something?” she asked Gavin.
He nodded.
“Does that mean my e-mail will work again?”
Gavin swept glass into the dust pan. “Nope. There’s no service up here. The generator is backup for when we lose power.”
“When we lose power?” Her eyes widened.
“Yep. Count on it.” He nodded to the bay window where fat flakes of snow cascaded to the ground. “This is just a warm-up. Mother Nature has a big show brewing.”
Whitney’s shoulders sagged. She took Dean by the arm and led him away.
Gavin dumped the glass in a garbage pan. “I’ve got a date with a generator. Anything else you need?”
“We’re good, thanks,” I said.
He tipped his fishing cap and headed out into the snow.
Carlos and I walked to the kitchen. “That was weird.”
“I do not like that man,” Carlos said, holding the door open for me.
“You made that clear,” I replied. “You don’t need to do that, you know.
“Do what?”
“Try to protect me like that. I can handle myself. I’ve dealt with much worse than Tony over the years.”
“I know you can.” He waited for me to go in first.
I pushed past him. He wasn’t wrong about Tony. The guy was a first-class jerk, but there was something about Carlos stepping in to protect me that triggered my anger. Had he always done that? Swooped in and taken over?
I didn’t have time to dissect it at the moment. I had a dinner to serve.
Sterling was assembling the beautifully toasted baguettes on silver trays. “Hey, how’s everything up front?”
“Tony’s a real winner,” I replied, walking to the sink to wash my hands. “Those look great and smell even better.”
Carlos removed a bruschetta slice from the tray and took a bite. “It’s good.” He nodded. “But maybe it needs a little more balsamic.” He picked up a bottle of the vinegar and covered the top with his thumb. “See, do this.” He showed Sterling how to shake the vinegar so that it speckled each colorful slice of charred toast with a splash of rich liquid.
“Got it.” Sterling took the bottle from Carlos and practiced the technique. Carlos gave Sterling a look of approval.
I opened the oven doors to check on the roasts. The smell of citrus, herbs, and golden chickens escaped from the bricks. Each chicken had a lovely buttery skin, but when I cut into one its juices still ran slightly pink. They needed a few more minutes. Why was everything taking so long to bake?
I sent Sterling out with the bruschetta while I gave the chicken more time to bake. Carlos sensed my anxiety. He rubbed my back. “It will be fine, relax, Julieta. The food, it has a mind of its own. It will be done soon.”
“They’re loving the appetizers, Jules,” Sterling said, returning with an empty tray.
“See, relax.” Carlos released me.
I directed Sterling to assemble the garden salad. He tossed butter leaf and romaine lettuce in a large mixing bowl and then added shredded carrots, cherry tomatoes, olives, snap peas, and homemade croutons. Right before we served the salad, we would dress it with a light olive oil and citrus vinaigrette to pull out the fruit flavor in the roasts.
Carlos rolled up his sleeves and started mashing potatoes without a word. He always knew exactly what needed to be done. That bugged me, too. Was he always this perfect?
Pulling on the thick gloves, I removed a pan from the oven and said a prayer as I cut into it. This time the juices ran clear. Thank goodness they were finally done. I removed the remaining birds and placed them on the counter. Then I covered them with foil. I’d let the juices settle while Sterling served appetizers. After they’d rested for a few minutes, we would make a vegetable gravy.
We could hear board members mingling and chatting over wine as we put the finishing touches on the meal. I transferred the roasted vegetables to the stove and added white wine. I’d let them reduce and add some flour to help thicken them into a gravy.
Lance had requested that all
He nodded.
“Does that mean my e-mail will work again?”
Gavin swept glass into the dust pan. “Nope. There’s no service up here. The generator is backup for when we lose power.”
“When we lose power?” Her eyes widened.
“Yep. Count on it.” He nodded to the bay window where fat flakes of snow cascaded to the ground. “This is just a warm-up. Mother Nature has a big show brewing.”
Whitney’s shoulders sagged. She took Dean by the arm and led him away.
Gavin dumped the glass in a garbage pan. “I’ve got a date with a generator. Anything else you need?”
“We’re good, thanks,” I said.
He tipped his fishing cap and headed out into the snow.
Carlos and I walked to the kitchen. “That was weird.”
“I do not like that man,” Carlos said, holding the door open for me.
“You made that clear,” I replied. “You don’t need to do that, you know.
“Do what?”
“Try to protect me like that. I can handle myself. I’ve dealt with much worse than Tony over the years.”
“I know you can.” He waited for me to go in first.
I pushed past him. He wasn’t wrong about Tony. The guy was a first-class jerk, but there was something about Carlos stepping in to protect me that triggered my anger. Had he always done that? Swooped in and taken over?
I didn’t have time to dissect it at the moment. I had a dinner to serve.
Sterling was assembling the beautifully toasted baguettes on silver trays. “Hey, how’s everything up front?”
“Tony’s a real winner,” I replied, walking to the sink to wash my hands. “Those look great and smell even better.”
Carlos removed a bruschetta slice from the tray and took a bite. “It’s good.” He nodded. “But maybe it needs a little more balsamic.” He picked up a bottle of the vinegar and covered the top with his thumb. “See, do this.” He showed Sterling how to shake the vinegar so that it speckled each colorful slice of charred toast with a splash of rich liquid.
“Got it.” Sterling took the bottle from Carlos and practiced the technique. Carlos gave Sterling a look of approval.
I opened the oven doors to check on the roasts. The smell of citrus, herbs, and golden chickens escaped from the bricks. Each chicken had a lovely buttery skin, but when I cut into one its juices still ran slightly pink. They needed a few more minutes. Why was everything taking so long to bake?
I sent Sterling out with the bruschetta while I gave the chicken more time to bake. Carlos sensed my anxiety. He rubbed my back. “It will be fine, relax, Julieta. The food, it has a mind of its own. It will be done soon.”
“They’re loving the appetizers, Jules,” Sterling said, returning with an empty tray.
“See, relax.” Carlos released me.
I directed Sterling to assemble the garden salad. He tossed butter leaf and romaine lettuce in a large mixing bowl and then added shredded carrots, cherry tomatoes, olives, snap peas, and homemade croutons. Right before we served the salad, we would dress it with a light olive oil and citrus vinaigrette to pull out the fruit flavor in the roasts.
Carlos rolled up his sleeves and started mashing potatoes without a word. He always knew exactly what needed to be done. That bugged me, too. Was he always this perfect?
Pulling on the thick gloves, I removed a pan from the oven and said a prayer as I cut into it. This time the juices ran clear. Thank goodness they were finally done. I removed the remaining birds and placed them on the counter. Then I covered them with foil. I’d let the juices settle while Sterling served appetizers. After they’d rested for a few minutes, we would make a vegetable gravy.
We could hear board members mingling and chatting over wine as we put the finishing touches on the meal. I transferred the roasted vegetables to the stove and added white wine. I’d let them reduce and add some flour to help thicken them into a gravy.
Lance had requested that all
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