“I can’t decide if she’s lost it or is an actual genius,” I said.
He snorted. “Welcome to the club. And it’s probably both.”
I half sighed, half chuckled, already fortifying myself for the next two months: work enough events to keep us somewhere near the black, hire at least one other chef to serve as my second, and conceptualize a one-of-a-kind catering concept to put us on the map.
Easy.
“At least the museum’s anniversary party isn’t for another year. If I can’t find a halfway decent team by then, I’ll know the problem is me.” The rest I could handle on my own. I didn’twantto do it on my own, but I’d find a way.
“You know what I’m going to say,” Jase replied. “If you need help in the meantime, one of the guys can split their time?—”
“No way. You’ve been packed every night of the week. You need them more than I do.”
“We’ll manage. The new prep cook’s been working out okay.”
“How the hell did you find someone so quickly?” I asked, squeezing the wheel to channel my frustration. “No one I’ve interviewed has even come close.” Maybe I really was the problem.
“You’re looking for a sous chef, not a prep cook. That’s way different. I’d still be looking too if I was trying to replace you.”
The words pinched my chest, and I forced a deep breath to shake it free. He wasn’t trying to replace me. Not in the way it felt when he said it. I was moving up, not being left behind.
But a part of me wished I could do both—run the catering side and stay his sous chef.
“Have you promoted one of the guys yet?” I asked. It would be Zach. He deserved it.
“Not yet. Zach’s almost ready, and he’s hungry for it. I’m easing him in.”
Good. That would be good.
My earbuds beeped, and I glanced at my phone. “Evan’s calling me. I should take it.”
“No problem. I need to get back to prep anyway.”
“Have a good service. Tell the guys I say hi.”
“I will.”
Jase hung up, and I tapped my earbud to switch calls. “Hey.”
“What are you doing tonight?” Evan asked. It sounded like he was outside, but it was hard to tell over the rumble of the van’s tires. If it was a weekday, I’d assume he was in the city for work, but he didn’t usually go in on the weekends. Not unless his boss called with a graphic design emergency.
“I have to unload the catering truck, then nothing. I’ll probably get food somewhere.”
“Let’s do something. I need to get out of the house.”
“What? Why?” He’d been living at his dad’s house the past two years—ever since his mom’s funeral—and so far, the two of them hadn’t had a single problem. Half the time we hung out, we did it at his dad’s house so Mr. Hardt could hang out with us.
“Gabe’s coming over later, and I don’t feel like dealing with him.”
My attention snapped from the rearview mirror to the road as excitement kicked up in my belly. “He’s home? When did he get back from camp?” It must not have been long if Gabe hadn’t texted me. He usually did after a flight.
“A week or two ago? I don’t know; he hasn’t been staying here. But he came by yesterday to borrow a suit, and he and Dad made plans for dinner tonight.”
The excitement in my gut soured like skunked beer.
A week or two.
The words stuck to the edges of my brain like flour along the sides of a bowl, refusing to fully incorporate.
