“You girls need to hurry up. Your mom doesn’t have the balls it takes to be a grandmother. You need me around to show those kids what’s what. Now, point me in his direction. No one messes with my granddaughters.”
13
FITZ
“We validate parking, you know.”
Winnie squawks, jostling the big box of pastries she’s carrying as she hurries through the Seattle drizzle that’s quickly turning into rain.
“You can’t tell me—” Shifting the umbrella to one hand, I grab her around the waist then drag her to me. “That you’re so spiteful that you won’t even let me validate your parking?”
“I don’t mind the walk.”
“You’re really going to sacrifice these pastries because you hate me that much?” Flipping up the butcher paper over the top of the box, I reach in and grab a strawberry croissant, still warm.
“Hey, those aren’t for you.” She jerks the box away.
“Creampuff, you’re literally taking them to my hotel. Of course they’re for me.”
“Oh my god.” She demands, “how do you know about that meeting?”
“What?”
“You know that I’m bringing these to the kitchen manager.”
“She’s so cute but so paranoid. Creampuff, I am going tomyhotel onmybusiness. Like I don’t have better ways to spend my time than following you around.”
She glowers.
And no, before you rat me out to my brother, I’m not stalking her. She and I happen to be going to the same place, my flagship hotel. So what if I’ve been monitoring the schedule and got an alert that she was coming in? Like I said, it’s business.
I grab a pretzel stuffed with herbs, cheese, garlic, and pepperoni.
“Don’t.”
I brush her hand away. “Stop arguing. My umbrella—because I came prepared—is keeping them and you dry.”
“They better be,” she grumbles. “These are new pastry recipes.”
“I approve. We’ll take the lot.”
“That’s not how your kitchen is run.” She’s exasperated. “The Soundview purchases freshly baked and fresh-frozen so that your guests can have the very best artisanal baked goods. I like to inspect your ovens periodically as a courtesy. Can’t have them baking the croissants in a low-temp oven.”
“Control freak.” I swallow the last bite. “Hey, it’s sexy.”
She tries to jerk away when I reach for another. “And stop eating my samples. Is this normal for you to be eating this many carbs?”
“Body-shamed by my own chef.”
“I’m not your chef.”
“Drop off your resume and you could be. I’m not nepo-hiring you just because of your rack and the frankly scandalous things you do with French bistro food. No, no, no. You’ll have to do a tryout. Wear your nice Crocs—the ones with that hot little cutout on the big toe.”
“Fidget chewed that.”
“You neglect that dog.” We walk a moment, then I say, “If you’re not going to come be my chef, come be my date.”
Her step skips, and I grab her before she and the pastries can go sprawling.
