenny shrugged. “I’m bored. Figured I’d see if you needed a hand.”
As it happened, the kitchen was a man down, meaning Nero had to spend the evening on the dessert section, a role he despised. “I don’t need a hand, I need a hammer. Gotta spin some sugar.”
Lenny frowned, and his perfect brows knotted. Nero looked closer, noting the dark fan of his thick lashes, set off by a subtle smudge of eyeliner. Is that glitter on his cheeks? Damn. Aside from his pathetic crush on Cass, Nero had always had a thing for blokes in makeup, and Lenny? Yeah, he was something else.
Not that Nero had a thing for him. No. Definitely not. You hardly know him, dickhead.
The order screen above the starter section beeped with the first order of the night. Nero jumped, though he often heard the automated system in his sleep. The kitchen, which had previously been in that odd lull before service—the calm before the storm—surged to life, and after a brief moment took Nero with it.
He turned his back on the counter full of half-finished bread products and beckoned Lenny to follow him. “You wanna help? Come with me. You can show me how to make Nana Dolly’s trifle look pretty.”
Lenny trailed Nero to the dessert counter. “Who’s Nana Dolly?”
“Cass’s nan.”
“Is she nice?”
“She was. Been dead a few years now.”
“Oh.” Lenny watched Nero unload ceramic dishes from the upright fridge. “What about her trifle? Is it good?”
Nero shrugged. “If you like that kind of thing. I don’t do puds.”
