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I watch her leave, Presley waving bye-bye over her shoulder. My phone buzzes with a text from my newest client, reminding me about tonight’s dinner party.
The charity might have been a disaster in some ways, but it also opened doors for me professionally.
I type out a quick reply, then put my phone away. For a moment, I let myself feel the small thrill of accomplishment. My hard work is paying off. My dream of building a private chef business is starting to become a reality.
This is what I should be focusing on. Building my business. Making my dreams happen. Not the way Luke tasted that night, the way he said he couldn’t stop thinking about me.
But as I head back to the front counter, I can’t help but think about his desperate touch and hungry kisses one more time.
Some things, it turns out, are impossible to forget.
A few days later, my phone rings just as I’m finishing inventory at Beach Bites. Kendrick’s name flashes on the screen.
“Hey, I need a huge favor,” she says without preamble. “How fast can you pull together a dinner party for twenty?”
I check my watch. “When?”
“Tonight?” Her voice rises apologetically. “The caterer just bailed, and it’s for Pixie Cane—“
“The Pixie Cane?” My voice squeaks embarrassingly.
“She’s in town visiting. She’s got a bit of a foul mouth, and whatever she said—anyway, please tell me you can help. She’ll pay double your usual rate.”
I should say no. My prep time would be tight, but it’s Pixie Cane! “Text me the details. I’ll need Jenny to help serve.”
“You’re a lifesaver!” Kendrick pauses. “Her rental house is right on the beach. Very private, very exclusive.”
Three hours later, Jenny and I pull up to a modern glass mansion that costs more per night than I could ever afford. Security checks our credentials before waving us through.
“Holy shit,” Jenny whispers as we unload our supplies. “Is that Pixie Cane’s Ferrari?”
Before I can answer, the front door flies open. “Thank my fucking stars, the food people are here!”
Pixie Cane bounces down the steps, all five-foot-nothing of her vibrating with energy. Her dark hair has hot pink streaks, and she’s wearing ripped jeans with a vintage t-shirt that screams famous pop star.
“You must be Lila!” She hugs me like we’re old friends. “Kendrick says you’re a culinary genius. Please tell me you brought appetizers because these bitches will be hangry.”
I can’t help but laugh at her enthusiasm. “Everything’s prepped and ready to go. Just point me to the kitchen.”
“Through here, chef!” She loops her arm through mine. “Fair warning—this crowd gets rowdy. Last dinner party I hosted, someone ended up in the pool… naked.” She turns, glancing at me sideways. “Don’t fuck this up, okay?”
“I won’t,” I assure her, smiling.
The kitchen is a chef’s dream—all gleaming stainless steel and marble countertops.
Pixie is brash and unapologetically foul-mouthed, but there’s a warmth to her that makes it impossible not to like her.
“Just keep the drinks flowing,” she says, smirking as she refills her martini glass. “And make sure the food tastes better than my first album—shouldn’t be that hard.”
Jenny shoots me a wide-eyed look, trying not to laugh as we quickly set up, laying out appetizers as the first guests start arriving.
I’m garnishing the last plate when I hear familiar voices in the foyer.
No. Kendrick wouldn’t.
But of course, she would. Because there’s Luke, looking unfairly gorgeous in dark jeans and a gray henley that shows off every chiseled muscle, and my chest tightens. Right behind him are the rest of the Wild Band: Kendrick and Cass, Nate, and Vince. Sam and Emily bring up the rear. She and Kendrick shoot me an innocent look.
“I’m going to kill them,” I mutter.