Page 107 of Cakes for the Grump

Either way, I’m glad Luke is taking precautions.

We go into the venue separately and enter through the back. I smile when I see him inside and try not to let my spirit leave my body at the sight. It’s hard. There’s a very pleasant whoosh in my chest, followed by those pesky arouse-y feelings awakening again.

We meet on the edge of the event and look at the rest of the guests not-so-subtly flaunting their wealth by overbidding on auction items that perimeter the grand hall.

“This is it,” I tell him, “My soft launch into your world. A test to see if I can pull off the all-important conference.”

“Just remember, everyone here is terrible,” he says, “and how much better you are than them. That always works for me.”

“My ego isn’t as inflated as yours.”

“It could be. You simply have to catch up.”

“I’m rather planning to keep my morals intact. Though maybe I’ll role-play as a haughty ice princess who keeps her nose turned up in the air because she hates the smell of commoners.”

“Role-play? Will there be outfit changes?”

“Such a pervert.”

“For you, always.”

“Shouldn’t we go interact? People are looking at us.”

“In that case”—he offers me his elbow and I take it—“let me do the work, and you stay as ravishing as you are.”

I’m about to joke about how it’s hard to compete with his stunning prettiness, but we’re off to mingle. People gravitate towards him, fighting each other for their five minutes of face time.

He’s good at this. Chatting, making them feel seen, joking in a language I don’t understand. Yachts, summer season, investment portfolio misses, how great the canapés are, that one play in New York most people can’t get a ticket to, and other one-percent talks I’m politely smiling at.

Everyone observes me curiously, and when they address me, it’s one of two questions.

How did you meet?

Or, what is it that you do?

My answers are:We met through my workandI’m a chef.

It’s the surprise third question, leveled at me by a Singapore electronics heiress that trips me up.

What restaurant do you work for?

I don’t know why, but I feel this prickle of shame. If only I could say I’ve won an international chef search and I’m an acclaimed recipe developer forMasala MealKits, but I can’t. So I think about lying and saying,I’m in between restaurants, but Luke has heard the question.

“She’s brilliant and independent. Before her, I’ve never considered how much analysis goes into building a recipe.” He puts a hand behind my back. “The amount of detail is painstaking. You have to not only understand food chemistry but manipulate it in the smallest of increments. And there’s market research, and cost analysis, and an understanding of the customer that rivals the kind done at Abbot Industries. Honestly, her food speaks for itself.”

He sees me…as if I am more than all the insecurities I’ve piled upon myself. This whole time I’ve been wondering if it really makes a difference, me being here beside him. Mr. Duncan has elevated hopes pinned on my performance. Sure, I’m laughing at the right time, and my arm is on his arm—but these topics, I can’t get a foothold into the conversations. They are moving too fast.

But Luke…

His words make me bigger than I feel.

The heiress looks bored. She walks away to the bar.

In her place, a bald man with a thick mustache engages Luke. I think he owns a fleet of ships somewhere. He’s asking him for a private conversation. Luke meets my eyes, clearly conflicted about leaving, but then a voice comes out from behind us.

“Look at that hot dress!”

It’s Theo.