including the traditional fish, pork, and beef entrees,” Lucinda added.
“Traditional. Of course.” Lexi reached out, intending to pick up the menu, which ChiChi seemed so insistent that she hold, but only managed to trace a shaky finger across its bottom edge, fearful that if she actually grasped the book it would go off like a live grenade, demolishing all creativity and culinary ability in a seven-mile radius—and all of the progress she’d made last night.
She looked at her beautiful dish, with its bright-orange drizzles and brilliant-green mousse, and straightened her shoulders. Abby was right. It was her life. Her cooking. Her clean slate.
“I was actually going to play with the menu a little. Update it. Take the traditional and make it retro.”
“Retro?” ChiChi said, her face going white.
“Yes, a remodeled menu for a remodeled venue.” And a remodeled me.
“Remodel this—”
“Why, Lexi—” her grandmother intercepted Lucinda, who was moving toward Lexi at an alarming pace. “A little updating would be nice.” Pricilla shot a reprimanding glance at her two cohorts before giving Lexi a placating smile. It was the same smile Lexi had received when she was nine and told Pricilla she wanted to add mango to her summer tarts. “What a great idea. Perhaps salmon instead of the cod.”
Lucinda nodded.
ChiChi forced out, “Salmon sounds lovely.”
Lexi snorted. It did not sound lovely. It sounded safe, boring, the kind of thing one would expect at a catered event. And salmon was even worse than cod for a large group. It was a fish that needed to be cooked to order, freshly prepared and immediately served. Not poached in mass quantity only to sit in a lukewarm bath of milk sauce.
“But I wouldn’t go too far,” Lucinda warned. “The other girls received their menus last week. And I know that they are thrilled by the opportunity to pay tribute to the history behind these dishes.”
“Other girls?” Lexi gasped. “Abby made it sound like the job was mine if I wanted it.”
“She is just confident in your ability. We all are,” ChiChi soothed, patting her hand. But the gesture wasn’t soothing. Nor was the presence of all three grannies smiling serenely at her over oval-rimmed glasses.
Lexi knew that getting the Daughters of the Prohibition to agree on a different menu, one that used the traditional ingredients with a fresh spin, would be a challenge. But she had no idea that she’d have to audition for the job against other caterers who were content to ruin a delicate fish by boiling it in milk.
“Don’t worry,” Pricilla said. “None of these girls have your training or palate. The tasting is merely a formality.”
“Formality my butt,” Lexi mumbled after the grannies left. Who needed training or a palate when the recipe was so explicitly detailed, complete with a diagram showing how the fish should be placed atop a bed of five balanced asparagus spears and at a forty-five-degree angle to the half cup of whipped mash?
Bo Brock’s hotel reservation had been canceled. Marc hoped to hell it was some kind of glitch and not his celebrity judge pulling out. But the fact that he wasn’t returning any of Marc’s calls felt like a rock in his gut.
Marc pulled up a fresh e-mail and began typing, outlining the exact terms of their agreed-upon contract, when a light flicked on across the alley. He turned in his chair just as a figure walked across the room toward the stove, drawing him in. A figure with really great boobs, wavy blonde hair, and an ass that had kept him awake all week.
Gone were the pajama bottoms and stained tank from earlier. In their place she wore a slinky red top that dipped way down in the front, and he wasn’t sure if she was wearing slacks or jeans, didn’t care. They looked damn sexy on her. They also covered her bare feet, which she was currently slipping into a pair of red strappy heels, helpfully bending over to give him a great view of her lacy bra that made looking away damn difficult.
She fastened the shoes around her slim ankles and picked up a bottle of—well, shit, that girl had guts—Pricilla’s homebrew. She hopped up on the counter, then poured a cup, a full cup, and went to take a sip, then stopped. She glanced out the window and, before he could turn back to his computer, looked right at him. Then she did the damndest thing—she lifted her glass in salute, offered up a sad smile, and drained the