by Lili Valente
She has a wet towel in hand, as well.
Fucking sexy as hell, I think as Gigi reaches for Willow’s thigh, covering it with her towel. I do the same, joining in, and we smother the fire together.
A few seconds later, the fire is out, leaving behind nothing but the acrid smell of singed cotton.
“Oh my God, oh my God!” Willow hyperventilates as the last of the smoke wafts from her apron.
Gigi rests a hand on her shoulder and guides her to a stool at the rear of the station, closer to the onlookers on the grass, who are now applauding our rescue.
I wave in acknowledgment then crouch on one side of the stool as Gigi cradles Willow’s hand on the other.
“Breathe, sweetie pie,” Gigi says, petting her trembling fingers. “Just breathe.”
Willow nods, gulping. I glance around for a cup, but don’t see one. I do spot a water bottle sticking out of Willow’s purse beneath the counter, however, and fill it at the sink.
“Thank you.” She accepts the bottle and takes a small sip. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“Nonsense. Fires happen in kitchens all the time,” I reassure her. “Especially when you’re in an unfamiliar space.”
“Just a few weeks ago, I burned water,” Gigi offers.
“Water?” Willow asks, confused.
“Yes. On the stove. My wooden spoon handle caught fire while I was boiling water for pasta,” she says, then whispers. “But I was listening to Lady Gaga and singing along so it was mostly her fault. Plus, it was a good excuse to order out.”
Willow laughs, and Gigi squeezes her knee.
My heart does an odd sort of gymnastics in my chest.
Strange, that.
“Thank you,” Willow says to Gigi, then turns to me. “And you.”
“Anytime,” I say.
As we return to our stations to put the final touches on our dishes for the judges, Gigi’s eyes stay on mine. She mouths, So you’re a fireman too?
I answer her with a wink.
Because I’d like nothing more than to put out Gigi’s fire.
11
Gigi
I wait as patiently as I can, with perfect posture.
Good posture helps me deal with being judged.
I’ve always loved cooking, and adored baking even more than worshipping at fashion’s fickle altar—sorry, fashion, you know I love you. But I’m not a big fan of being judged.
Especially in public.
Reading reviews of the shop online gives me a rash, and when I entered a recipe for consideration in the “Brooklyn’s Best Eats” charity cookbook, I had to call Ruby over to open the email for me when it arrived. I knew I’d fall into the shame-pit if I was rejected without a friend around to hold my hand and tell me it wasn’t a big deal and there would be other cookbooks.
I just like things to be perfect and can’t help stressing out when someone thinks my best effort isn’t worthy of at least four out of five stars.
Growing up, perfection was one of the few things that seemed to make my parents happy. They loved that I got good grades, crafted exceptional macaroni artwork, and went out of my way to make special desserts for them on their birthdays. They never seemed happy with each other, so I worked to bring them joy in other ways. I was too young to be conscious of it at the time, but looking back, it’s clear being the perfect daughter was my plan for keeping my family together.
Too bad it didn’t work.
Or maybe not. My parents are happier now that they’re divorced and I’m happier now that I know they’re both deeply flawed people who probably shouldn’t have had children. I know they love me in their way, but it’s not really a way that feels like love very often.
Doesn’t take a degree in psychology to know that’s also probably part of the reason I’m sweating right now, silently willing the judging to wrap up as soon as possible.
No matter how grown up I am, or how much I know I’m loved by Gram and Harrison and my aunt and uncle and Ruby, having parents who don’t really care for you all that much can make a girl a little sensitive to criticism.
Two different chefs have already tasted my mini apple pies topped with hand-churned cinnamon ice cream and a caramel drizzle. I couldn’t think of anything more American—or New York, hello, Big Apple—than classic apple pie and my take on the recipe is unique, zesty, and packed with flavor. The addition of the ice cream and drizzle add another layer of pure decadent yumminess.
Until this moment, I’d been confident that I’d nailed the perfect offering for the first challenge, but now I’m starting to wonder if apple pie is too simple.
Too trite.
Too…apple flavored.
The final judge, the grouchy one with the goatee, takes another bite of the crust—just the crust—pauses, then nods.
He sets down the plate, scribbles in his notebook, then strides to Mr. Skips, the organizer of the competition and one of the sweetest men in the sweets business. He ran the best wedding cake bakery in Brooklyn until he retired a few years back, leaving the business to his grandson.
Too bad he’s not a judge this year. He’s good friends with Aunt Barb and a huge fan of pie. And me. When we were kids, he always brought Ruby and me kites when he came to pick up his Easter desserts, and he still pops into Sweetie Pies regularly.
Not that I’d want special treatment or anything, but at least I’d know at least one judge appreciates my medium.
Some people just don’t like pie.
Those people are obviously crazy, but…
After a few seconds that stretch on for an angst-filled eternity, Mr. Skips whirls around, strokes his cute little gray beard and clears his throat. “Good news, Sweet Lovers! We’re ready to announce the point tallies for the first round! As a reminder, the rules stipulate that the contestant with the most points at the conclusion of the last event wins.”
He takes a deep breath.
Then a freaking pregnant pause.
We all hang on his words—all ten contestants and the couple hundred onlookers gathered around the edge of the tent. He finally exhales, rattling off the fifth-place winner with seven points out of ten, and then my name is next.
“Gigi James with eight points for her lovely apple pie.”
I beam. I hoped to make the top three, but there are a lot of talented chefs here. I’ll take fourth and 8 out of 10 and be proud of my performance, thank you very much!
“And in third place.” Mr. Skips glances back to his notes again, and chuckles, “Or well, I guess tied for fourth? Tied for third?” He laughs again. “In any event, West Byron, also finishes with 8 points for his innovative and refreshing strawberry shortcake.”
What the…?
I jerk my gaze to West, who’s blinking too, seemingly equally surprised that we’re tied.
But he doesn’t seem upset, and shockingly I find I’m not either. His shortcake was stunning. I wanted to eat it up with a spoon.
Or pop a dollop of that cream on a certain part of him and lick it off.
Stop it. No unicorn peen thoughts allowed, especially not while still on the field of battle.
Forcing a just-friends smile, I wrench my gaze from West’s as Mr. Skips finishes calling out the scores.
Willow takes second place with her funnel cake flavored cupcake with caramel apple icing—a triumph I hope will restore her confidence after the fire. And then, as much as I hate to see the smarmy pastry chef come out on top, I’m not surprised when Hawley nabs first place with nine points.
I saw his pastry—a chocolate cherry crème puff in the shape of a…wait for it… Big Apple. With cherry glaze running down its perfectly rounded shape and delicate dark chocolate shavings dusted across the plate like autumn leaves, it was stunning.
Still, I find it hard to admire the man, there’s something slimy about him, no matter how well-groomed he or his crème puff appear to be.
As soon as we’re dismissed, I make it a point to head in the opposite direction of Mr. Pastry, hurryi
ng around the back of the tent to find Rosie, Ruby, and the rest of my girls.
“You did it! Third place!” Ruby enthuses, pulling me in for a hug.
“And only one point between you and that massive prick in plaid,” Rosie says, making me laugh. Because, of course, Rosie can spot a prick a mile away.
“And tied with Mr. Yummy Shortcake.” Allana bobs her dark brows as she pats Reggie, her sleeping baby boy’s bottom. “If I weren’t a happily married woman, I would totally let him split my scone.”
“Right in half,” Rosie agrees, shooting a heated look West’s way.
I clear my throat. “Um. Gross. I do not want my scone split, thank you very much. I want to keep my scone intact, my head in the game, and make sure I beat him next time around.”
I chat with the girls for a bit longer, then excuse myself to gather my things from my station and tidy up. As I load my purse with the spices I brought from home, Willow tiptoes over to tap a timid finger on my counter. “I’d like to take you out, if that’s okay. You and Weston? To say thank you.”
“Oh, you don’t—” I’m about to say have to, but I stop myself and think about how I’d feel if the shoe was on the other foot. If Willow had kept me from catching fire, I’d absolutely want to take her out. The look in her eyes tells me she feels the same way.
That this matters to her.
“Yes,” I say with a smile. “I’d love that. Want me to ask West for you?”
Willow and I have been casual acquaintances for years—since she opened The Cupcakery in Williamsburg, in fact—but she’s still shy with me. I’m assuming West must have her completely spooked, but she surprises me.
“No, I’ll do it,” she says, her lips twitching up on one side. “He’s really nice. Reminds me of my big brother.”
Aw. That’s sweet, though I confess I’m secretly relieved West doesn’t remind me of my big brother.
I watch as Willow asks him to join us, and the gentle way he accepts the invitation, and a warm fullness spreads through my chest.
He’s not an evil tea-peddling trickster human. He’s kind and funny and gracious and heroic, and when he turns to me with a smile—clearly happy to join Willow and me—it’s all I can do not to jump into his arms and pepper his big, sweet, sexy face with kisses.
Instead, I hitch my bag over my shoulder and nod toward the top of the Park. The sun sinks near the horizon as evening sets in. “Should we walk up by the museum? Avoid the subway?”
Willow nods. “There’s a great diner up there. Amazing curly fries.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m sliding into a shiny red booth next to Willow while West settles across from us. We order burgers and extra curly fries and chat about Brooklyn, trading stories of our favorite quirky natives, from the unicyclist couple who go for romantic, one-wheeled jaunts every night to the woman who brings her pet duck to the park in a baby carriage so it can visit with the wild waterfowl.
Willow nibbles a fry, then says, “And now this is one of my favorite stories about Brooklyn. I’m so grateful to the two of you.” She takes a shaky breath. “That could have gone…really badly.”
“Our pleasure,” I say with a wave of my hand. “Don’t think twice about it. Wasn’t a big deal at all.”
“But it was. You took time away from your dishes to help me, and I appreciate your kindness so much.”
Something in her voice makes me think she’s not used to kindness from strangers. Which is sad. Kindness is one of my favorite things.
“Well, I appreciate your cupcakes.” I squeeze her hand then shift my attention to West. “You simply must try the cinnamon roll cupcakes at her shop. They’re the best.”
He seems delighted, his lips crooking into a grin. “Are they now? I’m a big fan of cinnamon.”
My stomach rumbles with the memory, and I hum happily. “Then you’ll love them. Absolutely delish. But she only makes them on weekends, so keep that in mind.”
“Or let me know ahead of time that you’re coming,” Willow says with a smile. “I can make some special. We chefs have to stick together, right?”
“Except Hawley.” West’s smile vanishes as clouds sweep in behind his eyes. “Don’t turn your back on that one. Especially if there are any knives around. You’ll end up with one right between the shoulder blades.”
I’m about to ask West to spill the goods on Mr. Slimeball when Willow’s phone barks.
Literally barks.
“Oh, that’s Daisy, my dog sitter.” She grabs the phone from her purse and opens it at cheetah speed. “What? Wait, slow down, Dee,” she says. “Sparky made a nest of my—”
Willow breaks off with a sigh, dropping her head to rest in her hand. “He does that sometimes. He grabs them all from the laundry. He has…a thing.”
I meet West’s eyes and mouth fetish?
Underwear fetish, he mouths back.
I bite my lip, stifling a giggle.
“Sure thing, Daisy, don’t worry, I’ll be right there.” Willow pauses, then continues, “No, he usually doesn’t eat things he shouldn’t. When he starts gathering socks, it just means he’s ready for me to put him to bed. He likes to be tucked in. So do the others. But I’ll come home and keep an eye on him to make sure he hasn’t been chewing on things he shouldn’t.”
West’s mouth forms an O. Socks, of course.
Willow ends the call, her brow furrowing as she turns back to us. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. My chihuahuas. The sitter thinks Sparky might have eaten a sock while she wasn’t looking. But I’ll pay the check, and you guys can stay and finish,” she says, gesturing to our half full plates.
I wouldn’t mind finishing. I’m still famished.
“Are you sure?’ West asks.
“Of course. Stay.” She smiles as she slides out of the booth. “Thank you again—for the help and the chef talk. It was so fun. But Skippy, Salty, Stringbean, and Sparky aren’t used to me being out after seven or eight. They get anxious.”
“You have four dogs?” West asks.
Willow just shrugs and smiles. “Dogs like me.”
“Smart dogs,” I say.
She laughs—actually laughs without covering her mouth or hiding behind her hair—waves, pays the bill at the cashier, and heads out into the thickening twilight.
And then I’m alone with West again.
Just West. Gorgeous, kind, thoughtful fireman West.
But I’m not technically alone. Since we’re in a restaurant. I’m safe from myself here. It’s a diner, and a brightly lit one, at that. I’m not going to blow him under the table, for God’s sake.
I’m not going to blow him under the table.
Right?
Swallowing hard I pluck a curly fry from my plate and point it West’s way. “So, spill. What’s the scoop on Hawley? Because I got a bad vibe from him from the start.”
West’s eyes narrow even as his lips curve up on one side. “I saw that. You’ve got good instincts.”
I shrug. “Not always, but glad to know they were working today.”
“Me too,” he agrees. “Hawley’s a garbage person. Comes from obscene old money but has never met a person he wouldn’t screw over to get more. Cleary, he’s a talented chef, but rumor has it he stole most of his best recipes—including the ones he’s monetized—from his ex-girlfriends. For years, he only dated other pastry chefs.” He sighs. “Until he started dating my sister a few years ago.”
My jaw drops. “What? How did that happen, big brother?”
West sighs. “I know. I feel like shit that I didn’t keep her away from him, but I didn’t realize what a piece of shit he was until after he dumped her. Brutally. My instincts weren’t so great where he was concerned.” He picks up a fry, tossing it into his mouth and chewing before he adds, “Though, back then, I spent so much time with banker pricks who didn’t care about anything but money that Hawley actually seemed okay in comparison. At least he had interests outside of acquiring more material possessions and vacation homes.”
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“Vacation homes,” I echo with a shake of my head. “I can’t imagine having one of those, let alone multiples.” I frown and grab another fry. “I mean, why would you really need more than one? Who can do that much vacationing?”
“Trust fund babies and men in line to inherit their father’s wealth and title,” he offers, with a hint of bitterness. “Though, honestly, even if I had more money than God, I can’t imagine sitting around on a beach half the year and skiing the other. A person should do something worthwhile with his or her life. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
I cock my head, charmed but in the mood to challenge him too. “So, you think running a tea shop is worthwhile?”
“I do,” he says, looking surprised. “Don’t you?”
I nod. “I do. People need warm, welcoming places to gather.”
“And other people to take care of them and serve them delicious things that remind them of home,” he says, sending another arrow directly into my heart.
I wrap my hands around my water glass. “Yes. Exactly. Or make them feel the way they should have felt at home—loved and safe and free to be themselves and enjoy it.”
His gaze softens, and I feel myself pulled into the irresistible tractor beam of his West-vibe all over again. “Surely, someone as adorable as you must have been very loved.”
I bob my shoulder. “My gram and brother are great, though he was pretty bossy when we were growing up. But that was just his way of trying to feel in control amidst the chaos. Our parents were…a lot. Most of it not good.”
He frowns. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I say, brightening as I add, “My aunt and uncle and cousin are great too. And tons of people have things way worse.”
“Still, I feel like a bit of a spoiled brat. My parents were both great. Dad’s a bit analytical, but a solid chap who loves all four of his crazy kids to bits. And Mum was just…wonderful. Funny as hell, creative, and with the patience of a saint. Even when my brothers and I were wrestling in the house and breaking all her nice things.”
I press my lips together but, in the end, can’t help asking, “When did she pass?”