Chapter Two

The Maidstone Club, East Hampton, New York
One year and two months ago
June
Saturday
3 p.m., give or take

The Anderson wedding was tanking.

It wasn’t because the bride was a ’zilla, or the groom had cold feet. It wasn’t the work of an obnoxious mother-in-law or a spiteful stepsister. No meddling ex-lovers were waiting in the wings, ready to spill salacious secrets during the best man’s toast. Even the weather was idyllic, and the twelve-piece band stood ready with the perfect playlist to get the whitest of the white practicing their funky chicken. The ceremony was at this very moment going off with precisely the proper amount of hitching, the happy couple sniffling sentimentally through vows they’d written themselves as their friends and loved ones looked on, beaming beneficently.

But though they weren't yet aware of it, the whole honking show was sinking faster than the Titanic upon hitting a Love Boat–sized ’berg.

And it was all the fault of one person.

The pastry chef was drunk as a skunk.

She was also, apparently, in a meat locker.

With Lorenzo the busboy.

And very little clothing on.

Helluva time for one of my blackouts, Sera thought woozily. Worse time to come out of one. How did I get myself into this mess?

She remembered snagging a bottle of vodka from the service bar. She remembered drinking to her soon-to-be ex-boyfriend’s ill health—more than once. More than five or six times, probably. And she remembered catching sight of the teenaged Enzo, who had been making eyes at her ever since signing on to their catering company a couple months back. She had a vague image of herself crooking a finger at the kid, like some floozy in a Mae West movie. After that, things got a little hazy. But clearly, there’d been some disrobing going on. And some hanky-panky, if the tongue currently licking her left earlobe was anything to go by. But this was no place she’d ever have chosen for a seduction, if the booze hadn’t been doing the choosing for her.

Holy frozen buns, Batman, it’s cold as the center of a Baked Alaska in here.

The brushed steel walls were rimed in frost. Trays of hors d’oeuvres, tubs of sauces, and carts of canapés practically shivered on the shelves. Her breath was coming out in puffs of eighty-proof steam, and her increasingly exposed skin was all gooseflesh. Her meat locker compadre, however, was quite obviously not chilling out. In fact, he was rather on fire, if his hot hands and hotter lips were any indication.

Oh, God. What if my boyfriend finds us? she thought. Horror sobered her up, and fast. The door didn’t lock… and half the food for the wedding was stored in here. Any second someone from the staff was sure to walk in, if not her boyfriend himself.

Said boyfriend, however, had other priorities.

*  *  *

“Where are my shrimp cocktails? What the fuck did you clowns do with four hundred shrimp cocktails? And why the hell didn’t anybody warn me the avocados were hard as a stone?”

The person so politely inquiring was celebrity chef and society caterer extraordinaire Blake Austin. He was not drunk. But boy, was he pissed.

“Who is responsible for this atrocity!” Austin wheeled around in the country club's gleaming industrial kitchen, his glare hotter than a brûlée torch. As executive chef of a Manhattan restaurant so sophisticated one’s taste buds needed a graduate degree to properly appreciate its cuisine, as well as a frequent guest on the Food Channel’s Hot Chef!, he inspired instant obedience in any kitchen he commanded. A dozen frozen faces were caught in his headlights, like deer in chef’s whites.

The tall, reedy chef de partie piped up timidly, “Ah, Chef, I think you put Serafina on shrimp-and-guac duty since she was done with the cake and desserts.”

“Then where is Serafina?” roared Austin, glaring about. “Produce Serafina Wilde before me in the next ten seconds or explain why you cannot!” He waved a filleting knife with reckless abandon to emphasize his point. “Why can none of you troglodytes accommodate this simple request?” he mused, taking his wrath down a degree from rolling boil to simmer. He shook his leonine head in disgust. “Why do I bother? I might as well ask Paula Deen to cook without Crisco as expect you twits to give me a straight answer.”

“Um, Chef?” squeaked the quaking commis chef, raising his hand.

“Um, yes?” mocked Blake. “Have you found the balls to speak up, peon? Because you’re clearly not wearing them.”

The unfortunate commis gulped, wavering on his feet as though debating whether to bolt or pass out on the spot. “I… ah… I think I saw her headed for the walk-in with that new busboy Lorenzo, um… a few minutes ago?”

“Well, then, why have none of you worthless fart knockers seen fit to fetch her lazy arse? And no, that wasn’t a rhetorical question!”

A snide, rawboned girl (who had endeared herself to no one with her attempts to seduce Austin into advancing her from her lowly position in vegetable prep) stepped forward. “Chef, she didn’t exactly look like she’d appreciate an interruption, if you know what I mean.” The girl crossed her arms over her chest and smirked, ignoring the glares from the crew for her disloyalty to a fellow cook. Especially when that fellow cook was Blake Austin’s long-suffering girlfriend. No one liked a kitchen snitch.

Even if the snitch was right.

*  *  *

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoaaaa!”

With one Godzilla versus Tokyo collision, Sera’s half-frozen derriere obliterated the fish-shaped savory sculpture it had taken the poissonier hours to perfect. Cold, rich puree of smoked salmon squished between her cheeks, and behind her, Sera heard a crash as an enormous platter of hors d’oeuvres went down. The close metal walls of the walk-in rang as if they were under artillery fire as cutlery and trays flew. But it was what loomed above her that had really gotten out of control.

Lorenzo was in the zone. And if Sera couldn’t intercept him, he was about to score. Enzo groaned, mashing both of them deeper into the carnage of the carefully arranged appetizers atop the locker’s small prep station and grinding for all he was worth. Hot, adolescent kisses were raining down on her neck and shoulders, her heavy cotton chef’s blouse was unbuttoned halfway down her chest, and her bra was migrating south alarmingly quickly under the direction of his busy fingers.

Clearly, she’d been rather persuasive when she’d invited him in here. Wish I had that kind of charisma when I was fully conscious, Sera thought ruefully. “Enzo… we need to stop before someone walks in,” she panted, trying to catch her breath and simultaneously capture Lorenzo’s hands before they could denude her further. But Enzo’s English wasn’t so hot, and in any case he wasn’t in much of a mind-set to hear about her change of heart just now. “Esperar… basta, basta!” she pleaded breathlessly, wondering if she even had the Spanish words right.

Maybe if I was a better lover, a better girlfriend, I wouldn’t be in this situation to begin with, she thought with a rush of panicky regret. Sera’s breath caught in a sudden sob. Maybe Blake wouldn’t have…

But he had.

She’d stumbled on the pectorally enhanced blond hostess of the Food Channel’s Hot Chef! going down on her boyfriend in the storage pantry of their flagship restaurant last night, and she hadn’t been sober since. Last night, she’d drunk to ease her hurt. Hell, she’d drunk because drinking was her go-to pain reliever in pretty much every situation. This morning, hungover and humiliated, being forced to work with Blake—looking fresh as the proverbial daisy and smug as shit—had had her reaching for another bottle, and damn the early hour. But it didn’t seem to matter how much she guzzled—the sight of that skank sporting one of Sera’s own chef’s caps as her head bobbed rhythmically with her oral ministrations was a bitter gall that wouldn’t wash away.

Worst of all, Blake had merely shrugged when she’d confronted him later that night, humiliated and furious. “What did you expect, Serafina?” he’d said with a philosophical shrug. “Someone with your… issues… could never keep a man like me satisfied for long.”

The last of Sera’s illusions—that Blake was all bluster, a demanding perfectionist but more driven than truly cruel—died in that moment.

Hot Chef? Stone-cold bastard was more like it.

And I think… maybe I’m being a bit of a bitch myself right now—to poor Enzo if not to Blake, Sera realized, suddenly shamed. It was coming back to her now. She’d invited the eighteen-year-old Lorenzo, who had made no secret of his crush on her these past couple months, to this chilly rendezvous out of some vague notion of payback. If Blake can make out in the kitchen right under my nose, why shouldn’t I do the same? Serve the chef some of his own sauce; see how he likes it, she’d thought with a spurt of juvenile spite. But all the time another part of her had been thinking, wishfully… Maybe he’ll be jealous; regret what he’s done?

Dumb ploy, Sera. Really, magnificently, dumb.

Enzo didn’t seem to think so. Her pants, thanks to his efforts, were puddled around her ankles, and the lusty busboy had only his jockey shorts going for him at the moment. Smashed salmon paste caused Sera to slide precariously atop the marble-topped prep station, threatening to topple them both to the floor in fishy disgrace. As if this wasn’t enough of a mistake, she thought, wincing. Nothing says “oops” like your naked ass skidding in the salmon mousse.

She’d met Blake over mousse, as a matter of fact, though it had been chocolate, not salmon, back then.

It was Sera’s final semester at the French Culinary Institute, and she was just a credit or so shy of graduation. She was also deeply, alarmingly in debt and facing a future of pitiful pay and ungodly hours for the next several years—a purgatory known in the industry as “paying your dues.” She’d made her peace with that, though it meant putting off her dream of starting her own line of custom cakes and confections until she was more established. But in order to get established, she’d have to land that all-important first job.

Blake Austin had the power to offer her that. Those who worked in his kitchens… well, they could write their own tickets—if they survived the experience. It was whispered that not everyone did.

“He looks like Gabriel Byrne,” her friend Mindy murmured in her ear as they held up the wall in the institute’s test kitchen, making themselves inconspicuous. “With a little Colin Farrell mixed in.” She said this with none of the sighing or breathlessness such an observation might be expected to engender. Rather, her tone was clinical.

Mindy was a butcher. Big, burly, with a nostril ring and short, spiky bleached blond hair, she was prone to wearing T-shirts with logos like “Meat Is Murder… Tasty, Tasty Murder” under her bloodstained aprons. She could butterfly a veal chop in seconds flat, make you a sweet Italian sausage fit to weep over, or cut you a chateaubriand that would have your guests offering you sexual favors for life. But she couldn’t care less about sweets. She was only in this class to fill out her requirements. Thus, she alone among the twenty or so students assembled in front of their final projects failed to tremble at the palate of the great Blake Austin, who had deigned to drop in on this class—on the condition, it was rumored, that he got to poach the best student for his newest restaurant venture.

“Shite!” A fork ricocheted from the nearest sink. “Absolute shite. You call this a torte? My aunt Sally could shit a better torte, and she’s been dead seven years! Get out of my sight.”

One by one, her classmates were dismissed and humiliated. By the time it was Sera’s turn to be critiqued, she was sweating, nauseated, and not at all sure she wasn’t about to faint. When Austin’s spoon dipped into the deceptively simple triple chocolate mousse she’d concocted, it felt like he was delving into her soul. But would he find it wanting?

“Hm,” he grunted. “Hm, hm, hm.” Cunning black eyes skewered Serafina, and she felt herself grow warm unexpectedly. “Is that… cardamom I taste?” One arched brow cocked itself, as though almost too weary to complete the gesture, but was making a special exception for her.

Sera nodded, her tongue glued to the roof of her mouth. She’d added the spice to the white chocolate layer at the last second, wanting just a hint of the exotic to linger on the tongue.

“And do I detect a soupçon of… what, is that, orange essence… in the bittersweet?”

“Ah… yes, Chef.”

There was a pause, during which Serafina died several times.

“Bloody brilliant,” he proclaimed. “I don’t mind telling you, when I caught sight of that mousse, I thought I might perish from sheer boredom—I mean, really, who makes chocolate mousse anymore? But you’ve surprised me, and that doesn’t happen often. Damned if you haven’t completely reinvented the dish. It’s like you’ve perfumed the air around the mousse, the spice is done with such a light touch. And yet it adds ten dimensions to the taste. And the texture. Fuck me, but I’ve never had a mousse so bloody delightful. It’s like getting blown by a thousand-dollar hooker, that mousse is. Makes you beg for it. You—what’s your name, little bird?”

“S-S-Serafina, Chef,” Sera stuttered, oblivious to both the envious glares of her classmates and Mindy’s alarmed gaze.

“Sera-fucking-fina. Bloody brilliant. Well, Serafina”—he drew her name out like he was licking it off the spoon he still held—“they’re going to be begging for you at my new restaurant. So what do you say, girl? Are you in?”

And in a quavering voice, Sera had said she was.

She’d said the same when he’d asked if she was game for a quickie.

Somehow, she hadn’t said no to anything since.

She’d signed a contract to be Blake’s executive pastry chef, and her life had never been the same. Her career had taken off, her name and fame spreading throughout Manhattan’s culinary circles. When he’d suggested branching out into socialite weddings and celebrity events, she’d been one hundred percent on board—not so much because she liked rubbing elbows with the rich and famous but because those were the people who had the disposable income to pay for the kind of fantastically elaborate cakes and pastries she most loved to craft. With his knack for knowing what the fickle foodie community craved and her timeless confectionary brilliance, Blake had assured her, they would have the A-list beating down their door. She’d believed him, and he hadn’t been wrong.

Sera wasn’t quite sure she’d loved Blake Austin exactly. But he’d easily engulfed her whole world.

Getting to the top of the heap in New York City’s exclusive culinary circles was like being the lead singer in a rock band—you had groupies of all shapes, sizes, and sexes panting after you. To her eternal shame, Serafina had been one of Blake’s. She’d been flattered by his attention and extravagant praise of her talents in the beginning, dazzled by his practiced charm as he pursued and easily won her. In awe, shy and insecure, she’d written off his abrasive manner, excusing his hot temper and over-the-top insults as part of his celebrity chef schtick. He isn’t the first egotistical chef to rule a kitchen with an iron hand, she’d told herself. He’s just striving for perfection—in his own way. It’s admirable, really.

And at first, he’d been so charming when they were alone. Whispering sweet nothings about her sweet creations in a way that was absurdly gratifying, and more than a little sexy. She’d felt like she was the only woman in the world who truly knew the real Blake Austin—brilliant, demanding, intense… and all hers. To have the attention of such a man… to be the woman he chose? What woman wouldn’t be a little swept away?

By the time he’d dropped the flattery and begun belittling Sera for her very personal, private “shortcomings,” telling her no other man would tolerate what he termed her “limitations,” she’d been so humiliated and confused she’d actually felt grateful that he continued to “put up with her,” as he put it. Desperate to please, to measure up, she’d put on a brave face, kept a bottle of liquid courage in her apron, and soldiered on. At least, she’d consoled herself, he appreciates my professionalism in the kitchen.

Or he had.

If he catches me like this, drunk in the walk-in with the busboy…. Oh, God… he’ll eviscerate me! And God only knows what he’ll do to Lorenzo.

I’ve got to stop this, Sera thought, panicked. But it was too late.

Two things happened at that moment.

Enzo made a play for her panties…

And the door swung open.

“Serafina, stop your dawdling and get back to work!” Blake roared before he was halfway through the walk-in’s wide doorway. He stopped stock-still, however, when he caught sight of his girlfriend en deshabille and in flagrante delicto with his most junior busboy.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

Sera let out a shriek that probably shattered half the country club’s champagne flutes.

Lorenzo yipped like a coyote and dove for his pants, leaving Serafina exposed on the marble-topped counter among the smashed appetizers and smeared amuse bouche.

For a moment Blake said nothing, simply surveying the scene as the rest of his prep team gathered behind him to witness the confrontation.

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck…

With fingers made clumsy by booze, Sera reached for her bra straps and fumbled to fix her clothes. A knife of dread cut through the last of her fast-dying buzz. Her face burned bright red as she saw her fellow cooks peering avidly over their leader’s shoulders to see what was going on.

One thing was immediately clear. She might have served the chef a taste of his own sauce, but it was her goose she’d cooked. Sera’s mouth worked, but no words emerged. She was frozen, breathless, gaze riveted in terror upon her boyfriend’s face.

Blake’s black eyes narrowed, but his countenance remained expressionless. It was a conceit of his that he always dressed for the weddings he catered as an invited guest rather than in chef’s whites, mingling with the partygoers and schmoozing before getting down to business in the kitchen. Today he was sporting an impeccable cream linen suit, silver-blue pocket square, and pale pink Ralph Lauren shirt she herself had picked out to complement his swarthy Black Irish good looks. And look good, he did—only the slight twitch around his deep-set eyes marred his appealingly louche features. By comparison, she looked like someone had dropped her off a three-story building to land—splat!—on a loaded banquet table.

“Well, well.” He sighed as if positively smothering in ennui. “Of course it would be the freezer. You’ve always been a cold fish in the bedroom, Serafina. I suppose it only stands to reason this is where you’d go to get off.”

There were gasps and titters from the cooks and caterers behind him. None of them, however, could guess how pointed Blake’s barb really was. It struck Sera a devastating blow. The high color drained from her face and left her completely gray. She struggled to her feet and righted her stained garments, standing panting before the marble-topped altar of her shame.

I didn’t even practice a revenge speech, Sera thought with a pang. Instead of “How’s it feel, big man?” or “See how you like it!” she could do no more than gulp wordlessly now that the moment was upon them. It was that, or throw up in front of all of these people. Her head spun. Man, I could use another drink right about now. Maybe twelve.

Her boyfriend didn’t appear concerned with her lack of explanation—or her betrayal. In fact, he seemed to have dismissed her from his mind entirely. Addressing his crew, he said, “All this will have to be thrown out. The Wagyu filet mignon. The wild Alaskan sockeye. The Petrossian caviar. Anything that has been in contact with this filth”—he waved demonstratively—“is unfit to be served to our guests. Oh, and Lorenzo—you’re fired. ¡Estás despedido! ¿Comprendes? Now, Serafina…” He returned his attention to her with menace as rich and smooth as one of his famous terrines of foie gras.

“Perhaps, Serafina, once you have… composed yourself, you will care to explain to four hundred of New York’s wealthiest, hardest-to-please socialites that they’ll be eating Mickey D’s for dinner when they return from their mimosas on the beach instead of the six-course feast they expect.”

“I… but…” He couldn’t seriously mean to trash all this food? But the others were already filing past her with garbage bags, reaching into the shelves with stoic expressions. Out went the amuse bouche. Out went the gravlax. The blinis and the cheese puffs and the crab-stuffed mushrooms also met their doom. Sweet heavenly biscuits, the appetizers alone represented three days’ work on the part of their entire team! All because her unclothed bum had been somewhere in the vicinity? “No, Blake, wait! We can still save—”

“No excuses!” Blake snapped coldly. “You have single-handedly ruined half the comestibles in this kitchen. Fix this, Serafina, or face the consequences,” he threatened, waving the filleting knife under her nose. “Now get out of my sight. I have no time for amateurs.”

He thrust himself away from the refrigerator door with a shrug of his shoulders and turned to snap at his minions. “And would somebody, for the love of all that is holy, be so good as to sanitize this fucking station before the health inspector arrives and demands to know why there are arse prints on surfaces on which food is prepared!”

When nobody moved, Blake’s voice rose to its usual roar. “Move!”

The kitchen crew scattered.

*  *  *

The ladies’ room door couldn’t shut behind Sera fast enough. Not wanting to run into any of the catering staff—who were surely snickering into their sleeves at her misfortune right now—she’d escaped the kitchen and found a restroom down one of the country club’s lavishly decorated halls. Safe at last, she darted into the stall farthest from the front, snapping it locked behind her and leaning her back against the divider. Her hands trembled as she reached in her pocket, withdrew the flask she’d secreted there. Just one more belt. To take the edge off. To calm her down. To forget the awful, hateful look on Blake’s face and make this disaster somehow just a nightmare she could still wake up from. Screwing the cap back on, she stuffed a piece of gum in her mouth, chewed despite the dry Sahara her mouth had become. Wouldn’t do for the Andersons to catch their pastry chef smelling like a distillery, would it?

Though how Blake expects me to explain to them why he threw out $20,000 worth of perfectly good canapés just to make a point, I don’t know, she thought with a spurt of terror. He hadn’t had to go that far. But Blake was given to grand gestures—the more spiteful, the better.

Yet who was more hateful in this situation? After all, hadn’t she just gotten an innocent kid fired due to her shenanigans? Wasn’t she the one kicking up drama and putting a woman’s wedding celebration in jeopardy in the process?

Fix this, Serafina. Stop fucking around and figure out a way to salvage the situation.

Exiting the stall reluctantly, Serafina washed her shaking hands and splashed cold water on her face. She stared at her reflection in the mirror with loathing, and not just at the outward signs of her distress—the bloodshot gray eyes, wan greasy skin, and lank black hair unflatteringly caught back in a hairnet. Bad though she looked on the outside—like a candidate for A&E’s Intervention, if she were being honest with herself—it was what was inside that truly appalled her. What would her parents have said had they been alive to see how their daughter had grown up? What would Aunt Pauline think of the darling niece she’d raised to know right from wrong? There was little trace of that bright, hopeful girl in the mirror now.

“C’mon, Sera,” she said to her reflection, slapping her own cheeks to snap her back into focus. “This is no time for a come-to-Jesus moment. You’ve got four hundred hungry WASPs to placate—and fast.”

Inhaling the deepest breath of her life, she forced herself to face the music, striding back into the country club kitchen with her spine stiff and the vodka singing a siren song through her veins. C’mon, it was telling her, it isn’t that bad, you’re Serafina Wilde! You can fix this. You can fix anything.

Maybe the Maidstone Club could do something—after all, they regularly hosted several hundred guests at a time during the summer season. Their deep freezers had to be packed with the fixings for your basic surf-and-turf. If she could track down the general manager, if the staff would cooperate, maybe she could still salvage something of this mess—at least, if not to save her own reputation, to keep the bride from having the kind of disastrous wedding her social set would whisper over for seasons to come. She owed Lexi Anderson that much. The girl might be a starveling size two with a five-carat ring and highlights that cost more than Sera’s annual income, but she wasn’t half bad for all that. To ruin her big day… Christ on a cupcake, that’s enough bad karma to keep me in crappy boyfriends for the next six lifetimes.

At least, Sera consoled herself, the cake would exceed all expectations. It was her masterpiece. Her finest creation in a long line of justly celebrated and much-coveted confections. It was gorgeous. It was scrumptious. It was…

At a kid’s party in Brooklyn Heights.

Serafina stared in horror at the contents of the oversized box marked, inexplicably, “Simpson Birthday,” trying not to scream at the sight of the pirate-ship-shaped chocolate fudge galleon that sailed gaily on a sea of foam-flecked fondant.

No way. It wasn’t possible! No amount of vodka would make Sera fuck up this bad. She knew she’d packed up and correctly labeled the right cake for this wedding. One didn’t easily mistake a lovebird-themed, lemon buttercream–filled extravaganza with twelve tiers and eighty hours’ worth of gum paste flowers and sugarplum birdies painstakingly appliquéd to each layer for a third-grader’s dark chocolate buccaneer boat! She’d seen the Simpson cake off on its maiden voyage just this morning. So how had it drifted so far off course…

There was only one explanation. And it was wearing a cream linen suit.

And smirking at her.

Sera could feel the eyes of the kitchen crew on her. Watching her wither under Blake’s bullying, as she’d done so often in the past. Watching her lose what little was left of her self-respect.

Something inside her snapped. The years of humiliation, of kowtowing to this man… groveling for his approval, apologizing for her shortcomings while excusing his. God, why had she never seen what a douchebag he really was? Why had she so easily swallowed her pride, along with her self-esteem, washing them down with alcohol when they stuck in her craw? This wasn’t the woman Aunt Pauline had raised.

Enough was e-fucking-nough.

“What. Have. You. DONE!?” she roared.

She ignored the gasps from the kitchen staff. One didn’t raise one’s voice to Blake Austin. Ever.

Then again, one didn’t cuckold him while he was in the midst of catering a wedding reception either, so this was a day for firsts.

Blake’s chest puffed up. “I hope you don’t mean to employ that tone with me in my kitchen after what you have done, you disgraceful little pastry pissant.” His smirk turned sharklike, threatening. Sera wanted to retch. God, how did I ever think he was charming?

“You absolute creep,” she swore. That last shot of vodka emboldened her enough to get right up in his face, though his cologne—which she’d never liked—played havoc with her roiling stomach. Sera poked a finger into Blake’s solar plexus, wishing it were a knee to the groin. “First you cheat on me, then you sabotage my cake?” She stomped her foot, too furious suddenly to care how much of a scene she was creating. “You want to hurt me? Fine. But now you’re hurting poor Lexi Anderson, whose only crime was paying you a fortune to make her day special. I mean, Christ, your name’s on this event, too. Why? Why would you do this?”

“Did you think I would simply wait to see whether you’d get the gumption to leave on your own?” Blake sneered. “Wait to see if you’d steal my best clients and blacken my name? Hardly! I suspected you had something planned to revenge yourself for that little incident last night—though I had no idea how pathetic your efforts would be—and I had no intention of sitting around waiting for you to strike. In fact, I grew tired of you and your whining, clinging ways some time ago. Quite frankly, Serafina, you’re a drag. You’re also fired. Any half-wit with a culinary degree can make a decent crème anglaise, so we shan’t miss you.”

“What?” His words rocked her back. This job—her career—was all she had. He couldn’t…. “But I… we’re partners in this venture, Blake. I have a contract. You can’t just fire me without cause. I could sue you!”

Austin shook back the longish black hair she’d once thought so debonair. With a shrug and a lazy smile crossing his hawkish features, he dropped the bomb on her. “Oh, I think I can make a fair case for ‘cause’ after today’s misconduct. Fooling around in the food prep areas? Forgetting the wedding cake? Those are just the final nails in your culinary coffin, Serafina. I’ve been documenting quite a pattern of erratic behavior on your part over the past several weeks, much to my regret.” Blake smiled down at her, enjoying his moment of power. “And if you’re thinking you’ll just take a position with one of my rivals, don’t bother applying. The two-bit bloggers, the big reviewers… they’ve all been tipped off. In fact, right now, all anyone’s talking about in the culinary world is my deep distress over your fragile mental stability and your troubling substance abuse. Everyone with gustatory pretensions and a soapbox will be buzzing about you, if they aren’t already. Of course, I’ve also made it known that I was so concerned about your conduct in the kitchen that I’m being forced to boot you out of our catering outfit.” His smirk was working overtime now. “So my name won’t be associated with this fiasco. No, sweet pea, this one’s all in your lap.”

Serafina’s defiance crumbled. The sheer malice on Blake’s face was enough to steal her breath away. The booze-born courage deserted her, her confidence fleeing faster than the fleeting high the 80-proof liquor had provided. Her knees buckled and tears formed in her red-rimmed eyes. “But… I… You can’t…”

She was trying to catch a breath, holding on to the edge of a counter for support, when a vision in white silk swept in.

The bride. Lexi Anderson stopped stock-still as her gaze took in the pirate ship cake, then swung to witness the gray-faced, sweaty baker practically sobbing at the feet of the handsome restaurateur who’d earlier been dazzling her party guests with bon mots over cocktails on the club terrace. Lexi’s beautifully made up face took on a look of almost comical bewilderment.

“Hi, Chef Austin,” she began hesitantly. “I just came in to check how things are going—the natives are getting a bit restless out there and wondering when they’re going to get their canapés. Plus,” she continued with a dimpled smile, “I couldn’t wait to get a peek at Serafina’s cake. I just know it’ll be perfect.” Vera Wang dress rustling, she crossed to the Simpson ship, taking in its three dark chocolate masts and miniature corsairs dubiously. “What’s this?” she asked. “Is it a groom’s cake? You didn't have to do that, though it’s awfully sweet—Carl just loved Pirates of the Caribbean. Funny, I don’t remember mentioning that to you during our consults.”

Sera’s heart sank, and a fresh wave of remorse washed over her, threatening to swamp more than just the buccaneer cake. Just as much as Blake’s spite, it was her own poor judgment that was about to ruin this sweet lady’s big day. The last of her buzz fizzled out, and she felt her stomach lurch. Sera opened her mouth, searching for some sort of explanation or apology that could begin to address the magnitude of the disaster. But Blake cut her off before she could begin. He swept an arm familiarly across Lexi’s shoulders, managing to ogle her slightly more than politely even as he guided her away from the cake—and its creator.

“My dear, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this. I’m afraid Ms. Wilde is having an unfortunate…” He circled his wrist, hand waving descriptively as he lowered his voice conspiratorially. “…breakdown. She seems to have committed herself beyond her capacities and imperiled your nuptial feast. Indeed, I arrived just in time to witness my former protégée displaying both criminal forgetfulness and some disgraceful behavior of a rather… personal nature. Fortunately, I am here. And I assure you, as my name is Blake Austin, I shall not allow any unpleasantness to mar these festivities.”

As he towed Lexi across the kitchen, Sera heard Blake telling her not to worry, he always prepared plenty of extra food when cooking for important, high-profile clients like the Andersons—food that he could personally guarantee had not been contaminated by a certain young lady’s shocking misbehavior. And never fear, he happened to have a friend—yes, that Trump—who would loan him his pilot and have the correct cake choppered in before the band even had a chance to mangle “Celebration” and the guests began drifting off the dance floor in search of dessert.

One look at Lexi’s dismayed, betrayed face made Sera realize she’d never convince the woman that Blake was responsible for the cake mix-up and that it was his high-handedness (well, except for a platter or two of hors d’oeuvres and one unfortunate salmon mousse) causing the other comestible snafus. Instead, he would end up looking like a hero for swooping in and saving the day, while she played the role of the fuckup who’d almost condemned the Anderson family to total social ostracism.

Helpless rage and shame inundated Sera, making her head spin and her guts churn. She barely made it to the nearest sink before she was violently ill.

At least, she thought as tears overcame her, I didn’t puke on the $30,000 wedding dress. A dry-cleaning bill like that could ruin a person’s whole day.

*  *  *

“Pick up, pick up, pick up.” Wedged into the corner of her bathroom floor next to the tub, a half-empty fifth of vodka tucked by her side, Serafina chanted into the phone like a mantra, sending a prayer out along the long-distance line. “Please pick up. Please be there.”

“Hel-looo!”

Sera had never heard anything as comforting as her aunt’s signature trill. “Aunt Pauline?” she fairly slobbered. “It’s Sera.”

“Bliss! Hey, kiddo! I was just thinking of you. I was at my wheel this afternoon, throwing a fabulously phallic new vase, and I thought, ‘This would be perfect for my niece.’ Maybe in the living room, by that god-awful sofa of yours.”

Serafina choked on a sob that was half laughter. “That’s really sweet of you, Aunt Paulie,” she said in a strangled tone. “But you don’t have to go to all that trouble.” Keep it together, Sera, she told herself woozily. Willing as her aunt had always been to give of her time and her life experience, she didn’t want to burden Pauline with her troubles—she’d just needed to hear her voice.

“Nonsense, Baby-Bliss. The only trouble is packing and shipping the damn thing, and I wouldn’t have to do that if you’d just come and visit like you’ve been promising…”

A great, raw-edged sob tore free from Sera’s throat, despite her best efforts to contain it. The sleepless night, the booze, and the awful, accusing look in that poor bride’s eyes… It was too much.

“I know, Auntie. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. For everything.” For several minutes Sera was incoherent, sobbing and sniffling into the phone.

Her aunt allowed the wailing and gnashing to go on for a few more breaths before interjecting a dose of reality. “Now let’s not be dramatic, kiddo. You haven’t killed anyone, have you?”

Pauline’s pragmatism surprised a watery laugh out of Sera. “No.” But I feel like I’m dying.

“So what’s going on, Baby-Bliss? It’s not that creepy boyfriend of yours, is it? I know you asked me not to trash-talk him, but I just can’t get myself to like that one. I hope it’s good between you in the sack at least, because I can’t think of another reason to keep such a smarmy snake around.”

Not even. If you knew just how not good it was, you’d have a conniption, Sera thought. Pauline, with her vast experience in all matters intimate, would never understand—and given her life’s work, would probably never forgive Sera either. But Sera’s problems were bigger than Blake Austin. Even in her current state, halfway to oblivion with half a bottle of vodka in her, Sera was beginning to see that.

Whatever else she could lay at his door, Blake wasn’t to blame for her drinking.

Sera had known there was something unusual about her relationship to booze the first time that, as a shy teenager, she’d been introduced to a corner bodega beer and she’d felt that click. That click that turned her from awkward social outcast to someone who could maybe tell a joke or two. Who could hang out with the cool kids (okay, the drama geeks) and not feel like she was wearing a neon sign that said “Pitiful.”

Someone who could swallow the sudden, wrenching loss of her parents and bury the aching loneliness that attended it.

Only Pauline’s loving guardianship had kept Sera on the straight and narrow then. College had had more than a few wince-worthy moments—scary blackouts, hangovers, and humiliations that, if she’d been honest with herself (and she hadn’t), far outpaced her friends’ experiments with alcohol. But it wasn’t until she hit culinary school that her drinking really took off.

Still, the way her fellow students partied—and booze was the least of what these dudes crammed into every orifice—it had been easy for Sera to convince herself she wasn’t out of control. That people with a real problem looked nothing like her. Those people landed face-first in the bouillabaisse. Those people hung out in service alleys waiting for guys in hoodies who wouldn’t tell you their names. Those people sniffed a lot and talked really loud and had a wild look in their eye and could tell you stories that would curl your hair.

When Sera drank, she just felt… normal.

Until she’d needed to drink to feel normal.

She’d started getting scared about a year ago. The pressure of working under Blake’s exacting standards and famously hot temper had had her reaching for the bottle more often than ever. Part of her had known their relationship was a disaster, but she’d been too caught up in the whirl to really take a long look at her life. It was easier to drink away her shame and hurt than to stand up for herself and walk away—from her high-flying career and her high-handed boyfriend.

After a few particularly hazy, horrible nights, she’d pulled back on the reins, stopped hanging out after hours with the crew. She’d gone as much as a couple months at a time without a drink, ignoring how the sight of it in her restaurant kitchen made her sweat; how the champagne flutes at the parties they catered seemed to be filled with cool, crisp elixir, begging her for a taste. How her mouth would go dry when she’d pour Kahlua over the thirsty ladyfingers in a dish of tiramisu, and how the mere sight of her boyfriend’s signature sneer made visions of vodka dance before her eyes.

She’d been trying, damn it. But then came Blake’s betrayal. And it was exactly the excuse she’d needed to let go and fuck up royally.

Sera laid her burning cheek against the cold porcelain of the tub, awash with shame.

“So is it Awful Austin?” Pauline prompted.

“Well… it is kind of about Blake, but…” Sera didn’t know quite how to describe the nuclear meltdown that had just incinerated her life.

Pauline harrumphed. “Spill it, kid.”

Where do I start? The booze was way out of control. Her career had just died a violent death. And she was so alone. Sera opened her mouth to try to explain, to justify, to deflect. What came out instead was a simple admission, born of grace.

“I think… I think I need help.”

Pauline didn't chide her, question her, or tell her she was being dramatic. Instead, she said the six simple words Serafina most needed to hear.

“Help’s coming, baby. Just hang on.”