Page 60 of The Best Men
I hang up and let out a huge sigh. “Honestly. I love taking photos. I’m good at it. But the business part of running a photography business is killing me. I know I didn’t put that photo into the deliverable file.”
Mark makes a sympathetic noise. “Is Lucy a temp? Maybe she needs to move on.”
“I’m not firing her,” I grumble. “I should have done the upload myself. Aren’t I supposed to be turning left somewhere?” It would be just my luck to get us lost right now, too.
“The turn is two hundred meters ahead,” Mark says, reading from my phone’s GPS. He arches a brow. “Meters, St. James? Too posh for American measurements?”
“I bought the phone in Switzerland,” I say. The restaurant sign comes into view as I take the turn. “Are we on time?”
“Simmer down.” Mark places a palm on my thigh. If I weren’t so tense, I’d enjoy that. “We’re actually five minutes early.”
“Thank fuck. I’ll use the time to grovel to the world’s most successful bathing suit manufacturer.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, I’m still not over it. All the canapes and tiny quiche and ceviche we’ve tasted ought to have soothed the beast within.
But they didn’t. I blew it with Commando. The artistic director I got on the phone was apoplectic, and I don’t blame him. All I had to do was deliver some excellent photography, and I couldn’t even hand in my homework without a catastrophe.
Mark pokes me in the hip, and I realize the French chef has asked me a question. And I missed it.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “You were saying?”
“Et zeesareles entrées. The duck confit andle steak.Les aimez-vous?”
I force myself to focus on the two little plates a nervous waiter has placed in front of us. I lift the piece of steak to my mouth, and it’s butter-soft. And the bite of duck in a cherry reduction is perfect. “Délicieuse.Formidable. But what will you have for our vegetarian guests?”
The chef waves his hands like nothing could be less important.“L’assortiment de légumes,”he says. “It will be perfect.” He kisses his fingertips like a TV character.
But, hell, if I came to a wedding and was stuck with a couple of tiny quiches, a mini spring roll, and a few vegetables, I’d be sad. “Could we do a little more for our guests who don’t eat meat?” I ask. “Perhaps a pasta or a risotto?”
His bulbous nose wrinkles. “Pasta. Sobourgeois. The vegetables will be beautiful. The most beautiful vegetables in Miami.”
I hesitate since I suspect the vegetarians want more than pretty beans, and I want to argue, but he’s the chef. “Okay.”
“Hold on,” Mark says. “A vegetarian option is in our contract. And we have approval power over all the dishes. Page four, item six,” he says, flipping through what must be contract pages on his phone. “Asher wants something more for the veggie crew. How can you help us?”
“Euh . . .” The older man rocks back on his heels. “We could do a couscous. Very Moroccan. Chickpeas, bell peppers. Very edgy. With aubergine. You Americans call it eggplant.”
“Ah, I’m a fan ofeggplants.” Mark pokes me in the ass cheek when he says this, just in case I don’t get the joke. “But no butter, right? This dish should be vegan.”
“Pas de beurre?” The chef looks scandalized. “Non?”
“No,” Mark says firmly. “Page four, line . . .”
“Pas de beurre,”the chef repeats heavily. “Quel dommage.”
Triumphant, Mark turns to me. “Will that do, Asher?”
“Yes,” I say quickly. “Thank you. We really appreciate this.”
“It will be a beautiful wedding,” the chef says. “You two will make a handsome couple. I will see you on Saturday at eleven.”
“Thank you,” I say brightly, smiling at him. I don’t risk a glance at Mark. “We will see you there.”
“And now I must go and prepare my restaurant kitchen,” he says. “Au revoir.”
“Au revoir, et merci pour tout ce que vous avez fait.”
