Page 37 of The Sweet Spot

“You’re not going to regret hiring her,” I said.

“No fucking chance of that,” he said. “Her food is the best food I’ve ever had. And we both know I like to eat.”

“But you’re looking good. Things are good?”

“Yeah, thanks for asking. I’ve cleaned up my act, dumped the shittiest of my friends, and I’m keeping life simple. No chicks, either. Just getting my life straight on my own.”

“That’s the way to go.”

I could see Ryan had something else to say. He squinted an eye and pointed a finger at me. “Anything going on with her?” he said, pointing to the kitchen.

I followed his finger to Wolseley cleaning dishes and then quickly looked back at him. “With Wolseley?” I asked, dropping my voice.

“She’s the only one here!”

Now, I was confused. “No. Why would you even ask?”

“That chick is hot for you. She was devouring you with her eyes,” he said, laughing at his unfunny joke.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “She was excited and nervous about today.”

“The way she reacted to you was very different to the way she reacted to me. And if I didn’t know better, I saw you giving her some looks too.”

My breath caught just a little. “What? You are hallucinating. I wanted today to work out for her. That’s it.”

“She’s cute. I’d bang her. Just saying. Anyways, later.”

He left like he hadn’t thrown a grenade on his way out.

Chapter Twenty

Wolseley

With all my sudden newfound wealth—okay, maybe I wasn’t rich, but this was the most money I’d ever had coming in—I was working myself to the bone. Not only was I cooking for two now, but Ryan and Brandon’s food choices didn’t exactly mesh well. Ryan wanted much more meat-derived proteins in his diet, which posed a bit of a challenge for me, so I came up with an ingenious plan. Ryan’s pickup person, Delia, was a foodie, which worked in my favor. While working as a delivery driver for various food apps, she was saving up money to go to culinary school. How lucky was I? So with Ryan’s permission, I hired her part-time as my assistant. Essentially, she was my sous chef and taster.

She worked for me three hours a day whenever the guys were in town. I coordinated her hours around her delivery job, and then when we were finished prepping food for the guys, she took the food to Ryan.

“What you and Ryan are paying me in four hours of work is more than I make in three days doing deliveries,” she said, herlight brown eyes lighting up as she watched me dice through onions. I’d been showing her techniques even though it slowed us down, but I remembered being in her shoes, and I would have killed for someone to take me under their wing.

Delia was in her early twenties, saving up money while still living at home in Surrey. She came into Vancouver every day, did deliveries all day long in the downtown area, dropped her bike off at a family friend’s place nearby, and then repeated the same thing the next day. She worked seven days a week, determined to save money to one day move out into a place of her own and get herself into culinary school. She wasn’t much taller than me, but she was probably a hundred pounds. I’d need to fatten her up a bit, but then again, she cycled around the city all day. The woman was a machine.

“I’m happy to answer any questions you have,” I said, as we moved on to making my homemade spaghetti. She observed, took notes on her phone, then helped me with the meat sauce Ryan insisted on. She was going to taste the final product and let me know what it was missing.

I spent some time testing her palate with different foods until I was satisfied she could make the final call on certain dishes. And as an added bonus of the job, we always made a little extra for her to take home. She did need to eat.

“How did Ryan find you?” I asked as she browned the meat to my specifications.

“He ordered out a lot, and I delivered to him all the time. He was always a generous tipper. I got to know him, and then he asked if he could hire me to get food from you. It was a no-brainer.”

“And he’s nice? Tell me he’s not hitting on you.”

She laughed, nervously brushing away hair that wasn’t there. She was meticulous about keeping her dirty-blond hairtied back in a tight bun. “He’s always been super sweet. No hitting on me at all.”

“Just making sure he’s not getting handsy.” The moment the words left my mouth, I realized I sounded exactly like my mother! Did that happen when you hit thirty? You started sounding like your parents?

Pushing that thought aside, I went through the week’s menu with her. How we’d arranged it was that she’d work from ten thirty to noon with me, do deliveries, then come back and work another hour or so before heading over to Ryan’s with dinner and his late-night meal. She’d only been working with me a few days, but we had the schedule down, and she appreciated being able to work the lunch and dinner rushes doing her deliveries. After she left, I would focus on Brandon’s late-night meal and prep all the snacks for Ryan and Brandon. While it had only been a week, I was beyond exhausted. I’d been having trouble sleeping, too worried about meal plans. But it would sort itself out once I had a routine. I knew that.

Brandon had been napping while we were working. The man could sleep through a police siren outside his door, but we still made every effort to be as quiet as possible, which was difficult with his open-concept kitchen. But he looked fresh and awake when he came out of his room around two, ready to eat something before the game. He chowed down while Delia and I worked, and then he was gone.