LITMIR.BIZ

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      “You’re scratching. Why?” Miss E. frowned at her.

      “This jacket itches. It’s driving me crazy.”

      Donovan frowned. “It’s just a cotton jacket.”

      “It’s not my cotton jacket.” She bit the inside of her lip. “Mitzi always let me wear my own jacket.”

      “This is a perfectly acceptable jacket,” Donovan said.

      “It’s not you. It’s not the jacket. It’s me. It throws my Zen off.” Now he’d really think she was a nut job.

      “Donovan,” Miss E. said, resting her hand on her grandson’s arm. “Leave her alone. If she wants to wear her jacket, let her. Who’s going to know? She can wear a tutu and combat boots for all I care, I just need another cupcake”

      Hendrix brightened. “Combat boots? Awesome.”

      “No combat boots,” Donovan snarled at her.

      She took an involuntary step back. “Fine, just my jacket...please. I’ll leave the combat boots at home.” Not that she had combat boots, but the idea was intriguing and Mitzi would have let her wear them if she’d insisted on it. She shrugged out of the jacket relieved to escape from the itching. She would bring her own jacket tomorrow—she cringed—assuming there was a tomorrow.

      “Have you ever done a wedding cake?” Miss E. asked.

      “I’ve done several different themes, wedding cake pops, wedding cupcakes and a seven-tiered marble cake.” Weddings at casinos had become quite popular. Did the hotel have one scheduled?

      “Scott, another of my grandsons, is getting married. When you have time, his bride-to-be, Nina, and I would like to discuss a wedding cake.”

      Hendrix grinned. “I love doing wedding cakes.” Her champagne cake was perfect for a wedding. She could use pink champagne and decorate it with roses and daisies...her imagination began to soar. “I can cook up some samples for you try.”

      Miss E. grinned. “We’ll be in touch.”

      Donovan’s mouth was compressed in a hard line and he didn’t look happy. Hendrix went back to her triple chocolate-nut brownies completely forgetting him as thoughts of how she would decorate the wedding cake floated through her mind.

      * * *

      “I don’t think she’s going to work out,” Donovan said to his grandmother in the hall after he closed the door so Hendrix wouldn’t hear. Not because of her cooking, but because she was too much of a distraction. He found himself thinking about her at odd times and he didn’t like it. When he was in his kitchen, he needed to think about food, not some cute pastry chef and her cupcakes. Did he just think that? He did. She would have to go.

      “She’s going to be just fine.”

      “Grandma, it’s my kitchen. You told me...”

      “I know what I said, but if you don’t keep that young woman around, I will be unhappy. People are going to eat here just to have one of those cupcakes.”

      Donovan glared at her helplessly. “But...”

      “You used to be so experimental and creative in your own cooking. I let you have fun in my kitchen, even though sometimes I was cleaning goop off the ceiling at three in the morning. Maybe it’s time you cleaned someone else’s goop off the ceiling.”

      “Miss E...”

      She held up her hand, her voice firm. “Just let’s see how this works out.”

      “I’ll be repeating those words to you when the kitchen catches fire.”

      Her eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong, Donovan? You used to be so much more carefree in the kitchen.”

      “Guests have certain expectations,” he replied. “They like conventional and don’t like surprises.”

      “This hotel is about gambling. Everything else is gravy. If the extras can attract people, then the percentage that comes in for those cupcakes will also drop money in the slot machines. We’re in the business of providing the fantasy, and food is as much a part of the fantasy as the gambling. When people feel special, they spend money. I want them to spend all their money here, not across town at some other casino.”

      “I’ll keep her on a trial basis.”

      Miss E. patted him on the shoulder. “Of course you will. She’s going to work out and she’s going to surprise you in a way you’ll never expect.” With that parting shot, she stepped into the elevator and waved merrily as the doors closed.

      He returned to his office, his thoughts a jumble. Hendrix stood in the middle of the kitchen looking oddly hesitant.

      Without preamble, he said, “My grandmother loves your cupcakes.”

      She nodded. “Awesome. But you’re not so sure, are you?” She pointed at him, a spatula in her hand. “You’re still on the fence about me. You think I’m weird, quirky and kooky.”

      “I try not to judge.” Even to his own ears, he sounded defensive. Usually he was decisive and at times uncompromising when it came to food, but this woman put him off his game. The decision to hire Hendrix was either going to rock his world or blow up in his face.

      “I know I’m a little unorthodox...”

      “Is that the word you like to use?”

      She smiled, a mischievous glint in her dark brown eyes. “No one has ever complained about the end result. I have a process and I know it’s not always easy to understand. You have your own process. As much as we put spices, herbs and other ingredients into our food, we put our personality in, too.”

      She was shooting down every argument he could muster before the words left his mouth. “If you would give me a minute, I could express my concerns.”

      “Do you have any more?”

      Defeated, he shrugged, “Not really.”

      She walked over and patted him on the arm. “That’s how teachers teach chemistry in school. How to think logically and blow something up spectacularly.”

      “There will be no blowing up of anything in my kitchen. Ever.”

      She shrugged her elegant shoulders. “I’m cool with that.”

      “I hear you.” He didn’t quite believe her. He had the feeling his grandmother was right. He’d be cleaning gunk off the ceiling at three in the morning.

      “You don’t trust me yet, but you will.” She turned back, walked over to the ovens and started opening them. Watching her move around the kitchen, it was almost as if she was dancing. There was joy in every movement as she pulled out pie after steaming pie and set them on the counter to cool.

      The most amazing scents washed over Donovan. He knew without one shred of evidence she hadn’t followed his directions as explicitly as he’d demanded. Was that a look of guilt on her face?

      She disturbed him on a level he didn’t understand. She was unsettling and unconventional. He didn’t like feeling so out of control. This kitchen was his domain. He needed to get her into her own kitchen. That way if she didn’t follow instructions, he wouldn’t know. He would see the end result and wouldn’t have to agonize on how she got there.

Chapter 3

      Hendrix walked out into the hot noon sun. Reno was so different from San Francisco, which was cool during the day and downright cold at night. Mark Twain had once said that the coldest winter he’d ever experienced was a summer spent in San Francisco. She missed the fog, the activity, even the culture. If Reno didn’t work out she could always go back. But she didn’t want to—she wanted to leave her mark here. This was her home now.

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