Chapter 1

At lunch I'd barely finished handing around the beef jerky I'd made when our department manager, Derek Pritchard, followed the smell to my desk.

He grabbed a piece, tasted it, and announced at full volume.

"Dylan, this is good. Way better than anything you'd buy to go with a beer."

Before I could get a modest word out, his tone shifted.

"Perfect timing. The owner isn't coming to the department dinner tomorrow night, so there's no sense throwing money around."

He pulled three hundred-dollar bills out of his wallet and slapped them on my desk.

"We'll eat in the break room. Dylan Woodward's doing the cooking. There's your grocery budget.

"Twenty people in this department. Spend it carefully, but I want drinks, I want meat, and I want a couple of real entrees."

Three hundred dollars? For twenty people?

A project I'd led had brought the company a serious profit, and I'd worn the owner down over weeks to get thirty thousand dollars approved for a team retreat.

Derek meant to pocket nearly all of it and have me cover the difference so he could look generous.

Looking at that oily, entitled face, I smiled.

"Sure. Since you think that highly of me, Derek, I'll lay it all out nice and clear."

Then I turned away and texted the owner.

"Aunt Victoria, the budget came through. We're having a surprise department dinner tomorrow night. Care to come taste it?"

Chapter 1

My phone buzzed almost immediately.

"I had Finance release that money yesterday. What scheme is it this time? How big a surprise are we talking?"

I raised an eyebrow and wrote back.

"Guaranteed memorable."

Aunt Victoria came back with a ten-second voice message, brisk and amused.

"With a promise like that, I'm assuming there'll be lobster and oysters. Maybe all the spoiling I've done wasn't wasted after all.

"Fine. I'll push another dinner and come taste this surprise of yours tomorrow, spend a little time with your team."

Hearing that crisp, capable laugh, my mouth twisted.

Turn thirty thousand dollars into three hundred, and let my chairwoman aunt see with her own eyes how fat one of her parasites had gotten. How was that not a surprise?

I sent her a salute emoji. The second I set the phone down, Derek Pritchard leaned over my desk.

"What are you spacing out for? Did you get all that or not?"

He rapped his knuckles on the desk and held forth, spit flying.

"Making it yourself is cheap. There's got to be chicken and fish, right? Put the braised pork on there, the steamed crab. Everybody's busted their tail all year, so make sure there's plenty."

"Derek, three hundred dollars for twenty people is going to be--"

"Don't stand there dithering."

Derek cut me off, impatient, all big-brother swagger.

"I checked prices. Half-pound blue crabs go for five bucks each. Twenty of them is a little over a hundred. Pork belly's a few dollars a pound. Three hundred's more than enough."

That got a laugh out of me.

It was the dead of winter. What decade sold live, meaty crabs for five dollars apiece? Was he buying dead ones? Empty shells?

Never mind that he wanted bottomless entrees for twenty adults, plus beer and soda. Three hundred barely covered meat.

He was flat out telling me to eat the difference so he could look like a big man.

When I didn't answer, Derek's face darkened and he tacked on one more thing.

"And company hours are for creating value for the company. Do the shopping and the prep on your own time after work. Don't let it cut into the day.

"Whatever's left over, call it compensation for your trouble. I keep track of these things."

Wow.

So I was supposed to cook him a four-course dinner off the clock and thank him for the opportunity?

"No problem, Derek."

I nodded, steady, eyes earnest.

"Don't worry. I'll make sure that three hundred buys the best value out there."

"That's more like it."

Derek gave me a sidelong look and strolled back to his office with his hands behind his back.

Well, then. The manager wanted showstopper dishes. As his employee, I had to deliver.

As for where those dishes came from...

I placed one enormous order on the spot, sticking to local sellers, and loaded up several cases of shelf-stable meal pouches.

Braised pork pouches, a dollar fifty a bag. Spicy crab-flavored blocks, two fifty a bag. Frozen bargain chicken legs, a dollar twenty-five apiece.

The seller swore he'd run the delivery himself the next day, guaranteed, enough to fill every stomach or he'd eat the loss.

Mystery chemicals and industrial shortcuts, arriving right alongside the diarrhea and the stomach cramps.

Once that order went through, I felt fantastic.

So he was my manager. So what? He tried to play me for an idiot and squeeze money out of me. Did I look that spineless?

Still smirking, I ducked into the grocery store after work, planning to treat myself to something good.

Derek's messages followed me like a tick I couldn't get off.

"Dylan, how's the shopping? Everything's got to be fresh. Pick live crabs, don't try to pass off dead ones on people.

"Get pork belly with good layers, and hang on to the receipts. The company isn't reimbursing you, but I still want to see the line items.

"Where are you at with this? Send me a picture, now."

Chapter 2

Like hell I was making him a feast. He could keep dreaming.

I lifted my phone, snapped a picture of the hand-cut prime beef going for forty-five dollars a pound behind the counter, and sent it over.

"Derek, I'm picking out the beef now. This cut look okay to you?"

Derek fired back instantly and started directing me through the screen.

"Whoa, that piece's way too fatty.

"Nobody wants anything that rich these days. Get the leaner cut. It looks dry, but it's got more chew to it.

"And since you're buying beef, add a pepper steak tomorrow. Heavy on the onions. That's my favorite.

"One more thing. Get him to knock off the change. Don't just stand there paying sticker price like an idiot."

I let out a snort and nearly rolled my eyes out of my head.

That beef was for the steak I was planning to sear at home for myself. Pepper steak, heavy on the onions?

That depended entirely on how hard the meal-pouch factory had gone with the additives.

"Yep, sounds good, Derek. It's a nice cut. I like it too."

I fired off the empty answer, powered the phone down, and dropped it in my bag.

I paid, went home, cracked a cold beer, seared that beef rare, and watched the game in total comfort.

Meanwhile, over in the company chat, Derek was still selling the dream.

"Dylan's putting in real work prepping tomorrow's dinner. You're all going to eat well, so make sure you thank him for it."

My coworkers flooded the chat with thanks and praise for my sacrifice.

I looked at the pile of messages and switched on Do Not Disturb.

A whole crowd of people who swung whichever way the wind blew.

Let them get their hopes up. It only made the surprise land harder.

The next morning Derek came in with his travel mug and made straight for my desk.

"So? How'd last night go? Everything ready?"

His eyes drifted to the empty space under my desk, like he was wondering where the groceries were.

"If you're running behind, I'll have Tyler and the others wash vegetables over lunch. It's a group thing, everybody should pitch in."

The faces of the people around us changed instantly.

Tyler Brennan in particular looked sick.

Everybody knew it was miserable work and nobody wanted anywhere near it.

But nobody dared say a word to the manager.

I stayed perfectly relaxed and kept working without looking up.

"Don't worry, Derek. I took your advice and didn't touch company time. I got it all done overnight. Nobody needs to help.

"I've got a delivery coming straight to the office. Everyone just needs to show up hungry."

Derek broke into a grin, especially pleased by the part about not touching company time.

Right then the receptionist called across the floor, "Dylan Woodward, your delivery's here."

Several enormous white foam coolers had been stacked by the front desk.

Derek's eyes lit up at the sight of them.

"Look at you, Dylan. You even sprang for insulated coolers. Those couldn't have been cheap.

"What's in there, the crab or the braised pork?"

He circled the coolers twice and reached for a lid.

"Let me see what you made."

Every one of them was packed with the meal pouches I'd ordered.

I got there first, clamped a hand down on the lid, and lowered my voice like I was sharing a secret.

"Derek, these are all hot dishes. A buddy of mine kept them warm the whole way over. If we open them now the heat escapes and they won't taste right.

"Plus the smell's strong enough to get into your clothes, and it'll bother everyone trying to work.

"Go relax in your office. Once I've got it all set up you can come eat and say a few words to the department."

Derek looked down at his mirror-polished shoes and thought that over.

"Fine, you handle it... Actually, hold on."

He caught me by the arm and dropped his voice next to my ear.

"If you could afford coolers, you didn't spend the whole three hundred, did you?"

Chapter 3

"Keep twenty or thirty for yourself, buy yourself a drink, something. The rest comes back to the department. We've got to make this stretch, you know?"

Wow.

He'd swallowed twenty-nine thousand seven hundred dollars, and he still wanted to scrape the fat off the scraps of the last three hundred.

I choked down my disgust and gave him a smile that never reached my eyes.

"You give an instruction, Derek. How would I ignore it?

"Don't worry. Soon as I'm done I'll send you the receipts and whatever's left. Books will be spotless, nothing shaved off."

"Huh. I didn't have you figured for it, Dylan, but you know how to play ball."

He raised an eyebrow, thrilled that he had the department's softest touch this thoroughly under his thumb.

Why else would I do his job, save him money, and make him look good in front of the staff?

"Go on and set it up. Call me when the presentation's ready. Nobody picks up a fork before I get there."

He walked back to his office in wonderful spirits.

Probably already picturing himself working through a beef banquet while counting the twenty-nine thousand seven hundred sitting in his personal account.

Shame.

I'm not that fond of paying for other people's theft.

At six that evening the break room became a dining room.

I'd opened every cooler, pulled the contents out, and laid tablecloths over the whole spread.

I killed the overhead lights on purpose. My coworkers sat around the tables we'd pushed together, forks in hand, breathing in the strange spiced smell and practically drooling.

"That smells incredible. Is that braised pork?"

"I smell crab."

Derek took the head of the table like he was holding court and cleared his throat to start his speech.

That was when the laugh came from the doorway.

"Everyone's here already. Looks like I timed it perfectly."

Aunt Victoria pushed the door open, presence turned all the way up.

Derek jumped hard enough to nearly drop his mug.

He'd never dreamed the owner, who never had a free hour, would actually turn up to a small department dinner.

But he recovered fast, hurrying over with a fawning smile that pushed every crease in his face together.

"Ms. Langford, you came down yourself. I was just about to report to you, this whole dinner was cooked by Dylan personally.

"The budget was, ahem, we decided against a big restaurant, but eating here shows we're taking the company's push for careful spending seriously. It's all heart, ma'am."

Aunt Victoria nodded pleasantly, her eyes moving over the covered tables.

"Good, good. That's exactly the kind of down-to-earth thinking I like. I hear Dylan can cook, and I skipped dinner, so let's eat."

Derek shot me a smug look and waved a hand at me.

"Dylan, the chairwoman's spoken. What are you standing around for? Get those covers off and let her taste your work."

I stood beside the table, looking at all that greed and triumph on Derek's face, and felt my mouth go thin and cold.

"Of course, Derek.

"This is the deluxe twenty-person spread I put together with the three-hundred-dollar budget you personally approved."

The words were barely out before I yanked the tablecloth away.

No careful plating. No steaming home-cooked dishes.

Dozens of foil meal pouches, torn open, standing upright in the coolers.

The braised pork had the gray sheen of meat that had been dead a very long time, capped with a hardened layer of industrial lard.

The so-called crab was two bags of crab-flavored starch sticks, still squashed together inside the plastic.

The pepper steak was the disaster inside the disaster: a black lump of sauce with barely a strand of beef visible.

Cheap preservative and bottom-shelf artificial flavor bloomed through the room and hit the back of everyone's throat.

Dead silence.

Every person there froze with a fork suspended in midair.

Derek's face went green.

He jabbed a violently shaking finger at the table and roared.

"D-Dylan! Have you lost your mind?

"The chairwoman is standing right here. I told you to cook dinner. What is this, hog slop?"