“Crowhart won’t follow a schedule. She will tell everyone she is working. That it will be four hours. Then scroll her phone till there’s one hour left, and then panic-bake. I’ll watch her run around like a headless chicken. I’ll think she will never manage because that is not how one becomes successful. I will watch her juggle twenty different details, burn something, spill something else. Then, when the clock runs out, she will produce a five-layer cake the taste of which I’ll have never encountered in my life. It will be beautiful. She will be beat and need days to recover. Been there, seen that, might’ve given her a T-shirt that saidThe flavor is procrastination,but yes, of course, Ms. Allende, we will work on a schedule.” Reem’s smile was barely visible but definitely there. “Oh, and she will name all my tools, from ovens to coffee makers. Last time around she had one named Brewno Mars. It was but a small machine.”
Reem’s smile widened, the woman’s face enchantingly beautiful and full of affection. “She will also preach to everyone who will care to listen thatpastry chefandbakerare two different professions. And she will be, of course, correct, though her explanation will involve a lot of words, pictures, memes and maybe an interpretative dance. Yes, pastry chefs are specialized, and not all of them do bread and the like and yet Crowhart here does everything. Do you still have that sourdough starter? What was its name?”
Deryn’s face lit up immediately.
“I do! Frodough Bakins. He’s been with me through so much… You can say he’s been there and bread again.”
Predictably, the sous-chefs giggled, and Paloma wanted to grit her teeth. Even when Deryn was not trying to be charming…she somehow still was. Even when she was confusing the Tolkien books.
Paloma tapped her fingers on the smooth surface of the counter, observing the women in front of her, then turned and made her way back to the elevator doors, leaving Deryn and Reem to figure out their new routine.
With news of her and Deryn spreading—Paloma saw out of the corner of her eye the sous-chefs stealing glances at her as she left the kitchens, as well as Lachlan himself, surely already burning up the group chats—she needed some time to think. To strategize. And maybe to figure out what the hell she was going to do about Damn Deryn Crowhart.
A soft call from behind her broke the reverie. She turned in the open elevator doors to see the very same Damn Deryn Crowhart smirking at her.
“So, I’ll be coming up later—1326, was it, my love?”
The elevator closed on Reem Alami’s face, a picture of pure disappointment, while the sous-chefs reached for their phones, expressions full of glee. Paloma could be miffed at the gossipingkitchen staff, but she could not fault their leader. Deryn was a notorious womanizer. Chef Alami had implied as much just moments ago. And now she was apprised that her boss was involved with her. A boss that she, by all signs, held in regard and respect. Well, if Paloma had been dating Deryn truthfully, she’d have lost some of that respect for herself, too.
Upstairs, Lachlan was pacing the foyer of her office. She waved him in and waited for the door to close. He began speaking as soon as the lock snicked shut.
“I’m sorry! I swear I don’t know what came over me! Would you believe that madness runs in the family?”
Paloma sat down, putting the width of the desk between them, then leaned back, relaxing in the chair and crossing her legs.
Lachlan kept on talking.
“I can turn it all around, though. Deryn is a good sport. She’ll keep her mouth shut, and Roxanne will believe that I was joking… Or something. We can figure it out.”
“We?” Paloma lifted an eyebrow, enjoying watching him squirm. If nothing else, she’d get a show out of this entire catastrophe.
Lachlan went visibly pale.
“Me! Of course, I’ll figure it out. I said nothing to no one, and Roxanne left the island earlier, so?—”
“Deryn told Chef Alami and her four sous-chefs. It’s done, Lachlan.”
As much as she liked seeing the six-foot-seven-inch brontosaurus work himself into a tizzy, there was no point in prolonging it.
“You called me Lachlan instead of Mr. Vesely—does that mean you’re not firing me? Oh my god, it means you are. Since I’ve always been Mr. Vesely while in your employ!” He sank ontothe leather couch and gave her the most pitiful look. Puppies had competition.
“No, I’m not firing you. I was just thinking that we might as well be on a first-name basis since we are about to commit election fraud together.”
He gasped, clutched his nonexistent pearls, then lowered his massive hands.
“Is lying about your personal circumstances really fraud? And if it is, it’s a small one. Tiny. Basically microscopic.”
“Well, be that as it may, we are deliberately deceiving the public to influence their vote. So…”
“First-name basis it is! I love this so much.”
Paloma sighed. Of course, he would ignore the seriousness of the situation. She took a deep breath. Perhaps she should be the one to ignore it. Who she was or wasn’t dating shouldn’t be what the election was about. It shouldn’t matter. And yet, it damn well did. Hence why so many men running for office engaged in lavender marriages, since coming out was a bridge too far for them and their electorate.
“If we are going to go forward with this charade, let’s get some things straight.”
Lachlan’s shoulders drooped.
“I’m sorry, ma’am…erm, Paloma. I’m incapable.”
