Imperfectly Delicious (Imperfect Series #6) - Mary Frame Page 0,4

one, the rest of the group ceases conversation until only one employee is still laughing. After Julio nudges him with a shoulder, he turns and the laughter cuts off abruptly. He stands up straight, face pale, eyes on his feet. He’s the newest hire. Julio’s cousin. He vouched for him and now they’re both downcast and subdued, as contrite as a couple of five-year-olds caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

“We’ve got one hour to prep. Get to work,” I bark.

They immediately follow my bidding, feet scampering, dishes clanking faster and louder.

I head back to my office. Just outside the door, my assistant is sitting at his small desk, typing away at his laptop.

“Carson. Go find out something useful about that food truck.”

“On it, boss.” He gives me a jaunty salute and exits with almost too much haste.

Either he can’t wait to get away from me, or those cupcakes are that good. The thought does nothing to ease my foul mood. Carson has been too willing to drop everything and rush over there.

I sit on the leather seat at the small desk and sort through the invoices Carson left in the tray on the corner, organized exactly the way I like it, by date and location. I check e-mails, responding to some marketing questions and forwarding requests for meetings to Carson for scheduling.

My alarm goes off at precisely five o’clock. I have to call the girls since I’ll be home late, but first….

I pace out to the kitchen where the staff is busy and bustling, no more laughter and chatting. Quick and efficient movement, just like it should be.

I can control everything except the owner of that damn food truck. I can’t even talk to her.

My phone dings with an incoming text. It’s from Emma, a series of random emojis. I send some back and then pick up the phone to call Clara and check on the girls.

Clara is a part time nurse and caregiver. She helps me with my sisters’ care and therapy and shuttles them to and from school when I can’t. She’s been a godsend—finding someone who can help watch over the girls and help Emma with various therapies was a true blessing.

While we’re talking, Carson comes back in and sits at his desk outside my office and types furiously on his computer.

What is he doing?

Carson stands up and grabs something off our communal printer outside my office. Without making direct eye contact, he walks in and sits carefully in the chair opposite my desk, setting his notepad and printed materials in his lap, and waiting until I’ve finished my conversation.

“Well?” I ask after I’ve hung up with Clara.

“I found . . .” He sighs and meets my eyes. “I knew Scarlett had an inside connection with someone at Crawford and Company. But now I know who it is.”

“Who?”

“Marc Crawford. His family are the original owners.”

“How is that possible?” A two-bit chef, buddies with someone like that? Anyone can throw a small cake together and hack some frosting on it.

“About a year and half ago, there was an article.” He sets papers in front of me. It’s a printout of an article from the gossip website Page Seven. It’s about Gwen McDougall, current fiancé to Marc Crawford. Marc’s family owns Crawford and Company. I skim down the article, something about Gwen rescuing another woman from being drugged by a date.

“That’s her.” Carson points at a small, grainy, black and white photo of two women.

“Who? Gwen?”

“No, well, yes. The tall one is Gwen. The woman she’s standing with? That’s Scarlett Jackson.”

I consider the poor-quality photo. Can’t make out much more than a petite frame and small nose. The rest is a bit of a pixelated blur. Can’t even tell the color of her eyes.

“So, you’re saying she knows Marc’s fiancé, but Marc doesn’t even work there anymore.” I rifle through the stack of new invoices set at the corner of my desk, searching for the ones from Crawford and Company. I’m sure I have the name of a rep somewhere…. I can hound someone about this, I’m sure of it.

Carson rolls his eyes. “It’s a good thing you have me because you know nothing about anything important. Marc’s still invested in the company. There’s still some other connection, through Marc Crawford, and Scarlett has it.”

I lean back in the seat and consider this new information. “That’s how she got them to rent the space to her.”

“Likely.”

“And that’s why they’ve been avoiding my calls to purchase. Oliver is