“No.” His shoulders relax before I continue. “ ’Cause we never swore in front of Mama. But I don’t want to try my luck now.”
He looks appalled. I don’treallythink Mama would wash my or my siblings’ mouths out with soap, but it was her favorite threat. Truth be told, she used it way more often for all my lord-have-mercies and oh-my-lords, especially after I stopped going to church with my family a few years back. But it’s kinda funny to see Benny riled up, so he can think what he wants.
“I think we’ve got about enough, if one of you could just tie it all together for us,” Margie says.
Benny looks to me. He did do the introduction, and I am feeling a little more used to the whole camera thing now. I nod.
“Thanks for watching as we made a total mess of the kitchen, and some macarons to boot. I’m Reese, he’s Benny, and this has beenPiece of Cake: Amateur Hour.We’ll see y’all…well, probably never again, because we weren’t hired for this and we’re kind of a train wreck. Have a flavorful day!”
I wave after dropping the signature ending line, and Benny chuckles beside me as he lifts a hand, too.
“That was excellent,” Margie declares, surprising me with her praise. “Editing will have fun with it, huh, Charlie?”
He grumbles in agreement as he starts to disassemble the camera, and I’m gathering that grumbling is just his standard mode of communication. Some of the kitchen assistants appear to whisk away the dirty dishes, and Benny and I clean up our workstation. Margie says we can go home for the day whenever we’re finished, then retreats to the marketing office.
Once the mixers and processors are put away and the counter clean of flour and pistachio debris, we stand there looking around and seem to mutually decide there’s nothing left to do.
“Well,” Benny says, turning to me with a hand outstretched. “It’s been a pleasure, Reese.”
He adds my name as an afterthought, deliberately not using an annoying variation of the only nickname he’s come up with. I shake his hand, meeting his strength instead of limp-noodling this time. The macaron batter stripes on his face are cracking, even more so when he smiles and gets little creases around his eyes. The whole effect is…a lot. I feel the beginnings of a blush coming on but hope the mess on my own face distracts from it.
“Likewise, Benvolio.”
He laughs. “It’s short for Beneventi, actually. My last name.”
I notice we’re shaking for an oddly prolonged time, and I slip my hand out of his. “So you’re not going to tell me your real first name?”
“We don’t speak of it” is his mock-stern reply.
“Mysterious,” I deadpan.
“Keep the ladies wanting more, I always say.”
I roll my eyes, unable to come up with an appropriately snarky retort. “Well, um…see you around, then.” I turn away from him to retrieve my sweater, untying the apron as I go.
“I hope so,” he says, and it’s like I can hear the crooked grin in his voice. “Hey, actually, what are you doing this weekend? We should have lunch.”
My arm slips through my cardigan sleeve and I pull the sweater tight across my front before turning back to him.
“Lunch?” I say, the word loaded with as much skepticism as if he’d suggested we hit up a nightclub.What’s your angle, Beneventi?
“Yeah,” he says, eye-smoldering at me. “The meal in the middle of the day. Or dinner, which happens in the evening. They have those where you’re from?”
I feel my upper lip curl and I’m sure my face is the least attractive thing right now, but that’s for the best. “Yes, we do. Just usually with people I actually want to spend time around.”
There.That’s for the Scarlett O’Hara comment. And it’s true, anyway. I barely know the guy and what I know so far, I’m not sure I much care for. He’s cocky, which I hate, whether it’s earned or not. And perhaps even more frustrating to me is it probablyisearned. He knows his stuff, and I don’t like being made to look ignorant while he mansplains the difference between baking powder and baking soda. Logically, I know I can’t blame him for being good in the kitchen nor for the fact that I’m less so. But I’m not trying to out-logic my intuition about this boy.
Benny puts one hand over his heart and stumbles back likeI’ve shot him. “Oof. You wound me, Reese’s Cup. But c’mon. I don’t really know anyone around here and—no offense—I doubt you do, either. We’re the only interns, as far as I know. Don’t you think we should be…I don’t know, at the very least, allies?”
That’s actually the very most I want from him. But his point reminds me of something important—wearethe only two interns. I don’t know if he’s trying to work here long term, but as far as I know, we’re the only two in-house candidates eligible for the fall culinary internship—the application for which states that “preference will be given to in-house applicants.” He clearly has the upper hand in culinary experience, having done the restaurant thing. I’ve always played more of an assistant role for my mamaw, who works through the same recipes time and again and usually tells me what to do at every step.
Soishe going for the fall culinary spot? That seems like something I should know. Something I could find out over, say, lunch. Along with other things about him that might be useful to me if we’re in competition with one another. Like his weaknesses. Keep your enemies close, and all that.
Goodness, I’m thinking like a movie villain. Or maybe I’m just thinking like a woman who wants to get ahead and won’t lie down and let her future happen without doing anything to sway it.
Benny interrupts my thoughts, adding, “My treat. Please?”
I scrunch my nose. Even a movie villain can cover her own bill, thank you. “No.”
