“You got this, Kate Dawson. Don’t touch anything other than the food.”
Especially not something that belongs to a tall shampoo model.
I set down my purse on the bar before tentatively opening the stainless steel fridge. It’s stocked, like Eloise said it would be. The pink salmon is on the top shelf. Next to it, I find the shrimp.
“All righty then, this should be fine.”
I keep searching until I find noodles, garlic, butter, sweet potatoes, and shredded cheese. I pull my phone out of my back pocket to bring up the recipe I found online earlier.
“Boil water . . . preheat the oven . . . okay, easy enough.”
I finally find a pot, filling it with water before I stick it on the stovetop. It takes forever to figure out how to preheat the shiny oven. Once that’s done, I lay the fillets out on a cookie sheet. The shrimp is in a plastic container, and I dump them out on the pan, surrounding the fish.
The recipe says to “toss” them in melted butter with seasonings. After I find the seasonings and melt the butter in the microwave, I begin the tossing.
“This is such a mess, jeez.”
The shrimp barely get any seasonings on them as I throw them into the air with one hand, the other sprinkling garlic salt. I guess that’s the whole point. The butter is even worse, splashing all over me and the countertop as I fling it up with a spoon. The shrimp are crustier than any I’ve had before, so I’m hoping they haven’t gone bad.
The recipe says to finely chop all the pesto ingredients. It seems like a lot of chopping, and by the time I get it done, it looks like a chunky green and white salad. I follow the directions by spreading it over the pink salmon.
I stick the pan into the oven, a proud smile on my face.
“Okay, next is the noodles and?—”
“Who are you talking to?”
I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of a deep voice behind me.
“Ah!” I turn around, my hand clapped to my chest.
Mr. Bradshaw is standing in the kitchen, wearing a dark grey suit with a cream button-down shirt. His fingers are wrapped around the handle of a briefcase. His green eyes are narrowed at me. He has a small, barely perceptible, disapproving crease in his forehead.
“Where is Eloise?” His gaze travels over the impressive disarray of the kitchen, focusing on the spices and butter that went everywhere during the tossing phase.
“She called in sick.” I self-consciously run a hand over my hair. It’s pulled back into a messy ponytail.
“Are you also a chef, Miss Dawson?”
He walks farther into the space, and I take a step back.
“I, uh, I’m making salmon and shrimp with pesto.”
Not a lie.
He stares at me for another moment before turning to walk out. I watch him go before awkwardly looking around.
“Right, okay, pasta.” I try to resume my duties, but I can’t help but feel a bit deflated.
Engaged! Scumbag! Don’t forget it, Kate.
I’m filling a pot with water when my boss returns to the kitchen without his briefcase and his suit coat. He begins to roll up his shirtsleeves.
“Umm, it’s not quite ready yet. I have to boil the pasta and peel the potatoes.”
His eyes focus on the sweet potatoes on the countertop.
“Why did you bake the salmon and shrimp before the potatoes?”
