Free Vanity Fare by Megan Caldwell

know?”
    I shrugged. “Obviously not enough. What do you think I need to know?”
    The food arrived just as he opened his mouth. He gave the waitress an impatient scowl as she set our plates down. I surveyed the salad. There were only three olives, maybe four, tops. And the iceberg lettuce was almost paler than me. The feta cheese looked good, though.
    I chewed on a forkful of cheese and gave him a surreptitious glance. He had cut off a piece of pie and was lifting it to his mouth. Pop, it went in. And a little bit lingered on his lower lip, which he licked off quickly, giving me an abashed, little-boy grin as he did so.
    If he loathed me less, I might have to admire the view. Because, objectively speaking, he sure was easy on the eyes. Good thing his moments of charm were few and far between—limited to one, in fact, thus far.
    “Basically,” he said, spearing another piece of pie, “Simon is hoping his bakery will cement his place among the cooking elite. He’s made good progress, but working at someone else’s restaurant naturally means he has to share the limelight.”
    “Naturally,” I murmured, surreptitiously picking an olive pit from my mouth.
    “The bakery—provided it’s successful—will be the springboard upon which we can build Simon’s empire. The bakery is only a piece of the pie, so to speak,” he said, his mouth twisting up at the corners. Another joke! He’d doubled his moments of charm to two in under ten minutes!
    “How are you involved?”
    Nick shrugged. “I’ll handle the paperwork, the finances, basically everything that isn’t the actual baking. We’ve got start-up capital, and it all has to be managed properly. So even though this is a start-up, it’s not as though Simon and I aren’t qualified.”
    Unlike me, his tone implied.
    He leaned back and placed his hands in his lap. “I have to tell you, Ms. Hagan, I am not at all sanguine about Simon’s putting you in charge. In fact, I believe it’s a mistake. A big one that we cannot afford. But Simon is in charge.”
    Okay, forget implied, and substitute said .
    He gave me another intent gaze, as if to see that his words had the proper impact. My eyes dropped to my plate. I drew a deep breath and thought of Aidan.
    “Well,” I said, looking up and giving him a bright, totally artificial smile, “I’ll just have to dream up something totally original to knock your socks off.” Oh my God, had I just used that phrase?
    “I’m looking forward to it,” he replied, in a voice that indicated he was doing anything but. “My socks are getting complacent,” he added in a dry aside.
    Another joke! Mr. Forbidding might have to change his name to Mr. Fun-Loving!
    He finished the piece of pie and regarded the plate as if he wanted to lick it clean.
    He might be ruthless and nerve-racking, but he liked dessert. There had to be some good in him.
    “When are you starting to work on this?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. It sounded as if he thought I was already slacking off.
    “Um . . . now?” I had that raised question tone in my voice.
    He nodded in approval. “Good. What times are good for you?” He took a sip of his coffee.
    “Huh?” I was too startled to sound anything but dopey.
    His voice held a distinct note of irritation. “When can you meet? To work on the concept?”
    “You mean . . . with you?”
    He pushed an impatient hand through his hair. “Yes, with me. With Ms. Duran off the project, we need someone to work with you to ensure the mission statement is upheld.”
    Mission statement? I was guessing that wasn’t something you’d find in a Franciscan church.
    “And,” he continued, giving me a drop-them-to-their-knees-on-the-trading-room-floor stare, “Simon is on his way to Salon du Chocolat.”
    As though I knew what the hell that was. “Oh, of course. Well, how much time do you think we need?”
    I added it up in my head: one hour for him to defrost, about twenty-seven minutes for me to stop staring at