Chapter Forty-Five

We’re not going to New York tonight.

Braden’s text is short and succinct and reiterates that he has work to do here in Boston.

I’m sitting on my couch having a pity party when I remember—

I have to do my first post for the Susie Girl line today!

Fuck. I’m about ready to destroy everything for this pity party. Of course, I literally just lost my best friend. We’re “on a break.” How cliché.

Still, I signed a contract. I have a job to do.

The cosmetics and skin-care products are still spread out on my table where I left them yesterday after opening the package. My new camera from Braden sits next to them. I haven’t yet tried the camera. Today’s the day. But first the Susanne post.

I choose a lip gloss and apply it. I’m still in my yoga clothes, and I wish I were still at the studio. The photo would be better there.

What the heck?

New camera in tow, I head back to the studio. If only I’d thought of this earlier…but I was in the middle of best-friend drama.

It’s getting to be late afternoon, but two classes are still in session. One is hot yoga, which I hate. Sweating my ass off won’t make for a good Instagram post.

The other is prenatal yoga, also not a good look on me.

Instead, I walk into the locker room and do the post there.

Sheer lip gloss in Honey Glaze by @susiegirlcosmetics is perfect after a yoga class! #sponsored #yoga #lipgloss #susiegirl

Not the most exciting copy I’ve ever written, but I want to be done. I edit the photo quickly and post.

Okay, that’s done. Braden and I don’t have dinner plans.

I sigh.

I miss Tessa. I mean really miss her, as if I’ve lost a limb. We hardly ever go a week without seeing each other, and we usually talk daily.

It’s only been a few hours, and I feel the loss acutely.

Still in my yoga clothes, I grab my purse and the new camera. I walk along the street, shooting candids, which always puts me in a good mood.

It doesn’t today, though. Shooting photos with my dream camera isn’t helping my state of mind.

But I know what might.

Thirty minutes later, I’m outside Braden’s building. It’s Saturday, nearly dinnertime, and I have no idea if my boyfriend is even home. I inhale deeply, smile at the doorman, and walk into the building. I head straight for Braden’s private elevator and press the button.

“Yes?” Christopher’s voice over the intercom.

Good. If Christopher is home, Braden probably is as well.

“Hi, Christopher. It’s Skye.”

“Is Mr. Black expecting you?”

“Probably not. Is he there?”

“Yes. He’s on a call in his office.”

“May I come up?”

“Let me check with him.”

I look at my watch. It’s a little after four. On a Saturday. But Braden’s business doesn’t have regular hours, as I learned last weekend.

I wait.

And I wait.

Ten minutes later, the elevator doors open, and Christopher stands before me. “Come on up, Ms. Manning.”

I step into the elevator, my nerves on edge. “It’s Skye, Christopher. Skye.”

“Skye.” He clears his throat. “Of course.”

We ride up to the penthouse without saying anything more until we arrive. Penny and Sasha run to greet me, and I kneel down and accept their happy puppy kisses.

“What good girls!” I pet them both and then pull Penny into my arms. She’s a bit heavier. Soon she’ll be as big as Sasha. “Have you been good for Christopher?” I kiss her soft head.

“She’s a good pup,” he says. “Accidents here and there, though.”

“She’s just a baby. She’ll learn.”

Penny squirms out of my arms to roughhouse with Sasha.

“Mr. Black is still on his call,” Christopher says. “You may wait wherever you like.”

“Do you know how long he’ll be?” I ask.

“I don’t. Make yourself at home.”

Okay, then. I walk into the kitchen. “Hi, Marilyn.”

“Ms. Manning.”

“Please. Skye.”

She nods. “I’m getting ready to prepare Mr. Black’s evening meal. Will you be joining him?”

Will I?

“Sure,” I say. “Why not?” Then an idea pops into my head. “In fact, I’d like to cook for him tonight. Why don’t you take the night off?”

Her eyebrows rise.

“I can cook, you know.”

“I’m sure you can, but Mr. Black asked for his dinner at six p.m. tonight. Sharp.”

“That gives me almost two hours. I think I can scare up something by then.” I whisk past her and open the freezer. I pull out a bag. “Shrimp. Perfect. I make a mean étouffée.”

“Skye—”

“Please. I want to do this for him.” I open the refrigerator. Onion, check. Garlic, check. Celery, check. No green pepper, though. “I need to run to the store,” I tell Marilyn.

“What do you need? I’ll have Christopher pick it up.”

Even better. I make a quick list on my phone. “I can text him the list. What’s his number?”

I enter the digits as she gives them to me, and then I press send.

He texts back. I’m on it.

I text a thumbs-up and thank you and get back to my kitchen.

Except it isn’t my kitchen.

But tonight it will be.

Tonight, I’ll prepare dinner for my boyfriend. I’m no gourmet, but I have a decent repertoire. All he’s had so far is my leftover beef stew. We’re in a relationship. I should be able to cook for him.

Plus, it gives me something to do to get my mind off Tessa.

And to get my mind off my post from earlier. I’m not satisfied with it. It was quick, and I gave it almost no thought whatsoever.

I need to up my game.

Yeah, I’m under contract and will get paid for three months no matter what, but I’ve never half-assed anything in my life.

And I half-assed that post.

That first post.

I wish I could delete it and begin again, but I already have over five thousand likes, which has earned me another fifty bucks. I’m up to nearly fifty thousand followers, and they’re responding.

Still, I feel like I did a half-assed job.

No longer.

Tomorrow’s post will be perfect. Three posts per week. I’ll do Wednesday, Saturday, and Sunday. People are more active on social media on the weekends.

Plus, I need to do regular posts as well. The public needs to see me as a real person, not just as the face of Susie Girl.

What better way to do that than to show them as I cook a meal?

Addison is right. I’m the face of discount cosmetics. Oh well. I can at least be a normal person, right? Maybe that’s the key. If a nobody like me can win the heart of Braden Black, anyone can.

Ugh. Not a good thought. I erase it from my mind.

Now, on to dinner.

Problem number one—I have no idea where anything is in Braden’s kitchen.

I open my mouth to call for Marilyn but then decide against it. I’ll find everything myself. Sure, it’ll take me longer, but what the heck? I open and close cupboards until I find what I’m looking for.

The food processer.

Of course Braden has a top-of-the-line Cuisinart.

I plug in the appliance and mince my celery and onion. Into a cast-iron skillet they go, along with a stick of butter.

Yeah, shrimp étouffée isn’t exactly good for the cholesterol, but it’s delicious. A recipe I learned from my mother, who loves Cajun cooking. She’s a wonderful cook and baker.

God, my mother.

I really do have to tell her and my father what’s going on in my life.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow is Sunday. I’ll give them a call.

For now, I’ll concentrate on this amazing meal I’m making for Braden.

I snap a photo of the celery and onion simmering in the cast-iron pan. I’ll document the process in pictures, right up to the finished product. At least my followers will have something interesting to see tonight, since my Susie Girl post is bound to flop.

I can’t begin the étouffée until Christopher returns with the peppers, so I get out the eggs and cream for the chocolate mousse I plan for dessert. In the corner is a KitchenAid stand mixer. Now, where is the whip? I open drawer after drawer until I find it. Then I separate the eggs and whip the whites. I snap another photo.

Christopher returns with my groceries, and I melt the semisweet chocolate in a double boiler over low heat. Once it’s cooled, I add the cream, a touch of vanilla, and then fold it into the egg whites.

I smile. My mousse turns out perfectly fluffy…and delicious after a taste test. I gently spoon it into parfait glasses, snap a quick pic, and set them back in the refrigerator.

Back to my étouffée. I rinse, cut, and process the peppers, and then add them to the skillet. Time to turn on the heat. While my étouffée sauce is cooking and reducing, I snap a photo. Then I open the door to the walk-in pantry and find a bag of long-grain rice.

Mmm. The aroma of my étouffée makes my mouth water.

I’m pleased with myself.

And that’s a welcome feeling after most of today.

Marilyn pops her head into the kitchen. “Smells amazing! Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Thanks, but no.” I want this to be my gift to Braden this evening.

Now, for a wine with dinner…

Braden has a refrigerated wine cabinet in the kitchen and a wine rack in the dining room. Maybe I need Marilyn’s help after all. I’m not sure how to choose a wine. I tend to drink red with everything, but Braden did order a white with our oysters and seafood the first time we dined together. Perhaps he’d prefer white with shrimp.

I run my fingertips over the green bottles in the wine rack. Syrah. Too dark for shrimp. Beaujolais. That’s a light red that’s drunk young. Could work, but I’m not sure.

Light bulb moment.

I’ll ask Braden to choose the wine.

Perfect.

But we’ll start with Wild Turkey neat, of course.

Crap! That means I should have an appetizer with the bourbon.

Back to the kitchen, where I rummage through the pantry while my étouffée simmers. What will go nicely with my spicy entree? It’s not like I have the ingredients to make alligator bites or boudin balls, and I don’t even like the latter.

A bag of raw almonds catches my eye. Perfect. I’ll pan roast them with some Cajun seasoning, and they’ll be delicious with our Wild Turkey.

I find another pan, begin the process, and then check the étouffée. It’s ready for the shrimp. I add it, give everything a quick stir, and let it continue to simmer. Time to begin the rice, as well. I snap two more photos.

Ten minutes later, dinner is nearly complete.

Braden has yet to make an appearance. I check my watch. Ten until six. Marilyn said he wanted his dinner at six, so he should be coming out of his office shortly.

My heart skips.

Will he be pleased with the meal? With me?

He loves me, but he’s so hard to read sometimes.

Correction—all the time. Except in the bedroom.

The bedroom, where I’ve given him my control.

And even then, I never quite know for sure.

I sigh.

Nothing more to do. Dinner is warming on the stove and is ready to be served. One more photo of the étouffé when I plate it, and then I’ll post the series.

I look down at myself.

I’m still in my yoga outfit, and because I neglected to find an apron, I have spatters down the front of me.

Great.

I regard my watch again.

Five minutes until six.

Time to race up to my room on the second floor and hope I find something I can change into.