Imperfectly Delicious (Imperfect Series #6) - Mary Frame Page 0,3
the man still stings. “And he thinks, what, that he can snap his fingers and we’ll do his bidding?”
“It generally works that way for him, yes.”
“Well he can’t boss me around.”
“If you say so.” He is clearly unconvinced.
Fred and I exchange a glance. The only reason I’m parking here is because my friend Bethany found the available real estate when she was going over Crawford and Company assets, and it’s too small for them to use for anything at the moment, or to sell. They had originally owned the entire block, but then had sold off pieces over the years and this is all that’s left. Bethany brokered me a killer deal to rent the space, an amount that’s significantly less than what I would pay in parking tickets if I tried for anywhere else, but Guy could make this a problem. I can’t ask them not to sell if he’s going to make them an offer.
It’s true that I have a few friends in high places—friends who own random real estate around Manhattan—but at the end of the day, I’m still an unknown hick with nothing to show for it but baking skills and a whole lotta motivation to make it in the big city and not go crawling back to Blue Falls with my tail tucked between my legs.
Carson picks up the Rhett Velvet and pops it in his mouth with a groan. “How do you make these so good?”
“It’s a gift. Has he put in an offer for this lot?” I ask.
“We have someone working on it.”
Fred makes a derisive noise.
“What? It’s only a matter of time. Despite who you may know at Crawford and Company, money is louder than friendship.”
Fred says, “We don’t just know someone at Crawford and Company, we know one of the founders. As a matter of fact, the whole family is super tight with Scarlett, so you just try it, buddy.”
Fred! I slap a hand over her mouth. Carson watches us, a half-smile on his face.
“It’s been great talking to you Carson, but we have to prep for an event tonight.”
“Do you?” He’s intrigued. “Which event?”
“Not telling you. We’ve given you enough for one visit.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Bye, Carson.” Fred closes the window on his surprised face and then turns to me. “Sorry. I get a little defensive and my mouth moves without my permission. But it’ll be fine. I didn’t give him much to go on. And you need to go home and get ready. I’ll head to the commissary and get the stuff to the event within the hour.”
“Thank you, Fred. You’re a life saver.” Literally. She does so much more than take orders on the truck and bake. She helps with social media, she does a lot of local deliveries, and she sometimes cleans and parks the truck at the commissary. Something we have to do every night, as required by the New York Health Department. Or as I like to call them, the people who bring on the pain and make things as difficult as humanly possible.
“Yeah, yeah.” She waves me off. “Make sure you put on extra makeup before you go tonight because you look exhausted.”
“Gee, thanks Fred. You sure you don’t want to come with me?”
“Nah. I want to be home when Jack gets off work.”
It must be nice to have someone to come home to. Once upon a time, I wanted it badly enough to date a whole variety of losers and users. It’s not like I have high standards, I just have a vision in my head of what my life would be like—if I had someone. Someone to snuggle with on the couch while we argued over what to watch on TV. Someone I could call up for no real reason, just to have a mundane conversation about my day, or the weather, or how I got scared again by that guy who hides in the bushes by Mullaly Park. All of those ordinary moments made worthwhile simply by sharing them with someone who actually cares.
At least I have good friends and For Goodness Cakes. That has to be enough.
Chapter Two
Chefs are nutters. They’re all self-obsessed, delicate, dainty, insecure little souls and absolute psychopaths. Every last one of them.
–Gordon Ramsay
Guy
I push open the heavy wood door to Decadence and stalk through the empty dining area to the kitchen where about a half-dozen staff are laughing and talking.
One of them, the line cook, spots me at the door and his mouth slams shut. One by