guess he was.”
“Alexander’s just lacking . . . something.” Like not being Zach Jeffries. What the hell was wrong with me?
She bought a pound of almond bark. “Well, I guess you can’t help who does it for you. Though, I’ll tell you, the first time I saw Doug—even the second time? I was a little meh on him. Third date? He made my knees weak.”
Doug looked a little bit like Elmer Fudd. So maybe there was hope for Alexander.
“See, I told you that vegans don’t look like shriveled-up vampire ghosts,” said a short redhead to an even shorter blonde when she opened the door to her apartment the next morning.
My newest clients—sisters, roommates, and Santa Monica College students Morgan and Dana. Their apartment—right around the corner—was even smaller than mine.
“You’re, like, skinny, but healthy-looking,” the blonde said, eyeing me up and down. “We want to be skinny bitches,” she added, holding up one of my flyers, which Morgan, the redhead, said they’d seen on the community billboard at the hot yoga place I lived above.
“I’m not really that bitchy, though,” Morgan said.
“Being a skinny bitch is about cutting the crap out of your life,” I said, putting down my bag of ingredients on the little round kitchen table. “Eating good stuff. Speaking up. Out. Treating yourself right.”
“Sign us up,” Dana said.
We got to cooking, sautéing veggies and shredding vegan cheese and creating six different pizzas, including my barbequeseitan, which I had no doubt would be the most ordered item at Fresh. I showed them how to fill fajitas, roll enchiladas, and make an insane chile.
Their fridge and freezer full, I started packing up. I liked this personal chef thing a lot more than I thought I would. Especially when it didn’t involve former boyfriends and their fiancées.
Dana handed me a check. “Our mom said to tell her if you were good. She has this whole group of friends who do book clubs and Zumba and whatever, and they want to do cleanses and learn about veganism. I’ll give her your flyer.”
“Do that,” I said. Middle-aged moms had money. This was good.
Much richer, I headed out into brilliant California sunshine. My phone rang, killing the Zen of the moment. Unfamiliar number, too.
Maybe another potential client. Or the cute vegan chef.
“Clementine Cooper,” I said.
“Clementine, it’s Zach. Jeffries. I have a business proposition for you,” he said, his deep voice sending the tiniest jolts up my spine.
“I think you’re forgetting I don’t do animal innards,” I reminded him.
I could see him smiling. This was bad.
“Well aware,” he said. “I want you to come up with two vegan offerings for The Silver Steer. The menu should have something for everyone. I’d like to arrange for you to do a cooking demonstration and tasting for me.”
I rolled my eyes, which I was sure he could see. “I charge two hundred per hour, two-hour minimum,” I told him, making up numbers. “And the cost of ingredients is extra, of course.”
“Email me a shopping list and I’ll have my assistant pick everything up,” he said, as if that was perfectly normal. “How’s Monday night at my place? Seven o’clock.”
Monday night. Not Monday morning. Not Monday afternoon. Not the ole nine to five regular business hours. Night. Interesting. Maybe Baby wasn’t his girlfriend, after all.
And his place . No doubt something amazing right on the beach. “Let me check my calendar,” I said, silently counting to ten. “I have a cancellation, so sure. I have you booked for Monday night at seven.”
He gave me an address on Ocean Avenue, as expected.
Zach Jeffries. And me. Alone in his house.
Sara and I spent the weekend coming up with the two vegan entrees. Something that would complement the regular menu and specials, which were all dead-cow related, unfortunately. If I came up with something too out there, like the cherry barbeque napoleon that was presently
“Alexander’s just lacking . . . something.” Like not being Zach Jeffries. What the hell was wrong with me?
She bought a pound of almond bark. “Well, I guess you can’t help who does it for you. Though, I’ll tell you, the first time I saw Doug—even the second time? I was a little meh on him. Third date? He made my knees weak.”
Doug looked a little bit like Elmer Fudd. So maybe there was hope for Alexander.
“See, I told you that vegans don’t look like shriveled-up vampire ghosts,” said a short redhead to an even shorter blonde when she opened the door to her apartment the next morning.
My newest clients—sisters, roommates, and Santa Monica College students Morgan and Dana. Their apartment—right around the corner—was even smaller than mine.
“You’re, like, skinny, but healthy-looking,” the blonde said, eyeing me up and down. “We want to be skinny bitches,” she added, holding up one of my flyers, which Morgan, the redhead, said they’d seen on the community billboard at the hot yoga place I lived above.
“I’m not really that bitchy, though,” Morgan said.
“Being a skinny bitch is about cutting the crap out of your life,” I said, putting down my bag of ingredients on the little round kitchen table. “Eating good stuff. Speaking up. Out. Treating yourself right.”
“Sign us up,” Dana said.
We got to cooking, sautéing veggies and shredding vegan cheese and creating six different pizzas, including my barbequeseitan, which I had no doubt would be the most ordered item at Fresh. I showed them how to fill fajitas, roll enchiladas, and make an insane chile.
Their fridge and freezer full, I started packing up. I liked this personal chef thing a lot more than I thought I would. Especially when it didn’t involve former boyfriends and their fiancées.
Dana handed me a check. “Our mom said to tell her if you were good. She has this whole group of friends who do book clubs and Zumba and whatever, and they want to do cleanses and learn about veganism. I’ll give her your flyer.”
“Do that,” I said. Middle-aged moms had money. This was good.
Much richer, I headed out into brilliant California sunshine. My phone rang, killing the Zen of the moment. Unfamiliar number, too.
Maybe another potential client. Or the cute vegan chef.
“Clementine Cooper,” I said.
“Clementine, it’s Zach. Jeffries. I have a business proposition for you,” he said, his deep voice sending the tiniest jolts up my spine.
“I think you’re forgetting I don’t do animal innards,” I reminded him.
I could see him smiling. This was bad.
“Well aware,” he said. “I want you to come up with two vegan offerings for The Silver Steer. The menu should have something for everyone. I’d like to arrange for you to do a cooking demonstration and tasting for me.”
I rolled my eyes, which I was sure he could see. “I charge two hundred per hour, two-hour minimum,” I told him, making up numbers. “And the cost of ingredients is extra, of course.”
“Email me a shopping list and I’ll have my assistant pick everything up,” he said, as if that was perfectly normal. “How’s Monday night at my place? Seven o’clock.”
Monday night. Not Monday morning. Not Monday afternoon. Not the ole nine to five regular business hours. Night. Interesting. Maybe Baby wasn’t his girlfriend, after all.
And his place . No doubt something amazing right on the beach. “Let me check my calendar,” I said, silently counting to ten. “I have a cancellation, so sure. I have you booked for Monday night at seven.”
He gave me an address on Ocean Avenue, as expected.
Zach Jeffries. And me. Alone in his house.
Sara and I spent the weekend coming up with the two vegan entrees. Something that would complement the regular menu and specials, which were all dead-cow related, unfortunately. If I came up with something too out there, like the cherry barbeque napoleon that was presently
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