Having barely survived another manic dinner service, I retreat to the staff bathroom, splash my face with cold water, and rinse away the stale scent of fried onions and garlic from my hands.

After I’m done refreshing myself I leave the bathroom and make a bee-line for the pantry. Taking out some flour, dough mixture, and a few eggs, I wipe down my work surface and get stuck into my hundredth attempt at the perfect pastry. Pastry is my one major weakness as a cook. I suck at desserts—always have done, ever since Home Economics class in school.

Sea bass . . . cooked anyway you want? You bet.

Fresh Vegan cuisine, meats, bistro, gastro, French, or anything the customer wants for a starter or main? No problem.

But desserts? You may as well hand me a blunt rusty knife, an anatomy encyclopedia, and ask me to perform brain surgery.

As I get stuck into my challenge I feel thankful for the respite, having just made it through a grueling evening working as Sous Chef—code word for kitchen slave—at Big Mickey’s; one of Portland, Maine’s worst restaurants. If I never served up another ‘Meatball-ala-canned tomato sauce’ in my life, I could die a happy woman.

I should go home really, dig into a box-set of Game of Thrones while I lament my stalled career. My body aches—from the nape of my neck down to the balls of my feet—and I’m dog-tired, but I appreciate the opportunity to use work’s kitchen and flex my creative muscles. Rest is a something I have to sacrifice in order to nail this darn baking thing. I’ll never open my own restaurant if I can’t make a half decent Pear Tart Tatin.

Just as I tie back my greasy brown curls into a tight ponytail, like some Kung-Fu student about to take her black belt grade, Billy waltzes out of the guy’s restroom. He’s freshly changed out of his food splattered work clothes and is now suited and booted. Billy is the chef I work under; a big, stocky guy with a jovial face and a wicked, although annoying, sense of humor. He’s likeable, but I’d never admit that to him.

Walking through the kitchen toward me, he shakes his head. “Still at it?”

I look down at the glass bowl in front of me. “Until I get this right.”

“You do know the restaurant’s closed, right?”

I shrug.

“You’re a glutton for punishment, Ms. Baxter,” he says, hovering over my table of ingredients. “Do you ever sleep?”

I shoot him a dead-eyed look. “Killing myself for minimum wage while I serve up eggs, bacon, and meatballs, isn’t exactly going to buy me that restaurant.”

“You still on that trip?”

I nod, daydreaming of opening night.

“Why don’t you get your folks to put down the deposit?” he says.

“I don’t want my parents to bail me out again. They’ve already put me through college. Besides, there’s no point thinking I can run my own place if I can’t get a simple pastry to rise properly.”

He smirks. “You could cook up a bakery store full of the stuff, but unless you’re winning the Powerball anytime soon then what’s the point of torturing yourself?”

“Mock me all you like. You’ll see.”

He scoffs.

Bastard.

“Coming out for drinks?” he says. “Me and some of the waiters are heading downtown for cocktails. Two for one specials all night.”

“No thanks.”

“Do you know what you need?”

“No, but I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

“You need a social life.”

I glare at him. “Thanks. I’ll make a mental note of that.”

“Aw, I didn’t mean it like that . . . I meant—”

“I’m a sad case,” I cut in. “I know, I know.”

He exhales. “Maybe I’ll drag your out ass one night, huh? Celebrate you making the perfect puff pastry?”

“Sure.”

With that, he bids me goodnight and leaves the kitchen for the delights of Portland—booze, laughter . . . men. God, I can’t remember the last time I spoke to some random hottie in a bar. I think I scare most of them off anyway, especially when I rant on about the optimal temperature to serve soup.

As I crack my first egg into the side of the bowl, Mickey—my boss, and general dictator—comes bounding through to the kitchen from the back entrance. Shaking his head, he scrutinizes a printed receipt for tonight’s takings. Without making eye contact he comes to an abrupt stop by my side.

“Things looking up?” I ask him, not really caring but hoping he’s in a good mood so our exchange is short.

He blows out through his nose. “Is it ever?” His attention darts down to the glass bowl which now has three eggs whites swimming at the bottom. “What are you doing?”

“Dessert. Remember, we talked about it?”

“We did?”

“Yeah, I’d stay behind after service to brush up on my skills.”

He squints at me. “Melanie, we serve up comfort food. Meat and potatoes. What’s the point in all this?”

“I like it.”

He studies me for a while, his lips twisting to the side in a half smirk. “Okay, but I’m locking up in half an hour.”

Shit. I need at least an hour.

“Mr. Rossi, we agreed that I would lock up.”

“Did we?”

“Yes.”

He pauses and then takes a sharp breath. “All right, then.” His attention shifts from me to the light fixtures above. “Just make sure you’re no more than an hour, though. The rates these days are enough to drive a man out of business.”

“Of course.”

God, he’s so cheap.

For the first time in my twenty-four year life, I am seriously considering playing that Powerball lottery.

One day, Mel . . . one day and you’ll be free.

* * *

When I arrive home several hours later, I storm through to the kitchen, slam my effort down on the faux marble countertop, and sag on a breakfast stool. Scrutinizing the thing, I try figure out how something so deceptively simple always throws me.

Too much sugar?

An egg too few?

Just before I throw a full-blown hissy fit, mom walks in from the living room. “Wow. Something looks good.”

I roll my eyes.

She stops by my side and places a hand on my hunched shoulder. “What is it, sweetheart?”

I slowly shift my gaze to her. “Thanks.”

“What?”

“What is it? What do you think it is?”

She shoots me an unsure smile. “Soufflé?”

I sigh. “No mom, it’s supposed to be a plain pasty.”

She angles her head. “Well, it looks . . . nice.”

I shoot up from my stool, pick up the glass dish, and scoot over to the trash can before emptying out the sludgy contents with my fingers. “It’s an unmitigated disaster.”

She sits on the stool I rose from. “I have some news that might cheer you up.”

“Can’t wait,” I mumble under my breath.

“The house next door . . . I know who’s bought it.”

I start over to the sink and blast hot water on the sticky remnants of my pastry. “Yeah?”

“Try not to sound too excited.”

I turn on my heel and sneer. “Why should I be excited?”

She smiles.

I raise my brows. “Well?”

“You will be when you know who’s moving in.”