“How are the desserts coming?”
“Almost ready to serve,” answers Shiloh, the dessert station her specialty.
She loves baking as much as I do, but she gives bland desserts a touch of sophistication with a Shiloh-inspired twist.
“Once the final plates are collected, serve the bride and groom first before moving on to their bridal party.”
The lead waiter nods before peeking into the reception venue.
Millions of twinkling lights light up the naturally beautiful Vegas sky, and although it should be chilly considering we’re only two weeks out from Christmas, there are so many sparks firing between the guests that I was worried the food would be overcooked by the time my staff served it.
I feel a sense of accomplishment when the desserts start being served. It signals my hectic night will soon come to an end, and it brings me that much closer to seeing Nero again.
I’ve been so run off my feet that I haven’t seen Nero since he donned the tuxedo Nikolai demanded all his groomsmen wear.
That was a painfully long seven hours ago.
Days ago, I would have overanalyzed his lengthy absence as a bad thing.
Now I see it more as delayed gratification.
That’s how much confidence his attention has awarded me. I’m learning my worth and refusing to settle for second best.
My newfound faith in myself is why I’ve made the decision for Nikolai and Justine’s wedding to be the last event I cater. I love working for myself and seeing my financial goals thrive from a strong work ethic and dedication, but catering isn’t my first love.
I haven’t made plans on what I should do next. I’m going to take a few weeks’ leave, then put my thinking cap on.
Fingers crossed a majority of that thinking time will be done while naked in bed and sexually exhausted. That’s where all my best ideas have come from of late.
“Where are the gold flakes for the Bloomsbury cupcakes?” Shiloh asks, her tone high with panic, dragging me from my naughty thoughts.
She’s been sweating all afternoon, striving to ensure she delivers the perfect dessert platter for Justine and Nikolai’s guests. Anyone would swear she has already accepted my offer for her to take over the ownership of my catering company.
I take a moment to deliberate before the light finally switches on.
“I left them in the catering van.”
My head was a mess this afternoon when I was packing the goods from Clark’s to have them delivered to the Popov mansion. Nikolai’s crew was on hand to assist, but when news broke that I had used some of his stolen cocaine to bake away my depression, the mood sobered.
I, along with numerous members of the Popov crew, thought my head would be on the chopping block.
Mercifully, it wasn’t.
The street value of the flour in my pantry was higher than the wholesale price of the goods Nero’s mother had stolen, and the deficit was made up by selling the goods I had made.
Consuming cocaine is far more dangerous than snorting it or smoking it in a pipe, but its stimulation is more direct to the brain from ingestion, so it has become some users’ method of choice.
Wrapping it in sugary treats is an avenue Nikolai’s crew had never considered, but I see it being on the agenda at future meetings with how fast the goods Nero didn’t consume sold.
It is fortunate Nero’s sweet tooth had him veering for the slices and treats that were gluten free, or my baking efforts that afternoon could have killed him as Roy falsely claimed my sweet tooth would kill me—it would have just been decades faster.
When Shiloh stares at me with wide eyes and a sweat-dotted brow, I say, “I’ll go grab them.”
She mouths her thanks before she returns to curling the chocolate ribbons that will sit behind cupcakes and gold-dipped chocolate strawberries.
“Sorry,” I apologize when I bump into someone partway to my van.
It’s parked close enough to the catering tent to be walkable, but far enough away not to distract from the natural beauty of Nikolai’s chosen location to marry hisahren.
