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“What?” Jenny asks.
“Nothing. Let’s get these hors d’oeuvres out.”
For the next hour, I focus on timing courses and plating dishes, steadfastly ignoring the way Luke’s eyes follow me around the room. The other guests are a mix of musicians and industrypeople—I recognize at least three Grammy winners among them.
“This is fucking amazing,” Pixie announces, holding up a bacon-wrapped date. “Kendrick, where have you been hiding this food goddess?”
“Right next door to Luke, actually,” Kendrick says innocently, sharing a knowing glance with Emily. Some friends they are, I think, sourly.
I shoot them a death glare as I serve the main course—pan-seared sea bass with Mediterranean quinoa.
“No shit?” Pixie’s dark eyes sparkle with interest. “Lucky boy.”
“Very lucky,” Luke murmurs quietly, his eyes on me, and I nearly drop his plate.
Our fingers brush as I set it down, sending electricity up my arm. I move on quickly, but I feel his gaze burning into my back.
“Seriously,” Pixie continues between bites, “this is better than that Michelin-starred place in LA. You should do my tour catering.”
I laugh, thinking she’s joking, but she points her fork at me. “I’m serious. My current guy can’t make a decent risotto to save his life.”
“I... that’s very flattering, but—“
“But nothing. We’ll talk numbers later.” She turns to Cass. “Remember that shit they tried to feed us in Miami?”
The conversation moves on, but my head is spinning. Tour catering? For Pixie Cane?
“Lila,” Jenny whispers. “The desserts?”
Right. Focus. I head back to the kitchen, only to find Luke already there, allegedly getting more beer.
“Lila, this is amazing,” he says softly. “The food, the way you handle yourself... you deserve all of this.”
“Luke—“
“I miss you.” His voice is rough. “These past two weeks, not seeing you...”
“Don’t.” I grip the edge of the counter. “Please. I can’t—“
“Yo, food goddess!” Pixie’s voice carries from the dining room. “Where’s that chocolate thing everyone promised would changemy life?”
Saved by the pop star. I grab the dessert plates, brushing past Luke without meeting his eyes.
“Holy shit, this is orgasmic,” Pixie moans around her first bite of chocolate lava cake. “I’m not even kidding about the tour thing. Call my people.”
She slides a business card across the table with her manager’s contact info. Actual, legitimate tour catering. The kind of opportunity that could launch my business to a whole new level.
I pocket the card, trying to stay professional while my heart does backflips.
Pixie suddenly raises her martini glass in a rare moment of seriousness. “To Kendrick Wild. For writing the best fucking song on my album. It’s been number one on the charts for months now.”
The guest all raise their glasses, joining in on the toast. I glance at Kendrick in surprise. I didn’t know she was a songwriter. She blushes prettily, giving a modest nod, while Cass beams his pride beside her. Their eyes meet, and the obvious love they share makes my heart twist.
Jenny helps me clean up as the party gradually moves to the deck, music and laughter drifting in through the open doors.
“That was intense,” Jenny says, loading the dishwasher.
“The crowd or the service?”