Skinny Bitch Gets Hitched by Kim Barnouin Page B

French onion, my to-die-for minestrone, Hungarian mushroom, and curried lentil. Alanna and Gunnar and I went to work on samples for the wait staff and quizzed them on the ingredients, which I’d e-mailed to everyone yesterday.
    At four thirty it was time to start prep. I told Keira to take off her necklace and stuff it in her pocket, then sent her over to Gunnar, who was about ten feet down the length of stainless steel counter from where I stood.
    I could hear her trying to make small talk, something Gunnar hated. I smiled as he held up a hand. “Don’t talk. Just watch. This is how I mince garlic. This is how you’ll mince garlic.”
    â€œOkay!” she said perkily, and took a garlic clove from the basket. “I totally worked on this last night.”
    I watched her press too hard on it and mangle a clove.
    Gunnar glanced at me and raised an eyebrow. He was onto her. There had to be some reason I’d hire a novice, and since everyone knew I’d just gotten engaged, Keira had “I’m related in some way to the owner’s fiancé” written all over her face. “No,” Gunnar told her. “Just watch me. When you think you can do it like I can, then do your own.”
    â€œUm, it’s just garlic,” she said with a laugh. Hint: never say um or that anything was just anything to Gunnar Fitch.
    He stared at her. “So let me guess. You’re the fiancé’s sister or something.”
    â€œStepsister, actually.”
    â€œWhat a surprise,” he said, rolling his eyes.
    She tried another head of garlic and knocked the basket over.
    â€œJesus!” Gunnar shouted. “I don’t care who the hell you’re related to. If you don’t know how to mince garlic—after I just showed you, after you supposedly practiced all weekend—you shouldn’t be here.”
    â€œSo show me again. God, ” Keira yelled back.
    At least she can take it and dish it back, I thought.
    Gunnar rolled his eyes and grabbed the knife. “Watch.”
    Within an hour, Keira had pissed off everyone, including the nicest waiters after I put her on making pitchers of lemon water and the pitchers were full of seeds.
    I gave Keira a break in the little alley with a half glass of wine. “I’ll totally understand if you want to leave right now,”I told her. Please say, “Oh, thank you,” and race for the door. Please. “Tonight’s been really rough on you and it’s only six o’clock. In a half hour, things are going to get wild in here.”
    Her eyes widened. “Oh, good! I love a fast pace. So what can I help with next?”
    Donkey balls.

    By eight thirty, my arm felt as if it were going to fall off from stirring pots of soup. My cell phone rang on the counter. Everyone knew not to call me when I was in the kitchen unless it was an emergency. It wasn’t my sister’s special ringtone, which I’d set up so I’d never miss one of her calls—the last time I’d ignored a call from Elizabeth, our dad had been rushed to the hospital with complications. The phone kept ringing. Finally, I pulled it out of my pocket. Unfamiliar number. I ignored it. The person called back a second later. I ignored it again. It rang again.
    Who the hell was this?
    I called over a McMann twin to take over my pots and finally answered.
    â€œClementine, darling, it’s Dominique Huffington. How’s my baby girl doing? I would have called her, but I don’t want to get Keira in ‘trouble’ for chatting on her first day.”
    I wanted to dump the phone in the pot of curried lentils. “Hi, Dominique. Sorry to cut this short, but we’re very busy right now. I’ll—”
    â€œWhile I have you, let me tell you your wedding date. It’ll be May seventh at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Of course, the date is important so we can plan accordingly for a spring wedding. I would have made you a