One Perfect Touch - Layla Hagen Page 0,2

onto her plate. Anne just smiled, shaking her head.

“I like the changes too.”

After a bit more conversation, Anne checked her watch.

“Lindsay and I have to go. She has ballet, and I’m meeting some new suppliers. When is the showing again?” she asked, grabbing her bag from the desk.

I checked the calendar on my phone.

“I’m meeting Skye Winchester at seven o’clock tonight.”

“Is she a real estate agent?”

“Not sure. I saw the ad online, and it looked interesting. And it was in your neighborhood”.

“Okay. Tell me if you change your mind and want me to join you.”

“I’m good,” I said. Honestly, this house probably wouldn’t work either, and I didn’t want to waste Anne’s time. But it had more potential than others I’d seen, based on the online video that was available, so I wanted to check it out.

After they left, I finished things up and made my way to the company’s headquarters for a meeting I’d scheduled with my team. The building was in the East Village, next to Tompkins Square Park. After a quick subway ride from Canal Street to Astor Place, I walked the rest of the way, just another few short blocks. As usual, it was full of tourists gaping about and locals shopping. With the Fourth of July weekend behind us, it was business as usual in the city. Having been born and raised here, I’d always wanted to come back. I’d only moved to LA the past four years because the West Coast had needed closer supervision. Since my family was located in New York, the East Coast branch had always outperformed the West Coast one. Now the reverse was true. My ex-brother-in-law hadn’t been just a shitty husband but also only a moderately competent CEO—but we’d wanted to keep things in the family, for him to feel included.

Dumont Foods was known worldwide. Besides the supermarkets and the restaurants, we also had a massive online platform that had taken on a life of its own. Customers could do everything from finding recipes to ordering gourmet products. The facility that handled the shipping and orders was in LA, and the team that was now managing it all was doing great work. I loved the business. It was in my blood.

My earliest memories were with my parents, playing in the kitchen in one of the restaurants. They had always carted us to work with them, and as kids we felt privileged to go along. My sister and I were both loyal to the family business.

Our education had been in the culinary arts and business. In this industry it was important to have knowledge of both. Anne was one year older, and we’d always done things together, except for that one year after college when I went to study in France, at a culinary school in a town where my father’s side of the family came from. She’d gone to a local school in New York, where she also met her then future—now ex—husband. I’d liked him too, I had to admit it. Nothing about him said cheating bastard. But hindsight is twenty-twenty, and Anne and I were going to pick up the pieces together, as usual. I was as close to her at thirty-three as I’d been as a kid.

Memories of my parents popped up when I entered the building. I chuckled, thinking about those times, but then schooled my features, preparing to meet the team. With my employees, I was a business-all-the-time sort of guy, and everyone knew it and respected it.

I’d invited chefs, sous-chefs, and the entire management team to this meeting. There were ten restaurants in New York, and I wanted all the staff to be aware of some changes I wanted to implement.

Everyone was already gathered on the floor of the meeting room, and they stood straighter the second I stepped out of the elevator. I was a hard worker. That was how I gained their respect years ago, working side by side with my father at twenty-six. Since I’d been gone for a while, the team wasn’t used to my constant presence anymore.

“Let’s start,” I said with a smile and nod. Most of the team was now seated on chairs. “Hi, everyone! Thank you for being here. Anne and I just completed the tasting, and we loved the changes. Great job!”

The menu would be changed regardless of whether Anne and I liked them, since it was about the customers’ desires, not ours, but it was tradition for us to taste it, and I