“Pleasure’s mine, my man. Daisy told me all about you.”
“Oh?” I manage, peering over at her. “Like what?”
“Everything. And can I say, it’s an honor.”
He releases his grip, and I would love to ask him whateverythingmeans—and why Daisy never told meanythingabout him.
“Chef,” a young woman approaches, a bowl of soup in one hand, a small tasting spoon in the other. “I think I added too much salt.”
Alex transforms into Gordon Ramsay in an instant. He dips the utensil into the yellow liquid, tries it, and smacks his lips. The woman observes him, her hands clenched as she awaits his response.
“A little,” he says. “Vinegar, a fourth of a teaspoon at a time.” He turns back to us. “Sorry about tonight. I got some outstanding produce at the farmers’ market this morning, so I wanted to push out some new seasonal dishes.”
“It’s fine,” Daisy says, smiling too big. “Did you, uh, read over our email?”
“Yeah, a museum. Great idea.”
Daisy tips her chin at me. “It was all Max.”
“Genius.” He puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes it like a lemon. I wish I could wriggle out of his grip. “Unfortunately, we can’t do any more donations this quarter.”
Daisy’s shoulders sink, and I curb my disappointment. We came out this way, and Daisy’s gotten all stressed, only for him to turn us down in two minutes flat.
“Chef.” A different, equally frazzled member of the kitchen staff approaches Alex. “We’re low on the special. Should we hold it in case the level three reservation at eight wants it?”
“Hold it,” he says with a curt nod.
“Hold the peach and burrata,” they announce to the room.
“We’ll get out of your hair,” I say, grabbing Daisy by the elbow.
“No, I love the idea.” He grabs both our shoulders so we’re huddled up like teammates. “We can’t make a donation, but what about hosting a fundraiser?”
“That’s…” Daisy pauses, and I half shrug, half nod, mostly because I’m an idiot for not having suggested that.
“We’d host,” Alex says, “provide food, drinks. You could run a silent auction. We did that last week for the local library.”
“Would that work?” Daisy looks at me, her gaze steady and trusting. My chest expands, knowing how much she values my input and experience, and I don’t want to let her down.
And damn it, a fundraiserisa brilliant idea. I’d been so focused on donations that I hadn’t thought of it.
“Sounds great,” I say. “It’ll be a big help.”
“Chef,” says yet another kitchen worker.
“Gimme a sec,” Alex replies, his finger in the air. “So,” he says to us, “our calendar’s full until mid-August, but we have a few spots right before summer ends.”
“It’s close,” I admit. “But we could work with that.” For a free venue, food, and drinks, we’ll have to.
He tells me to shoot him an email, shakes my hand, and draws Daisy in for another too-long hug. When we finally get in the car, I adjust the mirrors three times and pick some music for the ride back. The single-lane highway stretches into the night as the glow of the city behind us dims.
“Let me guess,” Daisy says, slicing through the silence. “You didn’t like him.”
“I did.” My pitch climbs half an octave, and even I hear the overcompensating. I don’t know what to make of him, and I clocked how Daisy’s entire demeanor changed around him. She’s ordinarily confident and brazen, not shy.
“Everyone in the area knows him. There are very few people here who haven’t been to one of his restaurants.” She sighs and tucks a leg underneath her in the passenger seat. “And, unlike me, Alex is amazing at running a business.”
“What are you talking about?” I refuse to let her fall into a pit of self-deprecation. “You’re amazing at running a business.”
