finished lighting candles on one of the high tops near the back of the restaurant. She’s dressed in a killer dark blue mini that highlights all the best parts of her body.
And by that, I mean, all of her.
There’s something even more stunning about her tonight than last. I realize she’s styled her hair, unlike the night she was cooking. Her locks frame her stunning face just right. Candlelight dances in her eyes.
She stares at me staring at her. I present the bottle of wine I brought. “From my own stash. Hope it pairs with whatever we’re eating.”
As she steps toward me, I tense. One part in particular stiffens conspicuously. I try to play it cool. She glances at the label. “It’ll have to do,” she shrugs.
Twenty minutes later, we’ve almost finished the bottle, and I got another mouthful of her amazing cooking. I’m nearly bouncing in my seat, the food is so good. She, on the other hand, looks forlorn and just sort of pushes her meal around with her fork.
* * *
“Seriously,” I say as I chew, “how did I not know about you before the other night?”
“Why should you have known about me?”
“I should have known because you’re obviously an amazing chef. I make it my job to know about all the amazing chefs in the world.”
“Guess you’re not as good at your job as you think you are. Anyway, it’s hard to believe you find my food so intriguing.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m not breaking any rules here, unlike you. Back when you were a chef and not a celebrity, you were quite the renegade.”
“There’s nothing wrong with taking the traditional and making it shine.”
She shrugs and gazes at her wine, absently fingering the glass stem. How do I get through to her?
I swallow one last bite, then take her hand in mine. Her skin is soft, but I can feel the telltale marks of a chef’s hand. Callouses, tiny cuts, scars from old burns.
“What do I have to do to convince you how impressed I am with you?” I ask.
She takes her hand away and runs it through her hair. My heart sinks a little. “I appreciate the compliments, but you can give it a rest,” she tells me.
“I mean what I’m saying.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” she blurts out, “because I don’t think I’m ever getting another shot! My investors are threatening to pull out. This place is the butt of every joke in every restaurant in the city, and beyond! So, while I appreciate the flattery, Stephen, it’s going to take a little more than your ego-stroking to convince me that my life, my career, and my dream aren’t completely over.”
Time to get down to business.
I wipe my mouth with my napkin and set it on the table. “OK,” I say, “I have a way to make this whole thing better.”
“You’re going to poison my food and let me drift off into oblivion?”
“What do you know about my other show?”
“You have more than one show?”
“You didn’t know I had more than one show?”
“Well, don’t look hurt. You didn’t know I had even one restaurant until a few nights ago.”
I take a deep breath and start over. “So, as it happens, I have another show. It’s called Into the Fire. I swoop in and rescue troubled restaurants. The ones featured often go on to be –”
“Are you kidding me? You’d feature Origin?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you –”
“Stephen!” She leaps off her chair and kisses me full on the mouth. For a moment, we linger there. Things could go either way…
In a move that’s probably best for both of us, she slides herself back into her chair. Now she digs into her food. I don’t know why, but watching her eat with such gusto gives me great joy.
“Mm,” she says between forkfuls, “this’ll – give me a chance – to stick it to Nadia!”
I nearly choke on my own bite of food. “Nadia?”
“Nadia Quint,” Cynthia says, taking a big swig of wine. “You know her, right?”
“Sure –”
“She was the bitch who started all the screaming that night. She’s had it in for me for years. In fact,” she leans forward conspiratorially, “me and Paulie – y’know, my sous-chef – we think Nadia wanted to try and sink this place and that she released the little varmints herself.”
I nod like I’m considering that, but what I’m really thinking is — Ohhhh shit.
Lifting up my wine glass and trying to be as casual as I can, I mutter, “Y’know,