Sweet Girl by Rachel Hollis Read Free Book Online Page B

side of that glass and wondered what it would be like in here? How often have I watched the first crew and wished I knew what they were working on?
    I spin back in the other direction, suddenly wanting to memorize every single bit of the action I can, in case I never get back here again.
    The energy isn’t frenzied, unlike the restaurant kitchens I’m used to, but the handful of people working around me radiate with a kind of intense focus as they carry out the tiniest of movements over and over. In the far corner of the room¸ a young guy is using a long paddle to add dry ingredients into a mixer that’s at least twice as big as I am. When the muscles in his back move each time he lifts one of the giant bowls, it looks as if they’re going to pop through the chef coat he wears. I wonder if he needed those muscles to do this job, or if having the job gave him the muscles.
    Just next to him, tall metal rolling shelves are stacked with sheet upon sheet of baked goods. Even from a distance I can spot the scones, muffins, and chocolate croissants that compose Dolci’s morning offering. On the next rack over, dozens of cupcakes wait to be iced. I can’t see the color of the cake they’re made of, but I’d know the current menu in my sleep. I imagine I can make out the colors of black forest, raspberry red velvet, lemon ricotta, and a pumpkin spice with a cinnamon cream-cheese icing that shouldn’t be on anyone’s summer menu but is so popular that they serve it year round.
    Next to the baked goods an older man is drizzling what looks like melted dark chocolate over long rows of biscotti. If they’re the menu item I think they are, he’ll finish them with a dip in crushed, toasted hazelnuts.
    To my right is a tall bald man with biceps that are roughly the circumference of my head. He’s working on something that bubbles and steams from a saucepot in front of him. The hum of the kitchen is blocking out the sound of whatever he’s saying, but from here it looks like he’s professing his love to the sauce. The action is so totally incongruous with someone who looks more like a thug than a saucier that I can’t stop staring.
    “It’s a sonnet,” someone says behind me.
    I turn around, expecting to find Avis since I didn’t know any other women were in this kitchen. A beautiful petite woman stands in front of me wearing an oversize chef coat that barely covers her extremely pregnant stomach. Her long dark hair is braided over one shoulder, and I can’t tell if it’s the heat or the pregnancy that makes her shine, but her deep golden skin absolutely glows.
    “Excuse me?” I ask, confused.
    “Harris.” She smiles and nods her head in the direction of the saucier. “He recites Shakespeare’s sonnets to his recipes. It’s early in the day, so I’d guess he’s still at the beginning of the list. Sixteen or seventeen, maybe.”
    Her speech is slightly accented, but I can’t place where she might be from.
    “Papi,” she calls out to him.
    The giant’s lips stop moving instantly, and he turns in her direction with an indulgent smile.
    “Which one are you on now?” she asks.
    “But wherefore do not you a mightier way,” he says loudly above the din, “make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time? And fortify your self in your decay with means more blessed than my barren rhyme? Now stand you on the top of happy hours, and many maiden gardens yet unset with virtuous wish would bear you living flowers.” He finishes his recitation with a wink and turns back around to the stove.
    She smiles and reaches out a hand to me.
    “I’m Joey.”
    “Mackenzie Jennings,” I say, shaking her hand. “Everyone calls me Max.”
    I blame the introduction on nerves. I haven’t introduced myself with my full first name in years.
    “Come on. We’ll get you set up.” She starts to waddle towards the back of the kitchen, rubbing her lower back with one hand. I have no idea how someone can be this pregnant and work in this heat.