Bet on My Heart. J.M. Jeffries
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* * *
The night manager had given her a white jacket and a toque with the hotel logo on them. She looked odd with the jacket fitting a touch too tightly over her bright yellow dress.
“I know I promised you a kitchen,” he said, when he greeted her at the beginning of her shift, “but I don’t have one ready just yet. I hope you don’t mind sharing my office with me for a month or two while I’m getting yours ready.”
“This is good,” she said her eyes narrowing as she appraised the kitchen.
He was proud of the stainless-steel appliances, walk-in refrigerators with wheeled racks, industrial mixers and a worktable that looked to be ten feet long.
“The fire extinguisher holders are empty,” she said.
Donovan sighed. He opened a closet, pulled out two boxes, opened them and hung the fire extinguishers where they belonged making a mental note to let Scott know that this had happened—again.
He then handed her a recipe box. “These are the recipes I want you to use. The ones in the last divider, I developed to appeal to people on a variety of different diets—they accommodate guests with allergies and diabetes and those on gluten-free diets. The ones in the front are more traditional dessert recipes.”
“Okay,” she said taking the box gingerly. “What about my recipes?”
“I want you to incorporate your recipes, as well.” He opened the box to show her the neat sections of index cards inside. He pulled a few out and spread them over the surface of the work table.
Her lovely lips pursed. “But...but this is Reno. People don’t come here to diet.”
“People who come to Reno want safe fun. They don’t want to die from a nut allergy because you used almond paste and didn’t declare it. We want our guests to come back.” Alive, he added silently.
“I suppose so,” she said with a tiny frown.
He watched her turn his statement around in her head. Her face was as expressive as it was beautiful.
The casino was open twenty-four hours a day, which meant the kitchen was open twenty-four hours a day. The night crowds didn’t eat as much as the day crowds, but they still wanted good food.
She twitched a bit, her shoulders rolling. She scratched at her long neck. Was she nervous? Donovan studied her closely. She didn’t look particularly uncomfortable, but neither did she seem to be at ease. He handed her a clipboard with the day’s needs on it. She glanced at it.
Donovan watched her for a moment and decided she would be fine. He’d already shown her where the baking supplies were stored.
“I have some errands to run,” he said. “If you need anything, here’s my cell phone number. Just give me a call if you have any problems, or...if...you just need to talk.”
She seemed surprised when he handed her a piece of paper with his cell number scrawled across it.
“Thank you,” she said frowning slightly.
As he left, his last glimpse was of her standing in front of the huge table sorting through the recipes in the box with a slight frown on her face.
He headed to his car. He had an appointment with a rancher and then a butcher. As he opened the door, he paused. He’d given her his private cell phone number. No one had it except his family and the restaurant managers. Why did he do that?
He stepped out into the morning air. The sun was just cresting the horizon. The air was cool and crisp. He sat in his car for a moment.
To be honest, she was sort of cute and a little quirky. And she’d looked a little lost when she’d first shown up this morning. She’ll be fine, he told himself as he started the car, backed out of his parking spot and drove out of the parking lot. She’ll be fine.
* * *
For her first day on the job, Hendrix wore her bright yellow vintage 1950s dress fashioned after one of Coco Chanel’s classic chemise dresses. It was her good-luck dress and she’d worn it for her first day on every job since she’d found it in a hidden store a block from her grandmother’s tea shop.
Hendrix spread the cards out in front of her trying not to wince. Boring. The recipes weren’t bad, just too conventional for her taste. Yet, her grandmother had warned her to play along. Could she? Was the compromise worth the job?
She sorted through the recipes, setting aside those she thought had possibilities. Would he really notice if she added something to give them an extra pop of flavor? She flipped open her laptop to check out information on food allergies and then began adjusting the recipes to her own ideas of what they should taste like without using ingredients that might cause allergic reactions.
The jacket itched. She scratched at her shoulders. Maybe she should just make them the way he preferred. And then when he liked her, and he was going to like her, she could start flipping ingredients around, nothing extreme. She wouldn’t be outrageous. She would play it safe. Yeah, I can do that.
She made a list of ingredients, pushed a wheeled cart to the storage area and filled it with what she needed to get started. Once back in the kitchen, she started work despite the itching from the scratchy jacket. She wanted her own jacket. This one didn’t fit right and she was going to be a hot mess by the end of the day.
For the next few hours, she made cakes, rolled out dough for pies, peeled fruit for fillings, made custard and crème brûlée. She filled the ovens with the aromatic smells of a dozen different pastries. On the side, she made cupcakes. Her special cupcakes filled with nuts, vanilla, cinnamon and a touch of ginger. She could do most things Donovan’s way, but she needed one thing for herself.
The door opened and Donovan stepped into his office. A small, white-haired woman accompanied him. She had the look of an empress with her head held high, her brown eyes soft and mysterious and her tiny, slender figure elegantly dressed in a blue silk, formfitting sheath. The woman was so different from her own grandmother, Hendrix paused in rolling out the dough for another pie to stare.
The elderly woman approached. “You must be Hendrix. Donovan has done nothing but rave about your baking. When do we get to try something?”
“Hendrix, this is my grandmother,” Donovan explained.
“Everyone calls me Miss E.,” the tiny woman explained.
Hendrix watched as Miss E. eyed a nearby cupcake. Hendrix had been decorating them with white icing and little fondant butterflies. Mariposa did mean butterfly, didn’t it? she thought. She would have to get a Spanish-English dictionary and check.
“Here.” Hendrix thrust a cupcake at Miss E.
Miss E. grabbed the cupcake, peeled the paper wrapping away and bit down into it. A surprised look appeared on her face. “This is wonderful. Are they going to be on the menu today?”
“I don’t know. I just wanted to cook up something that—” Hendrix caught herself in time “—that...was a little different.” A little unexpected, she mentally added. She’d followed Donovan’s directions, but the cakes and pies were dreadfully average. She’d resisted the desire to inject surprising ingredients to alter the flavors—almost. She couldn’t help adding a little something extra to his apple-custard tarts and chocolate mousse.
“We discussed the menu,” Donovan said with a sharp glance at Hendrix, who fidgeted, scratching at her wrists.
“Are you allergic to anything?” Hendrix asked Miss. E.
“No food allergies.” Miss E. broke off a piece of the cupcake and handed it to him. “Try this.”
As he popped it into his mouth, Hendrix thought about running away and hiding.
He chewed and frowned. He chewed a bit more. “This is good.” His sharp glance took in Hendrix’s face.
“I’m