Pinpoint (Point #4) (5 page)

There’s a discernable difference in his playful tone. Now, I hear a tinge of regret. “Chef, yes. Cooking professionally, not as much as I’d like anymore.”

“If not cooking, then what?”

“I’m spending more time behind a desk than in a kitchen. But those were the decisions I made in my career, and I have no one to blame but myself. Occasionally, I’ll dabble in event catering, and that’s how I’ve gotten to know your sister and Cameron.” The regret leaves his voice. “Today is too beautiful a day to talk about business.”

A shadow blocks out the sun. “Sister, sister, do you want something to eat? We’re going to order lunch.” Violet stands to my right holding a folded piece of paper in her hands.

At the mention of food, my stomach growls. Loudly. Blushing furiously, I struggle to my feet. “Guess I’m hungrier than I thought.”

Then Oscar’s at my side, smirking. Nothing gets past him, especially none of my embarrassing social missteps.

To my relief, I see no sign of Kevin or his teammates back at the reserved seating area. One glance across the deck and I find the Kevin and his teammates surrounded by a gaggle of scantily clad women. A little of my earlier tension releases with the knowledge that Kevin is directing his amorous intentions elsewhere. Oscar sits across from me when I take my previous spot next to Tucker. Apparently, everyone here knows Oscar because no introductions are made.

“Iris, you busy next Sunday?” Tucker asks once I order a sandwich from the omnipresent server.

Mentally, I run through my calendar. “We’ve got a wedding Saturday night but nothing on Sunday.”

“Good. You’re coming to my house. Oscar’s cooking so you know it’s going to be fan-fucking-tastic food.”

“You’re a private chef?” I ask Oscar in confusion. Only a few minutes ago, he mentioned that he doesn’t cook as much as he’d like.

“Not exactly. I auctioned off a private dinner for eight at the Scrapers’ gala benefitting the Hope House. Somehow, Smithson scraped together enough cash to win,” Oscar says.

“I’d love to come. Thank you for the invitation,” I tell Tucker sincerely. A little bit of my insecurity chips away at his thoughtfulness. Immediately, I start thinking of a way to show my thanks. Tucker loves my kitchen sink cookies. I’ll make him a batch.

“What’s on the menu?” Violet asks Oscar.

“Limited quantities of butter, sugar, and salt,” Oscar says wryly.

“Training camp starts in less than a month. I’ve got to be on the top of my game,” Tucker says defensively. “And I didn’t cut those out of the ingredient list. I just asked to keep this meal on the healthier side.”

“Says the guy who requested two desserts the last time he ate at Mariposa,” Oscar goads good-naturedly.

Two discoveries hit me simultaneously.

First, even I, the lowly country bumpkin, have heard of Mariposa. From what I’ve seen and read, it’s one of the most decorated restaurants in the world. Three Michelin stars and tops the lists of best eateries time and time again.
Whoa.
No wonder Violet says Oscar is a pretty big deal. Mariposa alone is legendary, and she said he has two other restaurants.

Second, it becomes glaringly obvious why I find it easy to talk to Oscar. He’s honest. No bull malarkey from him. He says what is on his mind without censor. To a person navigating a completely new culture, it is comforting to know he isn’t playing games or speaking with a hidden agenda. At times, I feel like I moved to Tanzania, not two hours away from my hometown. There’s a language barrier between me and everyone I meet. They talk about things like blowouts, Uber, dating apps, things that are ‘on fleek,’ and that’s just the start. Oscar talks in a straightforward way that I can easily decipher.

“Duty calls.” During my internal musing, I must have missed something because Oscar is standing, putting his cell phone into this pocket.

“See you Sunday,” he says to the group at large. Everyone offers his or her good-byes.

Watching him saunter across the deck, I can’t help but be disappointed he’s leaving. Though it’s quite obvious Oscar Alexander works out regularly. The view from the back is nearly as breathtaking as the front.

An elbow jabs my side. “Take a picture, it lasts longer.” Tucker’s watching me stare at Oscar with laughter in his eyes.

Oh, my god,
I realize,
this is what it’s like to have a crush.

Oscar

“What’s the problem, Clint?” My business partner yammers about the funding for our next venture—a neighborhood café at an affordable price point. He’s talking about a delay in construction. Surprise, surprise. You would think after two gut renovations, Clint would learn that contractors always underestimate the time it takes to complete a project.

Jesus. My relaxing afternoon was interrupted with this shit? Ridiculous. “I don’t know why you’re surprised. We factored extra days in the timeline for construction delays.” I don’t try to hide my boredom. “And we both know you won’t stop riding the project managers until they’re finished. I predict there won’t be more than a two-day postponement.”

“If it weren’t for my persistence, we’d be months late,” Clint snaps.

Pausing underneath the Mercer Club entrance awning, I hand my ticket to the valet. “Is there something you want to say to me, Clint?” I ask evenly.

Tense silence reigns. I imagine Clint taking deep breaths on the other side of the line. “No,” he says shortly. As much as I know he wants to tell me off, he won’t because without my name, he wouldn’t be at the helm of this restaurant trifecta.

The valet idles my S-Class coupe in front of the awning. I slip him a tip and climb into the car. “I’ll be there in fifteen. We’ll talk then.”

“Good,” he grunts, and the line goes dead.

I blow out an annoyed breath of my own. Questioning my partnership with Clint is happening more and more frequent. At first, Clint was the ideal partner. He’s a fucking shark. When I was executive chef of Centered, a restaurant on the north side of the city, he found me and convinced me to get my own spot. From there, he found the investors. Once we had enough cash and street cred, the two of us moved on to more restaurants. Clint was the one who convinced me to participate as a judge on
The American Chef
, a television show with incredible notoriety despite it being a reality show.

Shifting the car into drive, I glide away from the curb and toward the site of my latest venture.

My shoulders are tight with tension. I need a massage. Better yet, I need to get laid. I can’t remember the last time I took time off and didn’t have Clint clawing at me. Today was the first time in months I’ve had time to myself. When Violet asked me to hang with her and her friends at the Mercer Club, I jumped on the invitation. It wasn’t until I met up with the group that I realized Iris might be there. Seeing her, I felt an instantaneous jolt of . . .
something.
She’s entertaining and, on some level, beguiling. Unlike most of the ass kissers I come across, she’s authentic. She can’t hide anything with that expressive face.

One glance in the rearview mirror and I realize I’m grinning. A second later, the smug expression slips into a look of disgust. No matter how appealing I find Aurora, I won’t pursue her. I avoid inexperienced women at all costs. Sweethearts like Iris Harper are looking for something I don’t have to give. Those guileless navy eyes seek a committed relationship—marriage, kids, stability. I don’t fuck around with serious relationships or women like Iris. I’ll enjoy ruffling her feathers when I run into her, but it will end there. Conversation. Light flirting. She won’t give me her number, and I won’t take her on a date with the sole purpose of getting her between my sheets, against my wall, or splayed across my kitchen countertop.

I don’t have time in my cramped schedule for a woman. Hell, I hardly have time for myself, let alone another person. Even if I did have the time for a relationship, I don’t think I would pursue one. At thirty-five, I’m self-aware enough to know I’m not an ideal partner. Business comes first. Women don’t like being left at home on the weekend because the restaurant calls. The service industry has punishing hours. Truthfully, the unpredictable schedule doesn’t bother me. What I’m less than thrilled with is my role in the Oscar Alexander Empire. When Mariposa first opened eight years ago, I ruled the kitchen. With each additional restaurant, I became less and less involved with the actual cooking. Sure, I am the driving force behind menu development, but instead of spending my time in the bowels of the kitchen, I’m the face of the operation. That means showing my face around the restaurants, fielding the press, and making appearances at events related to my reality show contract.

Complaining makes me feel like an ungrateful asshole. When I was in the thick of my education at The Culinary Institute, playing sous chef at a restaurant in Brooklyn, I would have killed for the opportunities I have now. All of the roadblocks are gone. Not to sound like an arrogant prick, but the facts are the facts. When your restaurant consistently rates within the top five in the country, doors open. With great success comes great responsibility or something like that.

“Enough with the self-pity, Alexander,” I grunt. I have exactly what I want out of life. When I parallel park my car in front of our latest venture, Mariquita, I push the negative thoughts aside. I’ll mess with Clint. That never fails to cheer me.

Iris

“One of the bridesmaids was ‘over severed’ and is causing a scene in the restroom. Do you want to take it or finish here?” Violet carefully piles clear plastic boxes of candy and glances at me with an arched brow. Security must have relayed the information to her via the hidden device in her ear.

I glance back at her with an arched brow. It’s baffling that she continues to ask questions like this one. Violet knows confrontation is at the top of my list of fears.

“That sounds like something you’re better at. I can handle arranging the party favors.”

Violet chuckles. “One of these days you need to learn the difference between assertive and aggressive.”

“I’m not aggressive.”

“Not in the least,” Violet agrees. “But you think that being assertive equals aggressive. That is absolutely not the case. More on that later. I have to take care of a wayward bridesmaid. You know how to arrange these, rights?”

“Yes, Mistress Harper.” Violet beams, spins around, and scurries off to handle the most recent disaster.

What I’ve learned about event planning is this: no matter how well prepared you may be, something always comes up. A vendor may be late, flowers show up wilted, or an outbreak of salmonella forces a last-minute menu change. All this unpredictability causes me an immense amount of stress, but Violet thrives on it.

Tonight is a three hundred person wedding in a grand ballroom overlooking the Chicago River. An explosion of lavender, white, and silver flowers, linens, and lighting transforms the massive space into a dreamy, romantic escape.

From my vantage point in the rear of the ballroom, I’m able to watch the bride sway languorously in the arms of her groom. Without fail, every wedding I work elicits pangs of longing. The most pathetic part is that I don’t even know what I’m missing. Yes, it’s true . . . I’m a twenty-seven-year-old woman who has never had a boyfriend and barely had a first kiss. Father didn’t allow me to attend any school dances with friends, let alone date. Not that I had many offers. Being the pastor’s daughter didn’t help me much with guys except for the one Father picked for me. I’m aware that I need a bit of experience before I can graduate to a full-fledged committed relationship.

With a discouraged sigh, I finish stacking the giveaways. As the clock approaches eleven, the first round of guests will likely start making their way from the party, though it will last until one a.m. That means Violet and I will remain at the hotel until at least two. Most likely, I won’t be in bed until four.

The irregular hours stink. Confronting tearful or angry clients and guests terrifies me. I am a tried and true introvert and being around all these people with my personality ‘turned on’ exhausts me emotionally and physically.

All that aside, I truly love spending time with my sister and watching her creative concepts blossom into breathtaking events. She does what she does incredibly well, and it’s inspiring to watch her passion for her career.

Violet built a business that represents an ideal we both value tremendously. One of the cornerstones of Expertly Planned events is community service. Violet’s events have a minimum budget (think huge). The clients are typically society types throwing weddings or influential organizations and people. All Expertly Planned events must have some aspect of charity.

Take tonight’s wedding, for instance. Each plastic box containing candy for the guests also has a card saying that the couple made a monetary donation and spent time contributing to the Chicago Food Bank in honor of their guests. It was Violet’s idea, and the bride and groom cottoned on easily. Their egos are big enough to see that a little community service makes them look like good people. Expertly Planned doesn’t care about the reason for the community service, just that it must happen. Truthfully, it turns away some prospective clients, but it’s a key differentiator for this business model.