She glanced through the spotless floor-to-ceiling windows and onto the scenic LA patio where Ricco Shimwah, one of the world’s fastest rising fashion designers, entertained his guests. The late evening sun glistened off the ocean in shades of orange and gold, a perfect contrast to the turquoise water and white, crashing waves.
She’d give just about anything to be on the other side of that glass tonight, kicking back with a drink while the ocean breeze swept over her skin.
Normally Camila enjoyed her role as a private chef—preferred it, even. It’s what she’d always dreamt of—serving her own culinary creations to LA’s elite. But the pressure of the evening was taking its toll.
Twoextra dishes. She groaned.Please say Gypsy is scoring those quail eggs.
Her phone buzzed on demand, the very sound fanning the anxious flares coursing through her. Camila shot a look at Mr. Shimwah, who was tipping his head back in laughter from the conversation. Quickly, she dashed into the walk-in pantry, pried the phone from her apron pocket, and brought it to her lips without even checking the screen; she already knew who it was.
“Did you find them?” Her heart beat wildly out of rhythm as she waited for her reply.
“Tell me again why you can’t just use a freaking chicken egg like the rest of the universe?”
Now Camila was the one tipping her head back, one step closer to madness. “They cover too much of the plate,” she explained in a hush. “Quail eggs are like, a third of the size, which allows the croquettes to shine sincethey’re the main event. The egg’s just a compliment.”
“So this is all about how it looks?” Gypsy asked. “Not how it tastes?”
“It’s about both.” Though, in truth, the taste didn’t vary much between the two. “And if you know me and you know what I do, you also know how important presentation is.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Gypsy grumbled. “You eat with your eyes first.”
Camilla paced before the fridge—an industrial appliance reserved for staff— hoping to ease the coil-like tightening around her throat, when suddenly a male voice caught her off guard.
“Oh, my apologies. I thought…”
She spun in place to see who’d entered the pantry of all places and set eyes on a handsome guest dressed in what had to be a tailored-just-for-him suit. Her gaze drifted up to his face. Strong, chiseled jaw, heavenly blue eyes, and a brooding, almost sad quality that hung somewhere behind his expression.
Camila gulped, a swell of tingly heat pooling around her heart.
Please say this tall spot of gorgeousness isn’t Mr. Shimwah’s new boyfriend.Sure, he was probably in his mid-twenties, like Camila, but the fifty-something year-old designer often dated guys half his age.
“I thought this was the restroom.” He cleared his throat and pointed a thumb over one broad shoulder. “Shimwah said it’d be the first on my right beyond the kitchen.”
The man’s arresting gaze held hers as the moment stretched on, giving life to the sadness she’d seen there. He was rattled about something, it was clear.
“Hellooooo…” Gypsy sang into the phone.
“Just a second,” she mumbled under her breath. Camila gave the guest a soft smile. “I um… yeah, it’s probably thesecondone down.”
The handsome man gave her a curt nod, spun right in place, and strode out. It was then Camila realized he’d called his hostShimwahinstead of Ricco–definitely not the boyfriend. But who was he? And just what was bothering him?
“Are you there?” Gypsy whistled into the phone.
“Yeah.” Camila’s shoulders went limp. She would probably never have answers to those questions, and right now she had a job to do. “I’m here.”
“Good. Cuz I’ve got your quail eggs.”
It took at least two seconds to set her mind back on the issue at hand. “You got them?” she squealed.
Gypsy gave her a hardtskthrough the line. “Of course I got them. I just…wanted to know why you needed them so bad, that’s all.”
Relief rushed through her limbs in a blink. “Thank heavens. And you didnotjust want to know why I needed them. You wanted to make me suffer. Admit it.”
“I might be twisted,” Gypsy said, “but I’m notthatsick. I took time away from my beach meditation for you.”
“Bless you for that, sweet Gypsy. I owe you big.” Camila tugged open the fridge where the salad plates chilled. It was almost time to serve up the first course: bright beet ginger kraut on a gorgeous bed of mixed greens. The herb-infused vinaigrette was waiting at room temperature in the prep area, allowing for the perfect drizzle consistency. All was ready to go.
“Okay, I think I’m nearing his estate,” Gypsy said. “Wow, it’shuge!”
