Page 7 of Not Your Average Vixen
She tried to swallow, but her mouth had grown dry.
“Not changed, enhanced,” she sputtered.
“Enhanced?” he growled.
“Clients had commented that the cakes were a bit dry, that’s all. I decided to try something new,” she rambled, then smacked her hand over her mouth.
Altering a master chef’s recipe was the culinary kiss of death. She’d only made a tiny tweak, but it was still a change.
The little man cocked his head to the side as a slippery smirk pulled at the corners of his mouth. “You like to try new things,Brigette? Like giving away my cakes andenhancingmy recipes that were perfected at Le Cordon Bleu? You, a girl with no formal training. No credentials.”
She stared at him. There wasn’t a right answer—not after what she’d admitted.
“I—” she began, but the chef raised his meaty index finger, silencing her.
“Now, you cantrygetting a new job,Brigette.You are fired!” he snapped.
“Fired?” she cried. Her voice, a shrill scrape of a sound, cut through the hum of the shop.
The chatter stopped as all eyes fell on her.
“You, broom boy! GetBrigette’sthings,” Gaston called, puffing up like an inflated peacock.
She looked on as the gangly teen ran through the door leading to the back of the shop, then returned with her backpack.
The chef grabbed the bag from the boy and thrust it into her chest. “I will not have anyone stealing my profits or modifying my recipes! You’re through here. And I’ll make sure every pastry shop in the state hears about this betrayal.”
She couldn’t be labeled as a pastry pariah! And like Gaston reminded her, it wasn’t as if she had a fancy degree to fall back on. All she’d ever been was an amateur baker.
She glanced around the shop as judgmental glares tore into her at every angle.
What would she do now?
She was the play-it-safe sister. The keep-your-head-down, do-what-it-takes sister. She didn’t have the luxury of dreaming big.
A hot rush of humiliation threaded with embarrassment heated her cheeks. With her gaze trained on the floor, she turned toward the door as the crowded shop parted, making way for the disgraced employee. She squinted as the midday sun nearly blinded her as she exited the shop, and the door to Gaston Francois Pâtisserie slammed behind her.
The final harsh goodbye.
“What happened in there?” she whispered.
She started down the sidewalk—a zombie sprinkled in flour and bits of fondant. Garrett’s place wasn’t far from here. She could go there. He’d be at the hospital, and she needed somewhere close by to process the lightning-fast demise of her baking career. If you could call it a career. And she sure as hell wasn’t ready to endure the forty-minute bus ride home. No, she’d go to Garrett’s, get her bearings, think of something to say to Gaston, then go back to the shop and plead her case. He could have a change of heart, right?
In an hour or so, he’d cool off. He’d see that he’d acted rashly. They’d work it out. He was a passionate Frenchman. These things happened. But the more she kept trying to convince herself that it was going to be okay, the less okay she felt.
No job meant no income. She’d spent the last of her savings on Lori’s wedding. At least, she didn’t have to worry about her soon-to-be depleted bank account impacting her sister’s big day.
She rounded the corner and arrived at her boyfriend’s townhouse. Taking the front steps two at a time, she fished her keys from the bottom of her bag and unlocked the door.
“You need a minute to make a plan. You’re a planner, Birdie. You’ll figure this out,” she said, shutting the door when a shriek from inside rippled down from the second floor.
“Garrett?” she called as another sound, a low, purring groan, echoed through the space.
Was he sick? Did he fall, or was he hurt?
She sprinted up the steps, flung open the bedroom door, then stilled. A woman sat on the bed, facing away from her and wearing a fire engine red bra.
“Who are you, and what are you doing in my lingerie?” she called.
