Billionaires Dollar Series

*****

We all become what we pretend to be.

*****

Madison

Have you ever tried to plate eighty smoked salmon puffs in under five minutes, all while your cheating ex is watching you?

It’s not something I’d recommend, but damn if it doesn’t kick my competitive streak into overdrive. Jason stands on the other side of the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest as he watches me move at the speed of light.

I finish plating the last salmon puff just in time-the door opens and the sound of mingling party guests filters in.

Made it.

I don’t look over at Jason with my victory, because I’m a thirty-year-old woman with some dignity, but it’s close.

“This is for you,” I tell the waiter returning to my side. He lifts the plate up on one arm in an expert move and disappears back out the door.

Then I let myself glance over at Jason. He’s turned his back to me, lifting crates. His part in this catering event is thankfully over.

Good riddance, babe.

Alma reaches for a misshapen puff I’d had to discard. There’d only been one. “Mine,” she tells me, both of us watching as Jason disappears out the back door without a word of goodbye to either of us. “Ten bucks says he gets lost in the garden before he makes it to the driveway.”

I snort. “Fifteen.”

“I’m impressed by you.” Alma shakes her head, moving around the giant kitchen island. “I’ve said it before, but I still am.”

“It’s easy to be impressive when you don’t have a choice,” I say.

She shoots me a look, her curls locked in a bun on top of her head. “Don’t downplay this, Maddie. You’re being a goddamn boss handling him, not to mention her, and you should own it.”

My smile is unbidden. “All right. I’m a boss.”

“That’s the spirit. And one day you’ll be an actual boss too.”

My grin widens. “As soon as I can.”

And that day can’t come too soon, not as I’m forced to see Jason at least once a week. Our shifts seldom overlap-I take a lot of the catering shifts to avoid him, and he rarely deigns to work outside the restaurant.

But one day I’ll have my own place.

Alma raises a hand. “Sous-chef, right here.”

“You’ll be my first hire.”Content © provided by NôvelDrama.Org.

“Are those yours?” she asks, nodding to the bruschetta I’m preparing. The bread is freshly toasted, the tomato mixture already done-everything prepped before we arrive at the client’s house for the party.

“Yes,” I say, adding a touch of balsamic to each. “Marco liked them.”

“Liked?”

I grin at her. “He actually used that word.”

“Wow.” She shakes her head, plating her own. “High praise from him.”

“The highest.” Our top chef and boss is meticulous about what plates he’ll serve-about flavor profiles and spices and mouthfeel. It’s a meticulousness that’s been rewarded with stars.

Michelin ones.

And so he’s regularly hired to cater for people like Cole Porter, whose kitchen is the size of my entire apartment. It’s not the first time Alma and I are here, but it never stops impressing me.

It’s also the reason I can’t quit just because Jason and I imploded. Throw away a chance to work and learn from Marco Rossi just because Jason slept with the waitress?

No, not while I still have things to learn and bills to pay. Not when I’d worked my ass off to get hired.

And not while I’m trying to get the fellowship at the Washington Culinary Institute.

Alma and I plate the next set of hors d’oeuvres in practiced moves-crab cakes with a dollop of caviar on top. We work best in tandem, knowing each other’s stations intuitively. Serving up food on platters in five to ten-minute intervals, ensuring all of Cole and Skye Porter’s hundred-and-forty guests have something to eat.

My hair escapes my headband and I curse, heading to the sink to wash my hands. “I can’t believe I cut bangs,” I tell Alma. “That was a mistake.”

“You needed a change, and your hair took the brunt of that. It’ll grow back-at least you didn’t get a drunk tattoo.”

“The small mercies, I suppose.” I smooth the hair back in place-the braid is still intact-and wash my hands again. I’ll have to slather them in moisturizer tonight.

“Why do we have so much marinara sauce?” I put the lid back and lift the pot up with both arms. “Who packed for us?”

Alma snorts. “One of the new hires.”

“Christ.” I back away to stand in the middle of the kitchen. “Should we serve it by the bowl? What was he thinking? I’ll take this out to the van.”

“Please do,” Alma says. “Oh, watch out, you’re right by the-”

The back door swings open. I turn just in time to get a set of impressions, tall man suit, and then we’re colliding.

The lid comes loose. Defying gravity, the sauce flies heavenward and splatters everywhere, the pot slipping through my hands to crash on the floor.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

The man stares down at the giant red stain on his once-pristine shirt. Thick, honey-brown hair hides his face from view, despite his height.

“We can clean that up for you right away,” I promise, although I don’t have a clue as to how.

He seems to think the same thing, because he makes a low, amused sound. “I’d like to see you try.”

I swallow, taking a step back. “I apologize again, sir. The cost of dry cleaning is of course on me.”

He holds out his hands, one of them covered in marinara sauce.

“Right!” Setting down the now near-empty pot on the kitchen island-at least the problem of too much marinara sauce has been solved-I reach for the paper towels. Alma is behind me, already laying out towels over the mess on the floor.

“Here you go.” I start wiping off his hand, as if he’s a child. A quick glance up reveals green eyes torn between anger and amusement. A familiar mouth.