I raise a finger. “One minute early.”

“Spare me the excuses, Summerlin. You’re on refills tonight.”

“What? No.” I hate the whine that taints my voice. Crossing the kitchen, I lean against the fridge with the wind stolen from my sails. He knows I’d rather be serving and passing trays in the mix of the party than be stuck in the kitchen and reloading the tables all night. “That job is the worst, and you know it.”

“I do know it, but you’re the best at it. I need someone reliable because we’re short-staffed. Johnson and Campbell both called in sick tonight. Dane’s bartending, and Susan is passing the apps. I’ll be setting up the grazing table in ten, and I want your help. You’ve got a good eye, and I intend to use it tonight.”

“Are you buttering me up?”

“Is it working?”

“Maybe,” I reply, hating that I smile.

He comes over and sets the clipboard on the counter in front of me. “You ready to change your major and enter the culinary program? Maybe go the hospitality route and come work for me or run Golden Lion’s catering service down in Maylor?”

“I’m not working at the Golden Lion Motel. If I have any say, I’m heading to medical school next year.”

Dane passes behind me with his arms filled with a box of champagne. “Heard back from any?”

“When exactly have I had time to apply? Larry keeps me working every spare minute I have,” I reply, grabbing a carton of cherry tomatoes from a rolling rack and pouring them into a colander. “I’m trying to wrap up a few applications when I go to my Dad’s house for the game. I might need to think of a backup plan, though, just in case I don’t get in anywhere.”

Pushing the door open, he anchors his foot as a stop at the base. “You don’t need a backup plan. They’d be crazy not to have you.”

“I appreciate the faith you have in me.”

“It’s easy to believe in you, Lark.” The door closes behind him before I can reply. He and Amanda, along with my father, have been my biggest cheerleaders. I try to remember how much they believe in me and that it will work out exactly how it’s supposed to. Some days I do better than others.

I turn on the faucet and wash my hands before running the tomatoes under the cool water. Carrying a crudité tray around the large marble-topped island, Larry whispers, “After the mess on Valentine’s at the Bensimone’s home, we’ve made it back to the estates of Beacon Pointe.” He looks at me. “If we do this right, Delta Westcott will recommend us all over town.”

“It will be great and run smoothly. I promise.”

“I’m holding you to that.” When he leaves, the event planner is right behind him with a walkie-talkie to her mouth, demanding someone leave the ice sculpture on the refrigerated truck until right before the party starts.