Ahead, inside the lanai, were two round tables dressed in white, perfectly positioned under a gothic chandelier. Dirk, the family’s chef, was overseeing the food prep, and Evan’s personal assistant, a middle-aged woman named Wendi, doubled as event planner. It was Harper’s job to set all sixteen places in record time, then manage the hired catering staff as they served guests.
Kelsey stared down at Harper’s feet. “Where are your shoes?”
“I left them in the shack.”
“Oh, Harper.” Kelsey sighed as if she’d lost all hope. “You’ll have to borrow a pair of mine.”
“I have time to grab my own shoes.” The tiny house that she and Kelsey had deemedshackwas less than three minutes away, beyond a citrus garden and grove of palms. She never called it home as it seriously lacked any good stories.
Kelsey shook her head. “If you’re a minute later, Evan is going to fire you.”
“Do you think he’d really—”
“Harper!”
“Your shoes are too big for me.”
“Beggars aren’t allowed to be choosy.”
“I’m not begging,” Harper said. “Besides, you always wear heels.”
Kelsey rolled her eyes. “I own plenty of flat-ish wear.”
“Right,” Harper quipped as they stepped into the lanai. “I still don’t want to—”
“Thank God.” Wendi rushed through a pair of French doors, both fists implanted in her slender sides. She wore a simple black dress and white apron. The epitome of perfection, no matter what role she played. “Dirk needs you in the kitchen pronto.”
“Tennis shoes,” Harper called before Kelsey disappeared through the doors. Then she turned to Evan’s assistant. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
“What happened?” Wendi asked as they rounded the corner, stopping beside a door that Harper had namedsecret. Never the servant’s entrance.
“I was trapped inside a story.”
Wendi groaned. “You’ll have to come up with a better excuse for Mr. Cantor.”
“If anyone appreciates a good story, it’s him.”
“He’s not going to appreciate it tonight.”
The women followed a savory trail of rosemary, oregano, and thyme to the chef’s kitchen, then they stepped into a steam cloud from boilinglobster pots and searing steaks. The stainless-steel space held dual refrigerators, ovens, dishwashers, and enough pantry space to feed half the residents in Santa Barbara.
A prep cook and kitchen assistant were helping Dirk prepare the meticulously planned cuisine. While the chef’s space had been built for cast parties and family events, Dirk prepared most of Evan’s meals here so the fancy kitchen across the hall, with its marble counters and crafted wood, remained pristine. Evan used that kitchen mainly to pour cereal and pull never-ending espresso shots.
Wendi snagged a matching white apron from the closet and handed it over as she critiqued the embroidered daisy on Harper’s T-shirt and denim shorts. “You can’t serve the dream team in that.”
Only Kelsey called themrat pack.
“I’ll find something else to wear before they get here.”
“We’ve got...” Wendi’s gaze flew to the clock over the door. “Thirty-seven minutes before the show begins.”
“I’ll set the tables so fast, Evan won’t even realize I was missing.”
Wendi looked doubtful as Kelsey opened the kitchen door, tossing Harper a pair of Prada sneakers and khaki pants.
“Where in the world did you get these—”
“I raided a closet.” Kelsey blew her a kiss. “Talk later.”
