The Icing on the Cake Read Online Free Page B

address Jean-Pierre. “The photographer for Central Coast Living is here to see you.”
    “I do not have time for this,” Jean-Pierre grumbled. “I called Ingrid and asked her to change these appointments!”
    “I, um, I could come back later, and I’m sure I could talk to the photographer and . . .”
    “It is too late now,” Jean-Pierre growled. Then with a heaving sigh he followed the woman out of the refrigerator.
    Feeling completely terrified that this assignment was going to turn out worse, not better, than my first one, I cleaned up the mess the best I could. Then I picked salad greens out of my hair and wandered back into the massive kitchen in search of the bathroom, where I would try to fix myself up before I went to talk with the photographer.
    As I tiptoed through the kitchen, I noticed that the photographer was taking candid shots of the kitchen and staff. His back was toward me, so I couldn’t see him very well. Then he turned slightly to get a better angle for a shot, and I noticed that he looked vaguely familiar.
    No way, I thought, narrowing my eyes. It couldn’t be.
    But it was. It was Isaac. The guy I had met at Bob’s Bait and Tackle. The guy who lived nearly a hundred miles away from me. The guy I was sure I would never see again. This weird excited feeling suddenly came over me, and I began walking quickly toward Isaac to say hello.
    But then I smelled myself. I stunk like a mix of acidic tomatoes and horrifically smelly feet. Thinking better of my idea to go talk to Isaac, I quickly ducked behind a tall bread warmer and held my breath. Partly because I was nervous that Isaac would see me and partly because I really did stink.
    “Annabelle? Annabelle the cake girl?”
    I spun around and saw Isaac looking at me, his face registering both disbelief and delight.
    “Uh, hey, what are you doing here?” I asked, backing away from Isaac slowly.
    “I’m taking photos for a magazine article,” Isaac explained, moving two steps toward me for every one step I took back. “Have you seen a writer from Central Coast Living around here?” Isaac looked at my shirt and saw the tomato stains. He furrowed his brow. “Do you work here?”
    “No, I don’t work here.” I looked down at my soiled shirt. “I’m actually the writer you’re looking for.”
    “Really? You write for Central Coast Living ?” The corners of Isaac’s mouth turned up slightly.
    “Probably not for long,” I replied somberly.
    I realized a little too late that Isaac had moved very close to me. And as soon as he was in the new close-to-me position, he scrunched up his nose and began sniffing the air around me. “Have you been eating . . . cheese?” he asked, his nose still all scrunched up.
    My face grew hot with humiliation and in a reflex reaction I pushed Isaac away. “There was a little accident in the refrigerator locker,” I said. “I haven’t been eating cheese. I just kind of, you know, smell like it.” Then, to get the subject off my cheesy-smelliness, I said, “So wait a minute? You’re working for the magazine. But you live in Los Banos. That’s quite a commute.”
    “I grew up there, but I live here now. I think I told you that yesterday.”
    I opened my mouth to respond, but I suddenly found myself lost in the hazel color of Isaac’s eyes. And for a good thirty seconds I forgot how to speak.
    The sound of Jean-Pierre’s voice in the distance brought me back to reality. I pulled my eyes away from Isaac’s. “I’m going to go figure out what to do about interviewing Jean-Pierre. Will you excuse me?”
    “After you talk to Jean-Pierre, do you want to get some lunch?” Isaac asked. “I think it would be good for us to talk about the article. I can meet you out in the dining room when I’m done back here, and we can go grab something.”
    Now, it was true that I had already eaten lunch at the meeting at work, but I really wanted to hang out with Isaac, so I accepted. “Lunch sounds great,” I