A Dash of Love. Liz Isaacson
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The next afternoon, Nikki couldn’t avoid her situation any longer. She fired up the laptop and got herself over to an online job board. Her second love was dogs, and she found a dog walker position in only a few minutes.
The sound of Angela’s footsteps came closer as she left her bedroom and entered the kitchen. “What are you doing?” She looked at the computer screen and then Nikki for an explanation.
Nikki turned from the bar where she’d been doing her job research. “Well, given that my job hunting isn’t going so well, I figured I might need to get a ‘day job,’ so to speak.” She twisted her fingers together the way she did when her nerves got the better of her.
Angela finished securing her dark hair in a ponytail. “A day job?” She wore her black work pants and a white shirt, which contrasted with her dark skin. Nikki couldn’t escape her friend’s light green eyes, and a little flutter stole through her stomach.
“Yeah, you know, something where I can earn a paycheck while I continue to search for my dream job.” She waved her hands like there were birds flying through the apartment. She consciously lowered them to her sides. “And since I’m pretty good with dogs, I figured maybe…I could be a dog walker?” Why she’d framed the last part of her sentence as a question, she wasn’t sure. Maybe because she wasn’t sure about anything in her life right now.
“Nikki, you can’t just give up.”
“I’m not giving up,” she assured Angela. “I’m just considering other options. I’ve got to pay the rent somehow.”
Angela moved over to the kitchen table where her purse sat and pulled out her keys. “Well, I wish I could help you out. I’m just not making the kind of tips I thought I would.”
Nikki cocked her head, concerned about her friend. “Bad tippers at a place like Holly Hanson’s?” That made no sense. Men like the Silent Supervisor went there...oh, wait. Actually, Nikki couldn’t see him leaving that great of tip. But still. Even fifteen percent of a hundred-dollar ticket was good money.
Angela shouldered her purse. “No, the tips are fine. There’s just not enough of them. Business is down.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. And surprising.”
“Hey, if you don’t have any plans later, maybe you could come by at closing, grab a glass of wine?”
Nikki shook her head, her face scrunching into a distasteful grimace.
But Angela wouldn’t be deterred, and she knew where to hit Nikki hard. “If Holly’s there, maybe I can introduce you.”
“Really?” Nikki wasn’t sure what she’d say to the woman, but the possibility of meeting her was too exciting to pass up.
“Yeah, I mean, considering you idolize her, maybe you might want to meet her?”
“Yeah, absolutely.” She edged forward a little. “I just hope I don’t make a fool of myself and start to ramble.”
Angela remained straight-faced as she shook her head. “No, I can’t imagine that,” she said with more sarcasm in her voice than actual air.
Nikki scoffed as she rolled her eyes. “Oh yeah?”
“Okay, I can imagine it a little bit. But that’s why we love you! I’ll see you at ten.”
“Mm-hm.” Nikki nodded her head in short, little bursts as Angela walked out. She turned back to her laptop, which still showed the cute little pug that needed a dog walker. “Okay.”
She exhaled, but her enthusiasm for staying up until ten didn’t wane. Her eyes traveled to the cookbook she’d be cooking dinner from that night.
Holly Brings the Heat! sat there, and Nikki’s smile grew at the same rate as her anxiety. “Holly Hanson,” she whispered.
She whipped around and went into the bathroom. She looked at her own face and practiced not saying anything. She counted to ten, thinking about Holly’s fiesta tacos she’d cooked last week.
Nothing came out of her mouth.
She could do this. Satisfied that she wouldn’t be a rambling, bumbling fool that night with her idol chef, she went back into the kitchen and paged through the cookbook, looking for something that would take a couple of hours. Anything to distract her from thinking of possible conversation topics.
Chapter Three
Paul Delucci took a bite of the cassoulet and cringed. He’d followed the recipe exactly, the same way he always did. But the pork barely tasted like anything, and the white beans simply felt like mush in his mouth. Not exactly pleasing.
It was no wonder the kitchen had been slow for a couple of months now—maybe longer. If he could just get Holly to listen…
But Paul wasn’t extraordinarily gifted at getting the other adults in his life to listen to him. His own rift with his parents proved that, and no matter how many times he’d tried to explain to his father that he didn’t have a superiority complex, his dad still thought he did.
The three other chefs in the kitchen went about their business, washing tomatoes, prepping desserts, and putting up appetizers.
The sound of Holly’s four-inch heels clicking on the tile alerted Paul, and he stepped around the counter to intercept her. “Holly, a moment.”
She complied, though she certainly wasn’t happy about it. Brushing back her brown hair highlighted with blonde, Holly glared at him with her sharp, hazel eyes. “What now?”
“The cassoulet,” he said, squinting at her. She remained blank-faced, as if he hadn’t mentioned this to her last night.
He backed up a step and folded his arms, ready to get into the fray with her again. “Look, Holly, all I’m saying is that you need to try it. The recipe needs to be tweaked.”
She stared at him, and if he hadn’t been working with her for five years, he might have backed down. Lots of other chefs had come and gone over the time he’d been at Holly Hanson’s, but he’d stayed.
“I don’t need to try it,” she said. “It’s my recipe.”
“I understand what you’re saying. I’m just a little confused.” He sighed. The banging of dishes and the hiss from the stove behind him mirrored how he felt inside. “Look, all I’m saying is that we need to come up with a solution to the problem.”
“And what is the problem?”
Paul could name any number of things. The empty tables. The waitresses complaining that they weren’t making enough to pay their bills. The mysterious, late-night meetings Holly had with her investors.
He chose to go with, “The cassoulet. Have you tried it?” He’d asked her to please just taste it. If it was going to sit at the top of their menu as their chef’s special, it should be the most outstanding dish leaving the kitchen. In Paul’s opinion, it was one of the worst. But he wasn’t Holly Hanson. It wasn’t his name on the door or the paychecks. If he wanted to change a recipe, he needed her permission.
But he couldn’t even get her to see the problem.
She rocked back on her heels. “I know what it tastes like.”
“I don’t think that you do. Because the recipe is bland.” There, he’d said it.
She scoffed, her mind completely closed. “Bland?”
“Yeah.”
She gritted her teeth, and her mouth barely moved when she said, “Perhaps the problem lies with my executive chef, who is unable to execute my recipe properly.”
He