creative in your own cooking. I let you have fun in my kitchen, even though sometimes I was cleaning goop off the ceiling at three in the morning. Maybe it’s time you cleaned someone else’s goop off the ceiling.”
“Miss E...”
She held up her hand, her voice firm. “Just let’s see how this works out.”
“I’ll be repeating those words to you when the kitchen catches fire.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong, Donovan? You used to be so much more carefree in the kitchen.”
“Guests have certain expectations,” he replied. “They like conventional and don’t like surprises.”
“This hotel is about gambling. Everything else is gravy. If the extras can attract people, then the percentage that comes in for those cupcakes will also drop money in the slot machines. We’re in the business of providing the fantasy, and food is as much a part of the fantasy as the gambling. When people feel special, they spend money. I want them to spend all their money here, not across town at some other casino.”
“I’ll keep her on a trial basis.”
Miss E. patted him on the shoulder. “Of course you will. She’s going to work out and she’s going to surprise you in a way you’ll never expect.” With that parting shot, she stepped into the elevator and waved merrily as the doors closed.
He returned to his office, his thoughts a jumble. Hendrix stood in the middle of the kitchen looking oddly hesitant.
Without preamble, he said, “My grandmother loves your cupcakes.”
She nodded. “Awesome. But you’re not so sure, are you?” She pointed at him, a spatula in her hand. “You’re still on the fence about me. You think I’m weird, quirky and kooky.”
“I try not to judge.” Even to his own ears, he sounded defensive. Usually he was decisive and at times uncompromising when it came to food, but this woman put him off his game. The decision to hire Hendrix was either going to rock his world or blow up in his face.
“I know I’m a little unorthodox...”
“Is that the word you like to use?”
She smiled, a mischievous glint in her dark brown eyes. “No one has ever complained about the end result. I have a process and I know it’s not always easy to understand. You have your own process. As much as we put spices, herbs and other ingredients into our food, we put our personality in, too.”
She was shooting down every argument he could muster before the words left his mouth. “If you would give me a minute, I could express my concerns.”
“Do you have any more?”
Defeated, he shrugged, “Not really.”
She walked over and patted him on the arm. “That’s how teachers teach chemistry in school. How to think logically and blow something up spectacularly.”
“There will be no blowing up of anything in my kitchen. Ever.”
She shrugged her elegant shoulders. “I’m cool with that.”
“I hear you.” He didn’t quite believe her. He had the feeling his grandmother was right. He’d be cleaning gunk off the ceiling at three in the morning.
“You don’t trust me yet, but you will.” She turned back, walked over to the ovens and started opening them. Watching her move around the kitchen, it was almost as if she was dancing. There was joy in every movement as she pulled out pie after steaming pie and set them on the counter to cool.
The most amazing scents washed over Donovan. He knew without one shred of evidence she hadn’t followed his directions as explicitly as he’d demanded. Was that a look of guilt on her face?
She disturbed him on a level he didn’t understand. She was unsettling and unconventional. He didn’t like feeling so out of control. This kitchen was his domain. He needed to get her into her own kitchen. That way if she didn’t follow instructions, he wouldn’t know. He would see the end result and wouldn’t have to agonize on how she got there.
Hendrix walked out into the hot noon sun. Reno was so different from San Francisco, which was cool during the day and downright cold at night. Mark Twain had once said that the coldest winter he’d ever experienced was a summer spent in San Francisco. She missed the fog, the activity, even the culture. If Reno didn’t work out she could always go back. But she didn’t want to—she wanted to leave her mark here. This was her home now.
Having survived her first week with Donovan was a relief. She hadn’t blown anything up or set fire to the kitchen. She decided she deserved a little treat. She climbed into her VW bug with the ladybug paint job, complete with eyelashes over the headlights. She headed for her favorite vintage fashion store after a quick stop at her house for some cupcakes she’d frozen for Hazel, the owner of Vintage Fashions. They’d be defrosted by the time she arrived.
Hazel Winston’s vintage shop was a small store set in a tiny, out-of-the-way strip mall. She was a tall, curvy blonde with sparkling blue eyes and a penchant for vintage fashion. The store itself was small and felt cluttered with a dozen racks of clothes, shelves of vintage accessories and boxes of gently used shoes. On the walls, Hazel had hung lattice and there she kept her most recent acquisitions. She was an expert on fashion from the forties and fifties and her passion showed in the white tulle Balenciaga wedding gown that floated in ethereal splendor on the most prominent wall in the store.
Hendrix gazed longingly at the Balenciaga wedding gown, but the price was too steep. Plus, she’d first need a man in her life, and that wasn’t part of the picture she had for her future.
Hazel dropped what she was doing and rushed over. She wore a pale yellow dress with a black-and-white polka dot neckline and cuffs—vintage Oleg Cassini.
“Did you bring my cupcakes?” Hazel demanded holding out a hand.
Hendrix handed over the box. “Hazel, do you have my dress?”
“I have three for you.” Hazel placed the box on the counter and, after a small peek inside, she led the way to the back of the store. “Thank you for the cupcakes. They look wonderful.”
“This is why I love you.” Hendrix followed her. “You love my cupcakes.”
“Everyone loves your cupcakes.”
Hendrix had been supplying her friend with baked goods for a couple years. Part of Hazel’s clientele came just for a quick snack while browsing the store.
Hazel grabbed the three dresses she’d found and hung each one over a hook on the wall. Hendrix was immediately drawn to a navy blue dress with embroidered yellow daisies on the halter top and a full skirt that flowed out over a white crinoline. She barely looked at the other two. One, a Dior form-fitting street dress of gray-and-green serge was almost as cute. The third dress was a black, pleated Coco Chanel silk dress with creamy white contrasting silk at the neck, cuffs and hem that would look heavenly on a romantic date.
“I’m celebrating my first week on my new job.”
