Imperfectly Delicious (Imperfect Series #6) - Mary Frame Page 0,37
the fondant tops, standing next to each other, each of us pressing out a roll on the counter to get it stretched and pliant.
“I’m sorry about the salt thing,” I say.
She glances over at me, stopping her rolling efforts to stare, her pink mouth popped open in surprise.
“Fred helped me, but it’s my fault. It was my idea. And I wouldn’t have done it if I had known you wouldn’t taste the first batch.”
She shrugs. “It’s okay. I normally taste test, but I was…distracted, I guess. And you’re making up for it now.”
We get caught in each other’s gaze again but this time I yank my eyes away, rolling out my fondant with renewed vigor.
She hands me some of the stencils and I get to work cutting and tracing with a precision cutter while she continues rolling out some black fondant.
“So, when are you opening the rest of this building?”
“There’s still some construction here in the dining area, you probably noticed on your way in. But it should be opened by the end of the month. It’s going to be a whole experience for diners, from the sweet to the savory.”
She bites her lip and I squash down the tension filling my gut. I don’t like that she’s uneasy about our situation, even though it shouldn’t bother me. It’s business. That’s it. But still. Maybe I should use this opportunity to needle her and make her even more uncomfortable. But I can’t. Instead, I change the subject.
“What made you decide to start a food truck?”
She clears her throat and focuses on stenciling shapes from her black fondant. I watch her work, appreciating her form and her toned arms. Not really surprising considering her job. Her movements are surprisingly efficient. She’s surprisingly efficient. Except for the flour on her shoulder. “Well, mostly I was having trouble finding a job at a real restaurant because I set a pretty influential chef on fire.”
I rub the back of my neck in chagrin. “And he told everyone? What a dick.”
She bursts out laughing and I feel a thousand times better.
“It was a lot harder than I thought it would be. There’s a lack of available space, you know.”
“I hadn’t heard,” I say drily.
She smiles. “It’s more than that, though. The permit process is a nightmare. Did you know they only give out a certain number, a little over 4,000, and they haven’t adjusted the available amount since 1980. So, there’s a huge waiting list. You may not have to wait though, if you’re willing to spend $20,000.00 to get a black-market permit. On top of that, there are excessive regulations for where and when you can park, and you have to follow all the appropriate health code regulations, which means being inspected and storing everything in a commissary overnight.”
The timers go off and we remove the tins and set them out to cool, putting in another batch while we continue to work on the tops.
Through all of this, part of my mind stews over our situation. If only there was a way to tie in her food truck with the rest of the block…. But no. It would never work. The theme is completely off, and Oliver will never agree. He’s a sophist when it comes to details, and yet surprisingly superstitious. If it’s not effortless, he thinks it’s a sign that it’s not meant to be. For a brilliant rich guy, he’s also somewhat absurd.
The cakes cool and we continue to work together, piping frosting onto each small cake and meticulously pressing the fondant tops on hundreds and hundreds of times over. Time passes in a whir of activity, and then suddenly—we’re done.
She watches me set the final cupcake into the plastic clamshell container, ready to be transported to….
“Where’s the wedding at?” I ask her.
“Bay Room.”
“I’ll have these shipped over in the morning so they can be there for you to set up the display whenever you need to.” I turn to face her. She’s leaning one side against the counter and I mimic her stance.
“Are you sure?” There’s a crease between her brows and gray smudges underneath her eyes. She’s got to be exhausted.
My eyes wander over her features. She has a little bit of white frosting stuck to the side of her bottom lip. “You can trust me. I wouldn’t turn this into a prank, not after all that work.”
I glance over at the clock. It’s a bit after midnight. Not too shabby.