"Mr. Thorne just called."
I nodded, slowly, waiting for her to explain what the hell that meant.
"He doesn't know who that is, Melissa," Tom the floor manager cut in. "Daniel Thorne, Chef -
he hired us to cater an event for him, months ago, before all this shit happened."
"Daniel...really? Why didn't I know about this?"
Melissa and Tom shrugged simultaneously.
"Fuck's sake...all right, do you know why he called?"
"He said he wants to stop by today," Melissa said, her eyes huge. It was like dealing with Aiden
all over again. "Wants to talk to us."
"About what?" I demanded.
"I have no idea," she said. "He didn't say. I guess if he wanted to cancel, he would've just done it
over the phone, right?"
"Fucked if I know," Tom grumbled.
Good. Great. So one of the world's biggest tech mogul billionaires was just dropping in, while I
was in the midst of cleaning up the rubble, and he wanted to have a chat. What could possibly go
wrong?
"I don't know if I can handle another stuffed shirt," said Tom, raking his fingers through his hair.
"I just...I just don't know. I think I'll go out for a smoke break when he shows up."
"That might be for the best," I said.
"From what I hear, he's not that much of a stuffed shirt," Lydia piped up.
"Oh, right," said Tom, his voice growing louder. "He's just eccentric. A nice way of saying filthy
rich with a social disorder."
"I don't collect my fingernails," said a voice from the doorway. "If that helps." We all turned, slowly, and the blood drained from Tom's face.
"When I said I was coming right over, I really did mean 'right over,'" Daniel Thorne said, with a
little quirk at the corner of his mouth. "Just wanted to tweak the menu a little bit."
"I'm..." Tom started to say, but Thorne silenced him with a raised hand.
"I've heard much worse," he said. "Let's forget about it and start over. I didn't know you had a
celebrity guest."
I realized, belatedly, that he was talking about me.
"Just visiting," I said, stepping forward to shake his hand. "But hopefully I can be of some help."
Thorne looked around the room. "I was working with Chef Andrew," he said. "Is he not in
today?"
"We've had some staff changes," I said smoothly, stepping forward and leading Thorne into the
back office area. "Chef Andrew has moved on. But I'll be happy to take over where he left off."
"I see." Thorne nodded, slowly, like he was taking his time processing this information. It was
funny - I'd seen a thousand pictures of the man, and I had a device he'd invented in my pocket. But I'd
never given him much thought before. Not as a person. I'm as guilty of that as the rest of the world,
sometimes, I suppose.
He was handsome, if you liked that sort of thing - features that were sharp but almost boyish. I
felt like his face would light up if I started talking about Nintendo games. And there was something
else, too, under the surface. A low level of discomfort. He was encountering something unexpected, and
his programming had to take a moment to adjust. To find a new protocol.
"Jill," I called out, and she came over quickly, holding her face in a very neutral smile. "Would
you please start going over my new menu with the staff while I work with Mr. Thorne here?"
She nodded, and left. I forced myself to turn my attention back to the man who was laying out
thousands of dollars for our catering services.
"I have to admit," Thorne was saying, "it's...somewhat of a relief that you're here. I wasn't..." He
paused, considering his words for a moment. "I wasn't blown away by Chef Andrew's menu."
"I'm very sorry to hear that," I said. "I'm here to whip this place into shape, if I'm being perfectly
honest, Mr. Thorne. I'm sure you heard the news."
"I did indeed." He nodded, that hint of a smile coming back. "My wife is a fan of yours."
His wife - I remembered when all that happened, a few years back. She was a former employee
of his, who married him after a hasty courtship among many rumors of gold-digging and his
questionable citizenry.
"Please, do tell her to come down and say hello if she'd like," I said.
"She'd be far too nervous," said Thorne. "And anyway, is that really in my best interests, Chef?"
He was still smiling, but fixing me with an unnervingly steady gaze.
I took a risk by laughing. Thankfully, he laughed too, a small soft chuckle that broke the tension.
"Sorry," he said. "That was a bad joke."
"Don't worry about it," I said. "Do you have a copy of the menu?"
He produced it from his coat pocket, and we went to work.