Three

Clay looked from Miles to Oz and back. He frowned. “Explain.”

“I leave my kitchen for one minute and this puppy steps in and takes over, as if a pastry chef”—Chef Miles paused to sneer—“could even attempt to manage the demands of the main kitchen. I studied for years in the kitchens of the finest restaurants around the world.”

Mel glanced at Oz. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking unimpressed with Miles’s tantrum.

Clay opened his mouth to speak, but Miles wasn’t done. “And where did he train? Some silly little cupcake bakeshop in the tourist trap portion of the city under the tutelage of some woman who likely wouldn’t know a spatula from a garlic press—”

“Oh, now he’s done it,” Joe muttered. He maneuvered himself in between Angie and Miles, as if he could body-block her when she pounced. Mel prepared to dive into the fray as well. She didn’t even want to think about what Tate would have to say if his firecracker of a wife got into a brawl during her advanced months of pregnancy.

Angie, who was working her way through what looked like a lemon-filled cupcake, glanced up at them and asked, “What?”

“Nothing.” Joe shrugged. “Just, you know, making sure you’re not upset.”

“Why would I be upset?” Angie asked.

“Because we just got insulted,” Mel said. “Like really insulted.”

Angie blinked. Mel braced herself for her fiery friend to launch her attack. She didn’t. Instead, she looked past them at Chef Miles, tipped her head to the side, and said, “Meh.”

Mel glanced over her shoulder and saw Oz blinking in confusion. Loyal to the end, Angie never took insults to her friends well. In fact, if she even perceived a derogatory statement about someone she cared about, she delivered a stinging rebuke, sometimes accompanied by a physical takedown.

“You’re not even going to insult him back?” Oz asked in surprise.

Angie looked Chef Miles over again and shrugged. “He’s one of those types. You know, the ones who have an overinflated sense of their own worth. He’s not worth the time or effort.”

Gallway looked like he was about to pitch a fit, but Angie continued unperturbed.

“If every amazing woman had the confidence of a mediocre man”—she paused to give Chef Miles a dismissive look—“then whatever the silly man said to diminish the woman really wouldn’t matter, now, would it?”

Chef Miles sputtered and choked. “Who are you calling mediocre?”

Angie studied her cupcakes, not even bothering to look at him. “You,” she said.

“How dare you.” The chef drew himself up to his full height. “Do you know who I am?”

“The guy who had better not get spittle on my cupcakes or we’re going to have a problem,” Angie snapped.

Chef Miles must have seen something in her hard stare, because he toned it down immediately. It was the wise choice.

“Now, Miles, settle yourself,” Clay said. “Oz is still new here. Whatever he did, I’m sure it was an innocent mistake.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Oz said. He, too, drew himself up to his full height, which allowed him to loom over Miles. “You screamed and insulted your saucier and then stormed out of your kitchen right in the middle of prep. So, I stepped in and made tonight’s sauce using my own recipe because I didn’t have access to yours.”

“Oz, it is not okay to alter the chef de cuisine’s recipes,” Clay said. His tone was a gentle rebuke.

Oz shrugged. “Well, when the chef leaves the kitchen in a snit, you do what you can to help.”

Chef Miles held up the ladle under Clay’s nose. “Taste this. Tell me if you think this is fit to serve under the name Miles Gallway.”

Clay shrugged and dabbed his finger into the ladle. He popped his finger in his mouth and let the flavor of the sauce Oz had created with Sarah settle for a moment. Then he smiled and turned to Oz. “What did you put in there? It’s an excellent tomato sauce but there’s something different about it. I can’t put my finger on it.”

Ignoring Chef Miles, he dabbed the ladle for another taste. “It’s exotic and yet familiar.” He narrowed his eyes at Oz. “What is it? You have to tell me.”

“Cinnamon, allspice, and nutmeg,” Oz said. “A little bit of Greek influence.”

“Fantastic!”

“This is not my signature sauce,” Chef Miles snapped. “And the last time I checked this was my kitchen.”

Clay’s smile vanished and he nodded vigorously. “Quite right. Sorry, that flavor combination was just so intriguing. I could taste it on a nice linguine.”

“You can’t be serious!” Chef Miles blustered. “How can you even think of encouraging this thug in my kitchen?”

He emphasized the word thug and Mel was certain she could hear a soufflé collapse in the ensuing silence. Then Chef Miles decided to double down on the insults.

“You—” With his pointer finger Chef Miles jabbed Oz in the chest. The wall of muscle that was Oz did not budge. “You’re a child. Untried. Untested. Try doing more than slam out cakes and pastries in the safety of the pâtissier’s kitchen and then you can talk to me about how I manage mine.”

He sounded so superior. It chafed and Mel found herself rising to Oz’s defense even when she had promised herself she would stay out of it.

“I don’t know.” Mel shrugged. “As a Cordon Bleu graduate myself, I’d say he handled your kitchen just fine.”

Oz grinned at her and Angie nodded in approval. Joe put his hand around Mel’s waist in an obvious show of support that also signaled to Chef Miles not to come after her. Mel appreciated the gesture but she didn’t need backup. She’d dealt with a slew of Miles Gallways in the culinary industry. He could take his best shot and he still wouldn’t be able to rile her.

“I ought to quit,” Chef Miles declared. “That would show you! You don’t deserve the brilliance, the artistry, of Miles Gallway.”

Joe gagged. They all turned to look at him and he said, “Sorry, choked on some frosting.”

Given that he wasn’t eating at the moment; it was a flagrant fib. Miles, clearly not wanting to lose the momentum of his histrionics, ignored him.

“That would show you!” he declared. He scowled at Clay. “I’ll leave and then what will you do? You need me. You need my name recognition to make your tired old resort the hip and happening spot it is. You need me!”

Clay rocked back on his heels. He pushed his visor back on his head. He studied Miles for a beat or two and then he nodded slowly, as if coming to terms with what Miles said. “You’re right. You’re probably too big of a name for the Sun Dial. You likely have offers to be the executive chef in high-end restaurants all over the world. We can’t keep you here.”

Chef Miles looked uncertain for a moment. Clearly he’d been hoping he’d bring Clay to his knees by threatening to leave. Having Clay agree with him put him in an awkward spot, but he was in too far to back out now.

“It’s a shame, really,” Clay said. “I’ve got Simon Marconi coming into town from the Foodie Channel. He’s looking for the next big star. Of course, I told him you were here, and he thought maybe it was time for you to make your comeback, but if you’re out, you’re out.” He turned his back on Miles and looked at Oz. “Ever think of cooking on television, young man? You’ve got the skills.”

Oz’s eyes went wide with horror. “No. Never.”

Mel smiled. He was still her shy Urban Tech High School student at heart.

“Pity,” Clay said.

“Well, I can see you’re in a bind,” Miles said. His bluster vanished and with his free hand he smoothed the front of his chef’s coat—not the one he’d thrown on the floor, judging by its lack of stains—as if he were preparing to go into battle. “I suppose I’ll stay just to help you out. It wouldn’t do for me to leave and have the food be subpar in my absence.”

They all looked at him without speaking. How he had twisted the conversation to make it sound like he could save the day, Mel had no idea. And who did he think he was fooling with his abrupt one-eighty the minute the Foodie Channel was mentioned? It certainly wasn’t anyone in their group. Mercy, what an ego this guy had.

Miles looked at them expectantly and when no one said anything, he said, “You’re welcome.” Then he turned on his heel and stormed for the door. Once he reached it, he spun back around, pointed his ladle at Oz, and while tomato sauce dripped onto the floor, shouted, “And, you, stay out of my kitchen!”

The door swung shut behind him and Clay sighed. “What a horse’s ass he is.”

No one argued.

“I’m sorry he came after you, Oz,” Clay said. “Just try to steer clear of him. He’s a prima donna but he’s harmless and, sadly, I do need his name recognition to get butts into the restaurant chairs.”

“No worries,” Oz said. “We’re going to be slammed with events over the next few weeks, so Miles and I will be too busy to cross paths.”

“Excellent,” Clay said. He leaned back and studied Oz. He scratched his chin and said, “Are you sure you’re not interested in doing a spot on television? You’d be a smashing success.”

“No, thank you, but no,” Oz said. “That is not my scene, at all.”

“If you ever change your mind . . .” Clay let his words hang in the air. He clapped Oz on the back and left the kitchen.

“Who knew there was so much drama in the world of professional kitchens?” Angie asked. “I always thought that Foodie Channel stuff was made up to draw in the viewers.”

Oz shrugged. “There’s a lot of ego involved in the culinary arts.”

“Which is why I like running my own shop,” Mel said. “And our franchised bakeries can manage their own shops their own ways. No drama.”

She glanced at Oz to see if he had any reaction to her words. He did not. So frustrating.

“What is in this?” Joe asked. He had gotten back to the work at hand and was eating a chocolate cupcake with a peony frosting flower on top. His face had gone slack and he looked like was sliding into some sort of sublime sugar coma.

Oz smiled knowingly. “It’s my chocolate orange cupcake. Chocolate cake with orange buttercream with a handmade chocolate orange truffle tucked in the middle. It’s not bad.”

“Not bad?” Joe asked. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever—” He stopped speaking and glanced at Mel. He swallowed. “What I meant to say was—”

“Uh-huh, try and save yourself, big brother,” Angie said. She grinned and propped her chin on her hand, enjoying watching him squirm.

“It’s the best I’ve ever tasted that wasn’t Mel’s,” Joe said. He looked quite proud of himself.

Mel gave him a dubious look, then gently elbowed him aside and tucked her fork into the decadent flower-shaped frosting. It was so smooth, it looked sinful. She dug deep into the spongy chocolate cake, making sure she got a bit of the truffle as well. As the first bite touched her tongue, she thought her eyes might roll back into her head.

“Oz, that is the most amazing thing I’ve ever tasted,” she said. Sort of. It came out more like Owz, dat’s de mos amzing ding I’b eber dasded. The whole manners thing of not talking with your mouth full going right into the garbage bin as the truffle melted on her tongue, followed by the luscious cake and silky-smooth icing.

Mel dropped her fork. She grabbed Oz by the shirtfront. “What wizardry is this?”

Oz laughed. It was his first hearty laugh of the day and it made Mel feel better that he could laugh, given the hostile environment in which he was working. Not that it was any of her business, but still.

“All right, give it here,” Angie said. She pulled the plate in front of her and tucked her fork in. She took a bite and blinked. “Oh, wow, oh, my, that is . . . something.”

“See?” Joe asked.

He went to take the plate back but Angie held on to it. They started a sibling tug-of-war, which Oz ended by plating another two peony cupcakes and putting them in front of them. “I made plenty. Don’t make yourselves sick.”

Angie’s eyes lit up as she reached for the plate closest to her.

“So, what do you think?” Oz asked Mel. Joe had an opinion, of course, but they both knew Mel would be the deciding vote.

She glanced at the array of cupcakes. Oz had outdone himself.

“Let’s take a walk,” she said.

Joe and Angie both paused in their eating to look at her. She gave them a tiny nod to let them know it was all right. Relieved, they went back to eating.

“Okay,” Oz said.

He frowned in confusion but led the way out of the kitchen through a side door that opened up onto a patio that contained a small kitchen garden. Mel paused to take in the pots of herbs and small citrus trees. She glanced at Oz and he shrugged. “Fresh ingredients are best.”

She grinned. She always hit the Old Town farmers’ market, but having a kitchen garden was genius. Oz really was flourishing here.

He led the way onto a path that circled the resort. They walked side by side in silence until Oz finally asked, “If you didn’t like the cupcakes, you could have told me in front of Angie and Joe. I’m not that sensitive.”

“This isn’t about the cupcakes,” Mel said. Now that they were out of the kitchen, she wasn’t sure how to broach the subject. She was Oz’s former boss, his current landlord, and his friend. His life wasn’t any of her business, except that she cared about him.

“Oh, god, it isn’t Marty, is it?” he asked. He sounded panicked. “What’s wrong with him?”

“No.” Mel rushed to reassure him. “Marty’s fine. Everyone is fine.”

“Oh.” Oz gave her a side eye and she could see the confusion on his face.

“Are you happy here, Oz?” she asked. They paused beside the golf course. The sweep of green lawn rippled all the way to the edge of the rough-and-tumble desert beyond.

“I don’t know if happy is the word I would use,” he said.

“It should be,” Mel said.

“Should it?” he asked. He turned and squinted out across the meticulously groomed fairway. “Isn’t there a certain amount of paying your dues that you have to do when you start out? You know, time in, punishment served, and all of that?”

Mel considered the question. She had so despised her postcollege career path in marketing that she’d saved a chunk of money and dumped it all into attending cooking school, which had included a semester in Paris. When she’d returned, she’d worked a few jobs in professional kitchens and hated it. When her friend Tate had offered to stake her in her own bakery, she’d jumped at the chance.

“I suppose it doesn’t hurt to know what not to do,” she said. “It seems like Miles Gallway has given you an exemplary hands-on lesson in that.”

Oz snorted but he didn’t confirm or deny. Mel wanted to ask a million questions. She wanted to butt right into his business, but she held herself back. Oz was a grown-up and if he wanted her advice, he’d ask for it.

“He’s not so bad,” Oz said. He didn’t sound very convincing.

Mel snapped her head in his direction. She pressed her lips together to keep from saying anything when what she wanted to do was blast him with a What?!

Oz met her gaze and said, “All right, let it out before you hurt yourself.”

“He’s awful!” Mel said. “I know his type. He’s a bully and he enjoys running his kitchen by making everyone afraid. He wields his authority like a weapon and it sucks, sucks, sucks.”

“Don’t hold back,” Oz said. “Say what you think.”

“He’s puffy and I noticed his hands shake,” Mel said. “Closet drinker, there. And why do you think he screamed at Sarah? Youngest and female, easy pickin’s. Oh, I know his type, all right. You should steer clear of him. You’ve made an enemy and I’m betting he’ll do something to exact revenge. His sort always does.”

“He’s like half my size,” Oz protested. “What exactly could he do?”

“Ruin your kitchen,” Mel said. “You want rats in your pantry?”

Oz’s eyes went huge and he shuddered.

“He’ll do it,” she insisted. “Trust me, I’ve seen that kind of behavior before. Petty and mean.”

Oz glanced back at the resort. He looked mildly panicked.

“He’s not going to do it now,” she said. “But seriously, watch your back.”

“Noted.” He studied the features of the mid-century modern resort with its molded cement work and natural stone. “You know, I just wanted to have my own kitchen. I wanted to be the boss, prove myself, and start experimenting with my own desserts.”

“That chocolate orange truffle cupcake was a heck of a start,” she said.

Oz smiled. “But this”—he paused and gestured at the building with his hands—“this drama festival was way more than I bargained on.”

“You were right before. There is tremendous ego in the culinary arts,” Mel said. “It’s changing as abusers get called out, but chefs like Miles Gallway will always think that they are lord and master over their kitchen staff, and because you’re kitchen adjacent and technically under his executive management, he thinks you’re his whipping boy, too. That’s why he was so furious when you stepped up in his kitchen.”

“What was I supposed to do? Let Mr. Perry down by letting dinner get ruined?” Oz seemed genuinely perplexed.

“I don’t think that would have happened,” Mel said. “The thing about chefs and their egos? They can’t have their reputation tarnished by serving a bad meal. Miles stormed off, like a kid who gets tagged out and then quits the game, but he fully expected everyone to come and beg him to come back to the kitchen because they couldn’t function without him. You proved that they could, and he’ll never forgive you for that.”

“Snap,” Oz said. “Do you really think he’ll put rats in my pantry?”

“Or weevils in your flour,” Mel said. “It might not be rats in the pantry, could be pantry moths. Or he’ll ruin you in other ways, like arranging a power outage during a big bake.”

“Why?” Oz asked. He was genuinely puzzled. “Aren’t we all trying to represent the resort kitchen in its best possible light?”

“Ego,” Mel said. “Never underestimate the ego of some chefs.”

Oz shook his head. “Let’s go. I keep the pantry locked with the key on the doorframe above, but I think I need to hit the store and buy some heavy-duty plastic storage containers. I can’t have critters in my pantry.”

They walked back towards the resort. “Oz, you don’t think Miles would go off the deep end and try to hurt you, do you?”

Oz blew out a breath as if he’d been considering it but was holding it in until Mel said something first, allowing him to let it out. “I honestly don’t know.”