A Holiday Romance (6 page)

Chloe’s response was emphatic. “One hundred percent.”

“A player?”

“Mmm.”

“That’s what I suspected. I mean, he was flirting. With
me.
”

Chloe’s brows went up. “Why
not
you?”

“I’m not really the kind of woman men flirt with all that often.”

“I don’t see why not. You’re cute.”

Alice did feel as if she’d at least made it onto the “cute” scale, even if she was hovering at the low end. The new clothing she’d bought for the trip was a minor factor. Shedding her Osprey Island persona as everyone’s favorite pal and all-around substitute worker was major. She was not nearly as drab and used-up as she’d been feeling the past few years.

Even her mother would have approved. Dorothy Potter had fretted over her youngest daughter’s lack of a social life, but she’d wanted Alice close. The small sum she’d set aside in her will as Alice’s “mad money” had been a total surprise.

Alice decided to confide. “I did have a drink with Kyle Jarreau last night.”

“Kyle Jarreau?” Chloe opened and closed her mouth, emitting only a faint squawk. She leaned over the table. “You’re serious?
Kyle Jarreau?
”

“Is that so strange?”

“Hell, yeah. He doesn’t…um, well, he just
doesn’t.
”

“It was only a friendly gesture.” But they’d flirted, or at least Alice had. Unless she’d built their twenty minutes together into a legend in her own mind. “He wanted to welcome me to the resort.”

“Ohhh, then, that’s different.” Chloe still seemed puzzled.

Alice dropped her gaze. “He was nice.”

“Mmm. I don’t think of him that way, but then, he’s my superior. And I’m only a cog in the wheel, far beneath his notice. It’s just that I’ve heard how he’s very strict about…”

Alice waited. Chloe’s hesitation seemed uncharacteristic.

The young woman blinked. “About everything, I suppose.”

Alice was oddly let down. “I sort of had that impression.”

“See,” Chloe went on, lowering her voice, “it’s that Prince Montez has this policy, all spelled out in the employee handbook actually, about how employees are not to ‘associate’ with the resort guests. Socially, that is. When I came aboard, I was told that engaging in hanky-panky would get me fired. No exceptions. Jarreau’s edict. Except for…”

Alice’s pulse picked up. Her lips felt strangely tender.

“…workers like Denver, for instance…” Chloe continued with a small grimace, and Alice’s expectations sank. They’d been absurd, anyway. Had she really expected Kyle to make an exception for
her?

“He flirts
very
openly. And no one says a thing. He’s practically encouraged, because the female guests like it. Or the servers, for instance, and the pool attendants. They depend on tips, so of course some of them use what they’ve got to act extrafriendly with guests.” Chloe sat back. “But of course no one crosses the line. Not without consequences.”

Alice traced a finger along the edge of the waxed pine table. “I see.”

“I’ve said too much.”

“No, I’m glad I know. Not that I was taking Denver seriously. He was pretty obvious.” Alice flicked her bangs out of her eyes. Kyle was another matter. “But I suppose I
did
like it. I was flattered.”

“Sure, why not?” Chloe’s smile was a bit strained. “Enjoy the heck out of it. You’re on vacation!”

“I
NCOMPETENTS
.”
Chef Rodrigo Chavez’s florid face was the same pinkish-purple as the sugar flower on the tip of his finger. “I am surrounded by incompetents!”

The resort’s catering manager and wedding coordinator exchanged wary looks. Stumbling over each other’s words, they tried to salve the chef’s legendary temper, which was matched in size only by his towering ego.

A flick of his meaty hand sent the offending sugar flower zinging past the manager’s head. It splatted against the kitchen wall. “Puce!” he roared. “I could vomit out a better wedding cake than the tripe you’re giving me.”

Behind him stood two of his staff, eyes downcast, looking defeated in their aprons and white hats. On the steel surface before them was the product of countless hours of work—the various layers and decorations that would become a wedding cake. Trays of meticulously handmade sugar flowers had been laid out in preparation for the final assembly.

“Puce!” Chavez repeatedly smashed the fragile creations, flattening them to pancakes. “I ask for lavender and these idiots insult me with
puce.
”

The chef failed to notice that Kyle, summoned by the catering manager, had arrived through the secondary service entrance.

For once, Kyle had been grateful for the interruption. He’d had trouble concentrating on his work. Two nights in a row now—almost a habit. Dealing with a temperamental chef was a welcome distraction from the idea that he might possibly not be as disciplined as he’d always believed.

“Chef Chavez,” he said.

Down went the man’s fist.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
Trays rattled as they knocked together. One, filled with arched stems of sugar orchids, tipped over the edge of the counter and crashed to the floor. Everyone but Chavez flinched. The man was as oblivious as a toddler in a tantrum.

Kyle raised his voice. “Chavez.”

“Who…” The chef swung around, jowls swaying. Seeing Kyle, he snorted and scooped up one of the iced layers of cakes.

The wedding coordinator covered her eyes.

Kyle had hoped to save the situation; now he saw there was only one way to go. Quick, clean and direct.

“Chef Chavez,” he said, “you’re fired.”

“Fired? Rodrigo Chavez?” the chef sputtered. The cake in his fingers teetered wildly. “I am winner of the Soledad Ecole gold medal two years running. You can’t even
think
of firing me.”

“Yet, I am.” Top-tier chefs were never easy to replace. But they’d had trouble with Chavez before and tonight’s scene had made up Kyle’s mind. “Leave this kitchen at once.”

Chavez’s bravado deflated. The cake swayed back and forth. “You’re making a mistake.”

Kyle shrugged. He fisted his hands so tightly in his pockets, he felt his pulse.

The chef inhaled, getting back some of his bluster.
“Fools!” he barked. “Incompetents!” He whirled, swinging past the corner of the worktable, the cake still held aloft. “I won’t put up with it any longer.”

Kyle pointed his chin toward the exit. “You know the way out.”

The porthole door to the neighboring kitchen swung open, clipping the chef’s backside. He lurched, perhaps more violently than the nudge called for. The cake popped off his upraised hand and landed upside down on the floor, despite one of the assistant chef’s valiant effort to catch it midair.

“Oh, dear,” said Alice Potter in a small voice at the door, a hand clapped over her open mouth. She looked vulnerable and frightened with Chavez looming over her.

“I’m sorry…” she began.

A hotel employee stepped in through the same door, her eyes going from the cake on the floor to the formidable chef to Kyle. “It was my fault, Mr. Jarreau. We were taking a tour of the kitchens and—”

“I cannot work under these conditions.” Chavez whipped off his tall chef’s hat and stomped out, double chin raised high.

His departure unfroze the rest of the employees. They rushed forward, talking at once about what was salvageable and how they could recover to deliver the wedding cake on time.

Although losing the head pastry chef was a blow, Kyle had complete trust that the staff would come up with a plan.

Alice was his concern. She seemed horrified.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s not your fault.”

“But I made your chef quit.”

“No, you didn’t. I’d already fired him.”

“You had?”

“Right before you came in. The man was a tyrant, which is necessary in the position, but too volatile.”

Alice blinked. “What? Wait. You
approved
of him being a tyrant?”

“Yes, of course. Tyrants are some of my best employees. But there are limits.”

She laughed. “You’re an interesting man, Mr. Jarreau.”

“Kyle,” he said, but she’d already moved past him to help scrape the cake off the floor.

“It was a middle tier,” said one of Chavez’s underlings in despair. “We’ll have to bake a new one, and we won’t be able to assemble until it’s done.” She dumped the pieces in the trash.

“Can’t you substitute a cake that’s already made?” the catering manager asked. “There must be something on hand.” She consulted her clipboard. “Otherwise, there’s no chance of finishing on time. It’s a morning wedding. The cake has to be delivered by ten-thirty at the very latest.”

“Ten-thirty? I don’t know, that’s going to be close.” The curly-haired pastry chef wrung her hands. “It’s a custom flavor—champagne chiffon with lime-curd filling. It’ll have to be baked from scratch. And then we have all these ruined decorations to redo.”

“I can help,” Alice blurted into the momentary silence.

The employees looked at her dubiously, Kyle included.

“I’m an experienced cake decorator,” she explained. “My best friend has a small bakery back home, and I’ve worked there off and on for several years.”

The catering manager shook her head. “The work we do is a few cuts above your average neighborhood bakery. But thanks, anyway.”

Alice looked down at her hands.

Kyle was sorry to see her being summarily rejected, but he couldn’t have a guest pitching in. PM wasn’t running a charity bake sale.

He drew her away from the employees. “That was nice of you to offer. Unnecessary, but nice.”

She lifted her face and he saw that she hadn’t been intimidated. She’d been practicing restraint. There was a stubbornness in her eyes. “I could do it, you know. I may not be a highly paid professional, but I’m not an amateur, either.”

“I’m sure.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t patronize me.”

The woman who’d arrived with Alice approached Kyle with her hand out. “Mr. Jarreau. Chloe Weston, hospitality.”

“Of course,” he said, as they shook hands. He recognized her from the previous evening, even though he hadn’t placed her by name. The resort employed a staff of two hundred. He met regularly only with the department heads.

“I apologize, sir. I don’t usually bring guests into the kitchen, but when Alice expressed a special interest, I thought this once it might be all right.”

“No, no. Not your fault,” he said, watching Alice, who’d left them to pick up a pastry bag from the worktable. With a few deft motions and turns of the wrist, she produced a puce rose exactly like those remaining on the trays. Rather than call attention to her accomplishment, she set the rose down, found an abandoned rolling pin and lump of lime-green fondant, and began to work again.

Noticing, the catering manager motioned to the assistant chef. They turned to watch as Alice carved pieces
out of the flattened fondant. She twisted them into shapes and carefully set them aside. They seemed like nothing special to Kyle, until he compared them to the remaining tray of delicate sprays of lime-green orchids and saw what they would become.

“You know what you’re doing,” the assistant chef observed.

Alice didn’t glance up. “That’s what I said.”

The chef pointed to the other assistant. “He’s Fred and I’m Rivka. Now that Chavez is gone, it appears I’m in charge.” She glanced at the other women for confirmation.

“Go right ahead,” the catering manager said.

“Be my guest,” the wedding coordinator chimed in.

“Hire her,” Fred urged. “We could use the help.”

“Impossible,” Kyle said to remind them of his presence. He was in charge. “Our guests don’t work.”

“No one asked me to.” Alice was matter-of-fact, continuing her activity without interruption. “I volunteered.”

“Nonetheless.” Even though Kyle knew he sounded pompous, he couldn’t stop himself. He never showed his sympathetic side in front of staff, in case they took advantage.

“I can’t allow it.” He turned a stern eye on his employees. They should know better. “There must be someone you can call in to help. It’s only a few sugar flowers.”

Alice made a “heh” sound.

“Yes, Mr. Jarreau.” Rivka’s forehead wrinkled. “Let me think. Julie’s on maternity leave and Alex just finished a double shift. They’re our top decorators. But I’ll manage.” Her gaze lingered on Alice’s efficient hands. “Somehow.”

Kyle walked to the door. “Miss Potter?”

She still hadn’t looked up. “Don’t interrupt me now.”

He hesitated.

He couldn’t
force
a guest to obey. But an employee…

With a sharp gesture, he waved over the catering manager. He dropped his voice. “Take care of this.”

“Yes, sir.”

He walked out, quite dignified, yet still with the uncomfortable feeling that his departure was more like Chef Chavez’s than he would have preferred.

In her own quiet way, Alice Potter had managed to undermine him. But damn if he didn’t sort of like that about her. She was unassuming but never obsequious. He was a man with her, not a boss.

That was a singular identity he’d set aside for far too long. And maybe
that
was what had kept him up since he’d seen her last.

“T
HERE WAS THE BRIDE
who insisted on bringing in her actual dress as a model,” said Rivka, the assistant pastry chef. “We had to pipe icing that matched her lace exactly. And I mean
exactly.
Down to the tiniest thread.”

“Ten straight hours of piping.” Fred, the other assistant, smoothed fondant over the replacement layer cake. “Your typical cake-decorating siege.”

“
Pfft. You
don’t pipe. My hands were cramped for days.” Rivka glanced up from the lilies she was shading with a minuscule brush and an artist’s palette of custom-mixed food coloring. She looked over Alice’s work on the sugar roses.

Alice allowed herself a moment to preen. After several of her flowers hadn’t passed muster and were unceremoniously scraped into the trash can, she’d learned fast. Rivka was a lot more exacting than Sue. The air-conditioned surroundings of gleaming stainless steel
were also a stark contrast to the musty back room of Suzy Q’s, where they produced their far more humble cakes on a scarred butcher-block table. The biggest job she’d ever worked on had been a five-tier cake for a society wedding reception held at the Whitecap Inn.

Rivka nodded. “You’re doing a good job for an…uh…”

“For an amateur,” Alice supplied. “You can say it. I don’t mind. Cake decorating is just something I picked up. It’s not my career.”

“What is, then?”

“I’m a schoolteacher.”

After moving in with her mother, Alice had relied on substitute teaching, taking jobs on the mainland whenever she could. But being a teacher was still a strong part of her identity.

She stifled a yawn and squeezed another cluster of rose petals out of the flat-tipped pastry bag. She was accustomed to monotony. But she’d always been careful to hide her boredom from her mother, a sweet soul who’d hated being trouble for others.

Alice yawned again and checked the clock. Almost midnight. So much for her plan to check out the resort’s nightlife. They’d been working on the cake for hours, long enough to stop worrying that Kyle Jarreau would return.

She’d insisted on staying.

Because they’d needed her, she told herself, stopping for a moment to stretch her arms. Just like her mother had needed her all those years. Or her brother, Jay, to step in and babysit his kids. And Susan Queeg, the friend who ran the bakery on a shoestring.

Alice was used to being needed. It was easy, even comfortable. Certainly much more comfortable for her than stepping into a nightclub on her own.

“You okay?” Rivka asked.

“Uh-huh.” Alice frowned. She’d fallen into old habits at the first opportunity. Here she was, backstage once again. Supporting, not participating.

“What’s that like—teaching?” Rivka had finished with the orchids and was now building the cake with Fred’s help. They were a Mutt-and-Jeff pair, Rivka short, round and bespectacled, Fred tall and skinny with a goatee and spiked hair, tinged purple. Or puce, as he’d pointed out, holding one of the roses to his chin for comparison.