“Champagne?” Gretchen asked as the waiter popped the cork.
“We’re celebrating,” Mack said with a wink.
The waiter poured two tall flutes and then left the bottle in a bucket of ice next to the table before saying he’d be back in a few minutes to go over the specials for the night.
“Sure,” Gretchen said, accepting her glass. “So what’s the occasion?”
Mack raised his glass. “I closed the deal today on the new building,” he said. “But more importantly, here’s to us. Three months. And hopefully many more.”
Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes when she clinked her glass with his. He thought at first that he was imagining it, but she looked away when she took a drink.
“Everything okay?”
She swallowed and nodded. “This is wonderful.”
“So are you.”
There it was again. The not quite a smile smile. Mack set down his glass and reached again for her hand. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m just . . . To be honest, I feel a little guilty being at a place like this.”
“Why?”
“My clients can barely afford boxed macaroni and cheese for their children.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t spoil you, does it?”
“I don’t need to be spoiled, Mack.”
“But you deserve to be.” He tried again with the wink and the smile. This time it worked. Her fingers relaxed in his.
“Thank you. You definitely know how to wine and dine a woman.”
“I aim to please.” He gave her fingers a final squeeze and let go. “Now I hope you’re hungry. Because I have a surprise for you later.”
Gretchen drank from her champagne and looked at her watch.
“I swear to God, why not just light a thousand bucks on fire?”
Liv Papandreas stepped back from the stainless-steel counter to study her latest culinary masterpiece with a disgusted shake of her head. As a pastry chef at Savoy, it shouldn’t surprise her anymore what the one percent would waste their money on, but sadly, it did. And she had known the minute her boss put the gold-infused cupcake on the menu that the city’s richest celebrities and show-offs would order it in droves just because they could.
Well, that, and so they could pose for an Instagram-worthy photo with Royce Preston, celebrity chef, television host, and the dickhead who signed Liv’s paychecks.
Every week, millions of fans tuned in to his reality show, Kitchen Boss, for a dose of his smooth-talking charm. Little did they know that his smooth-talking charm was as fake as his hair. When the cameras were off, he was a belligerent douchebag who stole most of his recipes from his own staff. Liv had somehow managed to survive an entire year in his kitchen, mostly because she had a stubborn disdain for wealthy posers. Who could’ve guessed that a teenage career in breaking rules and antagonizing authority figures would actually help her someday?
Rumor had it that tonight’s cupcake schmuck was some nightclub owner. Liv wouldn’t know. Nightclubs weren’t really her thing. Because people. People weren’t really her thing either.
Suddenly, her fellow prison inmate—er, pastry chef—Riya Singh clapped her on the back. “You don’t think your talents are worth a thousand dollars?”
“I think my talents are worth a lot more. I just don’t think a single freaking cupcake is. Every single person who orders one of these should be forced to immediately write a check for the downtown food bank.”
“Starting with Royce.”
Yeah, right. Men like Royce didn’t give money to charity. They hoarded it, flaunted it. Bribed their kids’ way into elite colleges with it. And he was about to make a helluva lot more of it. In one month, the first official Kitchen Boss cookbook would be published—a cookbook full of recipes he’d ripped off. One of Liv’s was in there—a twist on baklava using pomegranates and natural honey.
“I still don’t understand why you don’t just quit and take your sister up on her offer,” Riya said. “You could be free of this place forever if you wanted. The rest of us have to stay because we don’t have any other choice.”
Liv’s sister, Thea, had offered at least a dozen times to give Liv the money to open her own business. Thea was married to a Major League Baseball player who made a major league salary. But the thing no one seemed to understand, including Thea herself, was that Liv didn’t want to succeed because of someone else’s money. If that were the case, she’d just call her rich father and finally accept his endless offers to buy his way back into her life. She didn’t want his guilt money, though.
Anyway, Liv had worked too hard and overcome too much to take the easy way out now. She had the drive and talent to succeed on her own, and she was going to. If she could last one more year here, she could write her own ticket in the cutthroat culinary profession, because everyone knew that if you could survive Royce, you could handle anything. Every single day was a fight, but Liv had worked too damn hard to risk her career now by spiking the man’s breakfast smoothie with rat poison.
Not that she’d, like, thought about that or anything.
Jessica Summers, a young hostess who’d started just a month ago, crept over to the counter, biting her lip. “Is that it?” she asked breathlessly, staring at the cupcake.
“Yep,” Liv said.
“I haven’t worked a shift yet when someone ordered it. You can really eat the gold?” She bent down to study it, eyes wide. “What does it even taste like?”
“Ostentatious greed.”
Jessica looked up. “Is that good?”
“Rich people think so.”
The swinging doors to the kitchen slammed open. Everyone held their breath as Royce stormed in. He wore his standard uniform—a tailored suit, crisp white shirt with the top three buttons undone to reveal a smattering of chest hair, and a leather necklace that he claimed was a gift from some indigenous tribe but Liv would bet cold hard cash was actually a cheap trinket from a shop downtown.
“Olivia,” Royce barked, because he refused to use her nickname like everyone else. It was some kind of weird power-play thing.
Jessica gulped, cheeks red and eyes closed, as Royce approached them. Poor girl. She wasn’t going to last long if she couldn’t even handle the bark of his voice. You just had to know how to bark back.
“Is it going to be ready on time?” Royce growled.
“Have I ever been late with one?”
He turned a bright shade of red. His eyes gave her the once-over, and he shook his head. “Clean yourself up before we take that out there.”
Yeah. Not only did she have to make these gold-encrusted monstrosities, she also had to trail behind his holiness to deliver them to the customer. Royce was all about the show. Liv glanced down at herself. Chocolate was smeared across her coat. Hazard of the job. Royce snapped his fingers at Riya. “Give her your coat. Now. Come on.”
A clean coat was suddenly thrust in her line of vision. Liv shot an apologetic look at her friend as she unbuttoned her soiled coat and traded it.
“Get back to work,” he ordered Riya.
He stormed off again, and Jessica let out the breath she’d been holding. Liv could’ve sworn she saw tears in the girl’s eyes. Yeah, she was so not going to last. Mental note: Help Jessica find another job before she has a nervous breakdown.