Party of Three

by Sandy Lowe

  Sarah grinned. She loved that her cake was a crowd pleaser. They stood for a minute taking in the scene.

  “We’re underdressed,” Avery said. “The house looks better than we do.”

  Kaitlyn led the way along manicured pathways to a front door so wide you could drive a semitrailer through with room to spare. There was no denying this shindig was expensive, and Sarah suspected the midnight black sheath dress that had looked so elegant on the rack at Macy’s wasn’t going to cut it with this crowd. She squeezed Avery’s hand. “We’re going to be fine. Promise.” She might not be the richest or the classiest, even among her own friends, but she knew how to hold her head high. She’d been doing it all her life.

  Believe it or not, there was an actual butler, though she was mid-fifties, female, and not the least bit stuffy. “Hello and welcome.” Smiling warmly, she looked into their faces. “Kaitlyn Forrester, Sarah Donovan, and Avery Anders.” She nodded as if checking them off a mental guest list. Wow. The woman must have studied photos, which was both weird and impressive. “Can I take that box for you, Ms. Donovan?”

  Sarah hugged it to her chest like a teddy bear. “Um, no. If you don’t mind, I’ll take it to the kitchen myself.”

  “You’re the baker. I understand you want to make sure everything is perfect for Miss Eleanor.” The woman winked at her conspiratorially.

  Uh-huh. That was totally my intention. More like she wanted some mission that would keep her from having to enter the fancy ballroom full of fancier people just a little longer. Delivering the cake wouldn’t delay her much, but she would take what she could get. She nodded as if agreeing, and the woman smiled again. “You can all leave your purses and coats with me. If you head down the hallway, the kitchen is at the end.” She turned to Kaitlyn and Avery. “Ladies, the ballroom is just to your right. Have a wonderful evening.”

  Kaitlyn and Avery gave Sarah a look that clearly said she was a chicken-hearted traitor. “We’ll be at the bar when you’re done procrastinating,” Avery said as they turned in the opposite direction. Sarah lost them immediately to the swarm of people just inside the ballroom doors and was forced to move aside as yet more guests entered the house.

  Time to stop loitering in the foyer.

  She made her way down a wide hallway decorated with traditional landscapes and pushed open the door to the kitchen. Greeted with a blast of noise, heat, and controlled chaos, Sarah’s unease fell from her shoulders like an itchy woolen coat. She was home. The kitchen had always been her safe place. She’d had a knack for cooking that she’d pursued despite the academic aptitude that got her through high school. She was good at school. But she was phenomenal at baking. It was her oxygen. Culinary school, a year interning with Chef DeMark, the best freaking baker in the history of the world, and then finally, with a little help from Mr. McGregor, Cakewalk. A tiny dot of a bakery a stone’s throw from Times Square, squished indelicately between a McDonald’s and an electronics store. It wasn’t much, not nearly as prestigious as working beside the industry greats, and the truth was, she’d had more offers than she could count to do that. But she hadn’t wanted to spend a decade working in someone else’s kitchen before being deemed competent. She didn’t want to pay the dues the older generation considered a rite of passage and refused to bend. She wanted a place of her own. Small and, for now, obscure maybe, but hers. And she was damn good at her job. She didn’t plan on being a nobody for long. Some called her arrogant. She preferred to think of herself as ambitious.

  Most of the noise came from a tall slim man issuing curt orders over the cacophony of chopping, sizzling, and mixing that surrounded her. God, how she hated asshole head chefs who ran their kitchens like drill sergeants. Was it really necessary to yell so loud and for so long? Cooking was supposed to be fun. At least it was for her.

  She headed toward a heavyset woman weaving thin strips of pastry into exquisite if somewhat generic braids, and tapped her on the shoulder. “Hey, sorry to bother you. I’m Sarah. I have the German chocolate cake that was special ordered?” Special ordered in the crisply written email she’d received from McGregor, politely asking if she would bake a small cake for the party, claiming no other had ever compared to Sarah’s specialty German chocolate with raspberry sauce. He’d added a smiley face to the request, and McGregor just didn’t do smiley faces. She suspected it had more to do with circumventing the carb-conscious preferences of his society matron wife, but complied with the request nonetheless.

  “Gem.” The woman dusted her hands on an apron that was more flour than cotton and held one out for her to shake. “Non-refrigerated cakes, tarts, and dessert pastries go over there.” She pointed to a thick wooden bench.

  “Thanks. Bad day at the office?” Sarah tilted her chin toward Chef Grumpy McGrumpy Pants who had stopped yelling and was now bending over an industrial oven. She blinked. His Grumpiness had a really nice ass. She could honestly say it was the first time in living memory she’d ever so much as glanced at a guy’s ass, let alone allowed her eyes to linger on the curve of it, generously displayed for her as he leaned forward to lift a steaming dish from the middle rack. She’d only have to walk ten feet to sidle up behind him and—

  Gem’s laughter startled her back to the present, and she tore her eyes away. “Poor Ryan. The dessert chef was a no-show. It’s been hell.” Sarah could only nod, words not possible through the sirens blaring in her head. God. She was in worse shape than she thought if she was getting hot under the collar over some guy. She was gay, for Christ’s sake. That settled it. She had to get laid tonight, if only to erase the twisting in her belly that had her lusting after some cranky dude. She thanked Gem and walked purposefully over to the dessert bench. It was looking a bit thin for a large party. Hell indeed. Depositing the cake, she took her time studying the offerings, giving each one her undivided attention like she was a tourist at the Louvre. Did she really have to go to the ballroom? She could just stand here all night, you know, keep the cakes company.

  “Hey, you. Hey. Blond girl.”

  Sarah turned, surprised to find Lord Grumpton advancing, then looming over her. She hadn’t thought it possible for anyone to actually loom, but it was the only apt descriptor for the way the man towered above her, all pissed off and reproachful. She backed up until her ass hit the edge of the bench and she had nowhere else to go. A fly caught in his net. Even with the couple of inches’ extra distance, she had to tilt her chin up to meet his eyes. Rich, sweet toffee framed by dark chocolate lashes. Yummy. “Um, yes?”

  “What are you doing here? This is a kitchen. You can’t go walking around without protective clothing. We’re not insured if you fall in those ridiculous contraptions.”

  It took her a second. “You’re talking about my shoes.”

  He looked at her feet like her Dolce Vitas were covered in puke. “Is that what you call them?”

  Okay. So weirdly attractive guy wasn’t just grumpy, he was an asshole. Nice.

  Sarah gestured vaguely toward the cake. She needed to leave. Push him back a step and get the hell out of the kitchen. Go to the bar where there were friends and alcohol. And people. So. Many. People. Eleanor type people. She stayed where she was.

  The guy had such a striking face. Beautiful, really. His features were narrow and his skin looked smooth. Touchable and traceable and kissable. He had a sensuous pouty bottom lip she wanted to sink her teeth into. What the hell is wrong with me?

  “Lady…” he started, but Sarah dragged her voice up from the back of her throat and cut him off. No one called her a lady in that, kid, I’m-losing-my-patience tone.

  “I’m Sarah, friend of the birthday girl, well, the birthday girl’s father. Actually, he’s kind of my boss, well, we’re partners. Anyway, that’s not the point.” Which maybe I should get to sometime in the next five years. “He asked me to make a cake, and I’m only delivering it. Here. To the kitchen. Nowhere near anything hot or dangerous.” Except the definition is standing right in front of me and I’m imaginin
g him fucking me five ways to Sunday.

  He looked over her shoulder at the large pink box and finally relaxed. “Sorry. It’s been a bad afternoon.” He untied the soiled apron around his waist and whipped off his hairnet, running fingers through the short, inky black mess.

  Sarah felt her knees wobble and grabbed for the bench. No need to actually fall on her ass and prove him right. Except this was no guy. Not a guy at all, but a woman. A tall, strong woman with broad shoulders and narrow hips, a great face, and a really exceptional ass. “Oh, thank God you’re not a guy,” she blurted, then snapped her mouth shut so fast her teeth clicked. Fuck.

  Grumpy raised her eyebrows.

  “I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

  “I’m afraid so. Now you have to tell me why.”

  “Any chance we can just forget it?”

  “Not a one. The servers just left with the second round of canapés, and I have at least thirty seconds before all hell breaks loose again.” She leaned around Sarah and grabbed a bottle of water from a cooler against the wall. Her breast grazed Sarah’s arm, and Sarah bit her lip to prevent the embarrassing half-moan, half-sigh sound that wanted badly to escape.

  Absolutely, positively, not a guy.

  Grumpy McSexy Pants drank half the bottle in one long pull. “I’ve had a crap day. I could use a thirty-second break with a pretty girl. Entertain me.”

  Entertain her? Who the hell did this woman think she was?

  “I’m not some…” Sarah searched wildly for inspiration, “escort here for your entertainment.” She gave indignant outrage her best shot, though, honestly, the idea had more than a little appeal. Not that this looming woman needed to know that.

  Grumpy grinned, and those eyes went from sweet toffee to molten caramel lava cake in an instant. She could all but feel the smolder. “An escort, huh? That could be interesting.”

  “I saw you from across the room and…”

  Grumpy leaned closer. “And?”

  The way her throat worked when she took another swallow from the bottle was making Sarah dizzy. If someone had tried to convince her that the simple act of a woman swallowing could be sexy as all fuck, she would have laughed them out of the room. But it really, really was. “I thought you were a man.”

  Grumpy just shrugged. “Easy to do. Why were you thanking God when you discovered I wasn’t?”

  “Because…” Grumpy was grinning at her, and Sarah realized she already knew the answer. Could this get any more embarrassing? She was losing her cool and off her game. She was also a little out of breath, her heart speeding up in a way that was biologically unnecessary. Her body needed to settle the hell down.

  “What’s your name?” Sarah asked.

  The change in direction had her frowning. “Ryan.”

  Sarah pointed a finger into her chest. “That’s a guy’s name.”

  “It’s Melody Ryan, but Melody doesn’t suit me.”

  Sarah had to agree. This woman was no Melody. “Well, Ryan. I thought you had a nice ass, all bent over the oven as you were, and that took me off guard as I’m not accustomed to finding men attractive. I was thanking God I didn’t have to go to another counselor to help me reevaluate my sexual identity. That kind of thing is expensive.” Why had she told her about the stupid counselor? Hello, sexiest woman I’ve ever seen, I’m kind of crazy, but it’s super nice to meet you.

  Ryan’s lips twitched, and she edged half an inch closer. “And what kind of person are you accustomed to finding attractive?”

  Sarah’s breath all but stopped. Attractive is too tame a word for what you are. “Smart, fun women. I usually go for the arty types, or the sporty types, you know, tennis players and softball players and such. Strong and toned, but soft where it counts. Usually.” She was babbling. She had to stop babbling. Why was she babbling?

  “Usually.” Ryan made a small humming sound and caught a lock of Sarah’s hair between her fingers, stroking the length before letting go. She grazed Sarah’s cheek, and the touch made her shiver. “Perhaps you’d be in the mood for something other than your usual tonight. I only have a few hours—”

  She was cut off by a yell from across the room. “Ryan, those tarts are gonna burn if you don’t get them out of the oven in the next twenty seconds.”

  Ryan jolted as if she’d forgotten where she was and stepped back. “Sorry, Al.” She strode across the kitchen like a military commander going into battle and whipped three trays of mini French apple tarts out of the oven, then slid them expertly onto a cooling rack.

  Sarah instantly missed the closeness of their bodies almost-but-not-quite touching. Time to regroup. Assess the situation. Face facts. She was attracted to Ryan. Really attracted. Tear-my-panties-off-with-your-teeth attracted. But so what? It didn’t have to mean anything, and she didn’t have to act on it. Desire waged civil war against her better judgment and her previous experience. Experience won.

  She wasn’t going to have sex with Melody Ryan. No matter how much she wanted to.

  Without her permission, her feet followed Ryan’s path across the room. Sarah peered over her shoulder just as Ryan stepped back, and they collided.

  “Whoa.” Turning, Ryan grasped her shoulders to steady her. “Listen, you can’t be here. When I get off shift I’ll come and find you if you want me to. I need a few hours. I need to get these bloody desserts done.”

  This, she could do, especially if it meant spending less time in the ballroom. Sarah walked the three feet to a rack that held clean aprons and hairnets. With a short prayer for the death of her oh-so-long at the salon hairstyle, she flipped it on and faced Ryan. “Got a pair of enclosed shoes? I can help.”

  Ryan eyed her. “Aren’t you here for a party?”

  “Yeah. But my friends will understand. I can bake. McGregor and I own a bakery in the city. I can be your dessert chef.” Plus, if I’m cooking, I won’t be thinking about sex. It’s a win-win.

  Ryan’s eyes widened. “Seriously? What are you, some gorgeous blond angel sent from the heavens?”

  Sarah smiled, a light fluttering in her chest. “You think I’m gorgeous?”

  “I think—”

  “Ryan.” Ryan caught the apple the sous chef threw at her before it hit her full in the face. “Get your head in the game. This ain’t social hour.”

  “Don’t get your panties in a twist, Al.” She turned back to Sarah. “Can you make éclairs?”

  “With my eyes closed.”

  Ryan tossed her a rolling pin. “You’re a goddess.”

  “Just call me Aphrodite.”

  Chapter Four

  When Love Means War

  “So, uh, better late than never, right?”

  “You’d better not be late again or you’ll never keep this job.”

  The pimply-faced man-boy in black-and-white chef pants and a John Mayer T-shirt sighed as if the world rested on his scrawny shoulders. “I’m sorry, man. It was my gran, you know. She needed me to go to the store and—”

  “Save it.” Ryan scooped couscous from a dish on the warming stove onto twenty-five dinner plates lined up like soldiers preparing to march. Each spoonful precisely level, each flick of her wrist depositing the grain in exactly the same position on each plate. “Last week it was your great-aunt Mary who broke her wrist, and the week before some other long lost relative. I’ve had enough, Joe.”

  The man-boy stared at the ground and scowled. “Great-aunt Maisy.”

  “I don’t get paid nearly enough to take up the role of your mother. Stop giving me reason to scold you. Now suit up and get busy. You get my share of cleanup.” Ryan finished plating and made room for the guy behind her to slide salmon filets onto the china, adding garnish with a flick of fingers before the servers arrived to carry them out to guests.

  Ryan strode to the same small cooler by the dessert bench and tossed Sarah a bottle of water. “We’re off the clock, Aphrodite. Thanks for the help.”

  It wasn’t as if she’d expected to be spending the night ma
king a hundred éclairs, but now that her replacement had arrived, Sarah was reluctant to leave. It’d been fun. She wouldn’t give up Cakewalk for all the frosting in heaven, but she missed working in a team. The banter, the casual insults, leaning into the rhythm of the group until you were all working with smooth efficiency. “You sure you don’t still need me?”

  “I never said that. I said we’re off the clock.”

  “Both of us?” Sarah asked.

  “That’s right, if you want me to be. Joe here is a lazy ass, but he’s not a half-bad chef when he bothers to show up.”

  Joe rolled his eyes at that and slid his arms into a pristine double-breasted white coat. “Yeah, yeah. I said I’d do the cleanup, man. Get out of here and stop ragging on me.”

  “You can just leave?” Sarah frowned. The last of the early dinner course was making its way into the ballroom on shiny silver trays held aloft by servers dressed in impenetrable black.

  “My part of mission impossible is in the bag. All that’s left is the dessert course in another hour or so. Then they’ll all drink themselves into oblivion for the rest of the night. I can’t leave the premises. I’m responsible for making sure all this stuff is cleared away. But now that Joe’s here, I can take a break.”

  “Oh.” A break sounded…intriguing, in a terrifying kind of way.

  “Want to take a break with me?” Ryan asked.

  The words were like warm cinnamon honey sliding down her skin. Smooth and sinful, with just a hint of spice. Did she want to? The wetness inside her panties had barely cooled in the hour they’d been working. And from the tone of her voice, Ryan seemed to feel the same way. Sarah flashed to Melinda’s pained expression whenever she’d broached the idea of sex, her weighty silences, her oh-if-you-insist attempts at foreplay, as if touching Sarah had been a favor she was doing out of the goodness of her heart. Melinda said she’d loved her, said she’d wanted a life together. If Melinda couldn’t stir up the energy to bother fucking, why should this woman, who didn’t even know her last name, want to have sex with her? What does it matter? You’re not having sex with her anyway, remember? You decided.