Chapter 6: Invoice Me

The staff suite on the fourth floor had a kitchenette, a narrow bed and a window over the loading dock.

It was the nicest place I had ever paid for.

On the morning after the burn, a note was slid under my door in blue ink.

Terms, it said.

One: Everything between us is invoiced and paid. That is your rule.

Two: Every day, you ask me for one thing. Anything. I pay it or I tell you why not.

I read it standing at the kettle in my socks.

I wrote under the second line: What if I don't want anything?

I slid it under his office door on my way to work.

By lunch it was back on my station with one line added: You do. You've been wanting something for twenty-six years. You can start small.

I put it in my apron pocket, and I thought about it through two hundred croissants.

That afternoon I rode the staff elevator up after my shift with a tray of pastries for the board's meeting room.

Mason stepped in on the third floor.

He pressed 12, and the doors slid shut.

The elevator was small and quiet.

He leaned one shoulder on the wall, and he looked at the bandage on my arm.

"It's healing," I said.

"I saw. You didn't tell the chef you burned it."

"I didn't want to be a problem."

"You're not a problem."