Total pages in book: 199
Estimated words: 192134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 961(@200wpm)___ 769(@250wpm)___ 640(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 192134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 961(@200wpm)___ 769(@250wpm)___ 640(@300wpm)
It smells fantastic and looks pretty enough for a centerfold shot in Bon Appétit magazine.
The scones and shortbread cookies, of course, I’ve made countless times, but the lemon infused cream was a new adventure—and a tricky one. If you don’t get the measurements exactly right, the lemon will curdle the cream instead of leaving it delightfully zested.
But my cream is fucking gorgeous, perched like a cloud atop my perfect strawberry filling—not too liquid, not too dry.
I’m about to whip out my phone to document my beauty for the shop’s social media when Gigi shrieks, “Willow! Fire! You’re on fire!”
I whip my gaze to the right.
Oh, bloody hell.
Flame dances up the strings on Willow’s apron. A ridiculously fast-moving flame.
“Oh.” The tiny woman’s eyes go wide, but she doesn’t move to extinguish the flames. She simply presses both hands to her face and shouts, “Oh, no,” in a slightly louder voice.
Instinct kicks in, replacing panic. There’s no room for anything but swift, efficient action.
I drop my phone on my counter, grab a damp towel, and rush to Willow’s station, arriving just as Gigi slides over the top of her counter to land beside the frozen woman.
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.