Page 1 of Curiosity

One

The mood will change promptly at midnight.

I blinked.

Blinked again.

That line hadn’t been there when I read the invitation before – I was certain of it.

I’d pored over the thick, luxuriously black postcard multiple times, making sure the order of courses was correct, there were no misspellings, and so on. I didn’t need to memorize it because it was seared into my brain.

This was the most important party I’d ever cooked for.

I chose to believe it was a steppingstone, being asked to do a private party of this caliber. It was usually weddings, the occasional brunch. Here and there, someone would hire me to come out on their yacht, to feed them and their drunk, rowdy friends all day.

I hated those the most, but they paid well enough to not take them off my service list.

Besides, that was where this client found me.

Supposedly.

I’d never spoken to them directly – the correspondence ran through an assistant who wasn’t very keen on small talk.

The check was big enough that it didn’t matter.

Ihopedit didn’t matter.

Hoped I wouldn’t regret this.

I’d made so many concessions from my normal process that a thread of paranoia had been hanging in the fringes of my conscious since the contract was signed. So manyI don’t usually do thismoments that the only “normal” thing about any of this was my satisfaction as the servers exited the kitchen with heavy platters of carefully, beautifully plated food.

Servers I didn’t hire.

Another deviation.

The client had insisted on all their own people, had insisted on a grocery list to send someone else to do the shopping.

My first thought was that there was some need – or desire – to keep the budget down since my fee for doing this last-minute was honestly astronomical.

Then I saw the house.

Which I hadn’t gotten an address for until the day of, and was tucked away in some ultra-exclusive, gated corner of Blackwood I didn’t even know existed before this. At the house, when I’d been handed a black chef’s coat and hat that were worth more than I’d made in the last quarter, I understood.

They weren’t keeping the budgetdown.

They were making sure I was up on their level.

If I weren’t so in awe of it all, maybe I’d be offended.

Instead, I happily used the luxury gas range of my dreams, professional quality knives I couldn’t even imagine affording, ultra-fresh ingredients from the list I’d provided, some straightfrom the farm.

It was lovely.

I immersed myself in the experience, unbothered by the fact that I was there alone – it meant minimal distractions from the work.

And now that the last things were plated – the delicate desserts and signature cocktails that had been requested for servingrightat the midnight hour, I was technically finished.

It had been made clear in my contract that I would not be responsible for cleaning. Staff had descended upon the kitchen in white uniforms and made quick work of it as soon as I sent out the last course. Since I’d only used the tools provided, there was nothing for me to pack.

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