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 trying,” Hendrix burst out. “I’m trying to cook the cakes and pies you wanted, but I can’t. They’re boring. They’re too conventional. They’re—” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said in a little voice.
Donovan stared at her. “You can do better?”
Hendrix swallowed hard. Why couldn’t she just stay silent for a change. “Your recipes are fine. I made them.” She opened the refrigerator to show the pies and cakes cooling on different shelves. “Try one. You’ll see.” She started scratching again.
“You’re scratching. Why?” Miss E. frowned at her.
“This jacket itches. It’s driving me crazy.”
Donovan frowned. “It’s just a cotton jacket.”
“It’s not my cotton jacket.” She bit the inside of her lip. “Mitzi always let me wear my own jacket.”
“This is a perfectly acceptable jacket,” Donovan said.
“It’s not you. It’s not the jacket. It’s me. It throws my Zen off.” Now he’d really think she was a nut job.
“Donovan,” Miss E. said, resting her hand on her grandson’s arm. “Leave her alone. If she wants to wear her jacket, let her. Who’s going to know? She can wear a tutu and combat boots for all I care, I just need another cupcake”
Hendrix brightened. “Combat boots? Awesome.”
“No combat boots,” Donovan snarled at her.
She took an involuntary step back. “Fine, just my jacket...please. I’ll leave the combat boots at home.” Not that she had combat boots, but the idea was intriguing and Mitzi would have let her wear them if she’d insisted on it. She shrugged out of the jacket relieved to escape from the itching. She would bring her own jacket tomorrow—she cringed—assuming there was a tomorrow.
“Have you ever done a wedding cake?” Miss E. asked.
“I’ve done several different themes, wedding cake pops, wedding cupcakes and a seven-tiered marble cake.” Weddings at casinos had become quite popular. Did the hotel have one scheduled?
“Scott, another of my grandsons, is getting married. When you have time, his bride-to-be, Nina, and I would like to discuss a wedding cake.”
Hendrix grinned. “I love doing wedding cakes.” Her champagne cake was perfect for a wedding. She could use pink champagne and decorate it with roses and daisies...her imagination began to soar. “I can cook up some samples for you try.”
Miss E. grinned. “We’ll be in touch.”
Donovan’s mouth was compressed in a hard line and he didn’t look happy. Hendrix went back to her triple chocolate-nut brownies completely forgetting him as thoughts of how she would decorate the wedding cake floated through her mind.
* * *
“I don’t think she’s going to work out,” Donovan said to his grandmother in the hall after he closed the door so Hendrix wouldn’t hear. Not because of her cooking, but because she was too much of a distraction. He found himself thinking about her at odd times and he didn’t like it. When he was in his kitchen, he needed to think about food, not some cute pastry chef and her cupcakes. Did he just think that? He did. She would have to go.
“She’s going to be just fine.”
“Grandma, it’s my kitchen. You told me...”
“I know what I said, but if you don’t keep that young woman around, I will be unhappy. People are going to eat here just to have one of those cupcakes.”
