Page 32 of Knotting on Heaven's Door

“She’d better,” Mia muttered.

Mrs. Whitmore arrived precisely four minutes early.

I caught sight of her through the front windows of the test kitchen, stepping out of a sleek black town car like royalty had graced us with her presence. She wore a tailored ivory pantsuitwith a gold brooch that probably had more history than some countries. Her silver-blonde hair was sculpted into a flawless wave, her lips painted the exact shade of political diplomacy—rich mauve, unsmiling. Sixty-five, ex-senator’s wife, a woman who practically bled old money.

Her heels clicked against the polished concrete as she entered, her assistant trailing two steps behind with a leather-bound notebook and the sort of energy that suggested he hadn’t slept in days.

“Mrs. Whitmore,” I said, stepping forward, clipboard in hand, smile loaded and ready. “Welcome to De la Vega Events. I’m Ada.”

She gave me a once-over that made me feel like I was being weighed for auction.

“Charmed,” she said flatly, though her tone suggested otherwise. “Let’s see what you’ve prepared.”

We guided her into the tasting room, where three meticulously plated dishes waited beneath soft light, fresh cut eucalyptus in a vase, and place settings arranged like a Vogue feature.

Mia, professional as ever, gestured toward the first plate. “We started with a saffron risotto, paired with seared scallops and preserved lemon oil. The citrus adds brightness without overpowering the—”

“No.”

Mrs. Whitmore didn’t even sit. Just stood there, arms crossed, expression unimpressed. “This might dazzle someone who’s impressed by fine dining magazines, but my guests are not the general public, Mrs. de la Vega. They are ambassadors, CEOs, governors. They don’twantlemon oil.”

Mia blinked, thrown for once. “Of course, we can absolutely adjust—”

Mrs. Whitmore lifted a manicured hand to cut her off. “Andtruffle butter? Honestly. That’s become practically pedestrian. Do you know how many times I’ve been served truffle something in the past month?”

My fingers curled around the clipboard. The metal clip creaked under the pressure. I could feel the client slipping, sliding through my grip like wet glass.

Keep smiling. Don’t lose her.

“Mrs. Whitmore,” I said, calmly. “Perhaps we could design a custom tasting, something more tailored to your guest list. We’re always happy to—”

“Sous vide salt cod,” a voice said smoothly, from just behind me. “Poached in olive oil, served with langoustine cigars and finished with a Hermitage jus.”

Everything in the room paused.

Mrs. Whitmore turned, slowly, like a queen noticing an unexpected courtier. Sebastian stood by the counter, sleeves rolled, hands dusted with flour, but his voice was steady, his expression cool. He didn’t flinch under her gaze.

“Go on,” she said, intrigued now, chin tilting just enough to signal he had her attention.

Sebastian stepped forward, wiping his hands on a towel tucked at his hip. “The cod holds the delicate flavor without drying, and the langoustine adds elegance. The jus—balanced, structured—pairs beautifully with a vintage Hermitage blanc. Something subtle, mineral-forward, to cut through the richness without overwhelming it.”

Mrs. Whitmore stared at him for a moment that stretched, silent and sharp, before she finally gave a small, considering nod.

I was going to catch fire. Right there, in the tasting room.

Combust. Explode. Turn to ash and rage-smoke in front of a high-profile client.

The nerve of him.

Sebastian stood tall and unbothered, like this was his show, casually wiping flour from his fingers while Mrs. Whitmore moved one step closer, visibly charmed.

“And for dessert?” she purred, as if I wasn’t even standing there with ten years of culinary experience and a clipboard full of contingency plans.

Sebastian tilted his head slightly, like he was just thinking out loud, the arrogant bastard. “A dark chocolate cylinder,” he said, voice smooth as aged bourbon, “filled with smoked hazelnut praline. Finished with a quenelle of salted milk ice cream—velvety and clean. Just enough sweet to leave a whisper on the tongue without overwhelming the palate.”

Charlene blinked. Once. Slowly. Then she smiled.

They kept talking—about wine pairings, and the texture contrast in plated desserts, and whether truffle oil was a crime or a convenience. Meanwhile, I stood off to the side, my jaw tight, my hands clenched behind my back, mentally stabbing him with every utensil we owned.

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