I snap my head up, expecting to see CJ, the hottest server here tonight by miles. Instead, I see Becks, her smile frozen on her face and the tray clutched close to her midsection.
“Um,” she says hesitantly. “Meatball in tarragon tomato sauce?”
I shoot to my feet, my whole body primed to leap across the table. “That is my sixteen-year-old sister, Howard.”
“N-no, that can’t be right.” Howard whips his glasses off his face, squints, and swipes at the lenses with his napkin. “Oh, I-I see that now. Apologies, Wyatt. I didn’t know you’d asked your family to help out tonight.”
“Don’t apologize to him.” His wife pinches Howard so hard that he yelps. “Apologize to the girl.”
“Right.” He straightens his bow tie. “Right. So sorry, my dear. Got carried away by the holiday spirit.”
He indicates his empty glass of Rumpleshaker and laughs uncomfortably. As the rest of the table—even Dale and Dillon—falls into a heavy silence, it occurs to me that I might have had just as much success leaving Howard to his own devices tonight. I’ve never seen a man more intent on shooting himself in the foot over and over.
I lock eyes with Becks, my thunderous expression a question that she answers by tossing her hair, lifting her chin, and wielding her tray with a smile that could power this whole ballroom. I don’t take my seat again until she’s had kind, respectful exchanges with everyone here as she hands out the latest Chef Samson special.
“Meatball for my overprotective big brother?” she asks with an arched brow when she reaches me. The table laughs as I meekly sit back down and accept both the offered hors d’oeuvres and the kiss she loudly smacks on my cheek. She continues around the table, and if I didn’t know about CJ’s plan, I’d miss the way she’s carefully watching the supply. When she gets down to the ones with extra parsley, she pivots the tray away from Elaine’s outstretched hand to offer the remaining three to Howard.
“Looks delicious.” He twiddles his fingers over the skewered morsels like a greedy toddler and swoops them all up. Becks and I share a moment of silent panic over whether he’s going to offer one of his heat-bomb balls to his wife, but he pops all three in his mouth in quick succession.
Becks sags in relief, then tells Elaine, “I’ll be right back with more just for you. The rest of you, enjoy!” Shooting me the tiniest wink, she whirls and prances back to the kitchen.
That kid. I smile after her, enjoying her delight in this game, although I should probably feel bad for involving her so deeply in what could technically be considered a criminal conspiracy.
“H-holy fucking—” Howard’s voice cuts through the conversation at the table, and everyone stares as he spits out the last of his meatballs. The half-chewed mass oozes down his chin and bounces off his white shirt before landing on the table in front of him with a plop. The heat must’ve rolled out exactly as CJ predicted, not hitting him until he was too deep into his third pepper-spiked delicacy to realize the danger.
It’s a beautiful sight. I wish she was here to enjoy it.
“Mr. Randall?” Joanne asks worriedly.
He flops his mouth open and fans his hands over his jutting tongue. ”H-how are you all handling this so well? It’s so hot!“ he gasps, his eyes wild. He fumbles for a beverage and grabs my glass of water.
“Oh, that’s—” I say, stopping myself when I remember what CJ said about ice water making things even worse. “Go ahead.”
He drains the glass and wails, “I-I think I’m dying,” as a trickle of liquid dribbles down his chin.
The VIPs are all looking at him like he’s lost his mind. “Are you usually this sensitive to spice?” Radha asks hesitantly. “Because the meatball I had was mild at best.”
“Same,” Dale or Dillon says as everyone else nods.
“I—” stammers Howard. He picks up a napkin and scrubs at his tongue like he’s trying to take off a layer of skin. “I need to get more water.”
“Wyatt,” Gerry turns to me. “Is your boss always so…”
She hesitates, and Bethany says, “Erratic?”
“Loud?” Franklin offers.
“A little bitch?” Dillon or Dale suggests, exchanging a high five with Dale or Dillon.
“I’ve never seen him struggle with a meal quite this much,” I say in what I hope is an acceptable nonanswer. Everyone’s eyes fall on the untouched meatball sitting on my plate. A week ago, I wouldn’t have trusted CJ not to get a little revenge on me too. Today, I’m choosing to have faith in her.
With an exaggeratedly nervous glance at the assembled guests, I pluck it off my plate, sniff it, hold it up to my eyeline, and take a tentative nibble.
“Oh, this is delicious,” I declare, tossing the whole thing in my mouth. “Very little spice here at all.”
Part of me is braced for CJ to pop out of the kitchen to film my mucous membranes catching on fire from the same slow-rolling ghost pepper sauce she added to Howard’s balls. But nothing erupts as I chew and swallow, and everyone laughs in polite relief.
“To answer your broader question, Gerry, my boss is an extremely hands-on CEO. He knows where every penny goes, both in and out, and he involves himself in line-item budget issues to ensure the financial outcomes that benefit him the most.”
