Of course the investor meeting would be a last minute thing the morning after I’ve had a night out. What did I expect? A second to breathe? Time to prepare for a massive pitch? No chance. I never should have let Asha talk me into hitting up that second club and drinking those blueberry mojitos. But damn, we had fun—even with the Cole incident fresh in my mind. Then again, maybe all the fun I had was just a futile attempt to erase the memory of what I’d done with him against the wall of that first club.

What got me out of bed at the crack of dawn this morning was a call from Tony telling me he was already on his way to pick me up, and plenty of advice on how I should dress for the meeting. At least I’m too pumped full of anxious adrenaline to dwell on what I did with Cole last night, how badly I wanted him, how I almost lost control…

Half-asleep, the club’s music still thumping painfully in my sinuses, I manage to get dressed and leave the house, where Tony is leaning up against his convertible with a broad smile.

“Finally! Sleeping Beauty awakes!”

He hugs me quickly, briefly scans my outfit with an approving nod—the way I’m getting used to people doing—then opens the car door for me to slump into the passenger seat.

“Is this really legit?” I ask as he hops in on the other side and turns on the engine. The second half of a Rihanna record fills the air. “I mean, who arranges meetings this sudden?”

“They’re rich, sweetheart,” Tony says as he revs the car recklessly out of the parking lot. “They jump on planes—Tokyo, Paris, New York—the way other people ride the metro. They’re only in town for today, and we’ve got to grab the opportunity while we can.”

I try to steady my nausea as Tony weaves in between the traffic, the thumping pain behind my eyes loosening a little as the air whips against my face and hair, pressing me back into the seat.

“Still,” I say, straining to be heard over the roar of the engine, “we didn’t have any time to prepare. Do we have a financial plan? Projections? Cost lists?”

Tony laughs, sending the fear of God into me as he tosses his head back, removing his eyes from the blurred road.

“Oh, honey. They’re investors—not accountants. They don’t want to have a bunch of numbers spluttered at them. They want an idea, a dream, a vision. People that they can believe in.” Tony reaches out and turns my face toward him, my chin in his palm. “And who wouldn’t believe in a face like yours?”

“You’d be surprised,” I say, through squished cheeks.

Tony laughs easily again and only half-concentrates as he takes a corner at car-tilting speed.

“Look, these people are rich, and if they wanted more money they’d go to a stockbroker, or buy some real estate. But they don’t. They want a place they can call their own, something to be proud of. Something fabulous and creative that they can feel they had some part in making.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“When you have as much money as these guys do, it is.”

Tony swings the wheel and guides the car up a small incline toward the front of a grand hotel. Tall and glass, the rails leading up to doors so polished they catch the sun like diamonds, the shrubbery around the building so perfectly manicured it’s as if the hotel management put a hairdresser on staff to trim them.

“Sir?”

The red-suited valet steps toward us as soon as we exit the car, and Tony hands him the keys with a regal smile before we huddle up at the foot of the stairs.

“Tits and teeth, honey,” Tony says. He puts a hand on the small of my back and one on my shoulder to fix my posture, then taps under my chin to get it a little higher.

“Why do I feel like I’m being entered into a beauty pageant?”

“Now,” Tony says breezily, as we start up the stairs to the revolving glass doors, “the pretty boy is Andre, and the cute, chubby guy’s named Lou.”

“What are their last names? Shouldn’t we use those?”

Tony stops for a moment to think.

“You know, I’m sure they told me, but the music was too loud. Anyway—”

“Wait—” I say, grabbing Tony’s arm to stop him from carrying on. “Music? What do you mean? Where did you meet these guys?”

“Foam Night at The Male Room,” Tony says nonchalantly.

I stop in mid-stride. “That gay bar you go to?! You’re telling me you met these investors at a gay bar? And you’re taking them seriously?”

It takes only a second for the mock-offense to spread over Tony’s face as he crosses his arms dramatically.

“I’m sorry. I forgot that homosexuals weren’t allowed to be incredibly wealthy.”

“That’s not what I’m saying, at all. It’s just…I thought they were legitimate investors looking to conduct some professional business. Not a couple of random hot dudes you partied with.”

“They are. I mean, they’re both of those things. Trust me, Spud.” Tony stands back and gestures up at the tall building in front of us. “Do you know how much the cheapest suite in this place costs? One night could pay your rent for a month. And it’s not like I didn’t do a background check on these guys. My friend—one of the bartenders—told me they splash cash around like they’re filming a rap video.”

I take a moment to consider, then shake my head and smile.

“You know what? I trust you, Tony. Let’s do this.”

“That’s my girl.”

We move up the steps, through the doors, past expensively dressed old couples, and into the gigantic, air conditioned lobby. So big it’s as if somebody decorated an aircraft hangar with mahogany and velvet. I follow Tony as he heads off to the side, down some steps into the lavish bar.

“There they are,” Tony says, flashing a wave at two men in nice suits sipping cocktails around a table.

We greet them with handshakes and air kisses, introduce ourselves briefly, and order green juices when they offer us something. After only a little small talk about the loveliness of the hotel, it’s time for business.

“So,” Andre says, his blue eyes twinkling beneath immaculate hair, “tell us all about yourselves.”

“Well,” Tony says, leaning forward as if he was waiting for the question, “as I said, we’re two chefs who’ve been building up our culinary experience, working here and there in Los Angeles. We met while studying in France under Guillhaume de Lacompte several years ago.” Lou and Andre glance at each other with raised eyebrows and appreciative nods when Tony mentions the Frenchman’s name so casually. “So far we’ve been learning in the best kitchens, building up a wealth of proficiency and know-how, seeing what works—what doesn’t work—and we’ve got a ton of ideas that we feel ready to implement now. Ideas that could really make a restaurant that is next level.”

“Ideas, huh?” Lou says. “What kind of ideas?”

Tony looks at me, a cue for me to take over.

“Um…yeah. Ideas,” I babble, nodding emphatically for a few seconds while I think of what to say. “Well…L.A. is a great place for food. I mean, everything grows in California pretty much, fruit, vegetables—and what doesn’t grow here is only a short stop away. We’re by the coast, obviously, so we get great fresh seafood. I mean, there’s really no excuse for a restaurant in Los Angeles to not take advantage of all the local abundance with a menu that’s fresh and seasonal and creates something genuinely unique, stylish, but still fundamentally what people want. Which is to feel good about what they’re eating. Passionate, even.”

“Right…” Lou says, screwing his eyes up skeptically. “But you want to build a restaurant, not just sell local fruits and vegetables. You can do that at a farmers’ market.”

“Yes,” I say, still grasping at straws as my nerves go into overdrive. “But those are just the ingredients, the foundation for the menu. See, the problem is that most restaurants here don’t celebrate what’s great about this place. If you walk into any nice restaurant in the city you’ll find caviar from Iran, imported stracchino, kobe beef from Japan—all prepared according to recipes the French and Italian invented.”

“I don’t know,” Andre says, laughing. “Caviar and Italian cheese sounds pretty good to me!”

“Wait,” Lou interrupts, even more concerned now, “is this going to be some kind of farm-to-table, organic food thing then? Because that doesn’t sound very exciting. We’ve seen plenty of that around here.”

“No,” Tony says quickly. “This is nothing like those quasi-healthy fast food quinoa joints.”

“Actually, the local organic thing isn’t too far from it,” I say, ignoring the look of panic now on Tony’s face. “I only cook with ingredients I like. And that means stuff that’s sustainable, fresh. Not frozen in the back of a truck for a two thousand mile trip.”

Tony shakes his head at me, then quickly turns his attention back to the investors.

“The organic food thing is just a base-level thing. It’s not the selling point! The selling point is the fact that we’re the best chefs in the state. Our menu’s gonna be…innovative.”

Andre and Lou look at each other and laugh as if we’re putting on entertainment.

“Really now?” Lou says.

“Yeah,” I say, getting a little irritated and somehow gaining confidence in the process. “It is. And we are.”

Seeing the sincerity in my face, and hearing the firm confidence in my voice, both of their smiles fade immediately.

“I’ve worked in the best places in the city,” Tony says. “I’m not some naïve debutante—I know exactly what our competition is because I’ve cooked with most of them. And I’m telling you we can blow them out of the water. You’ve heard of Knife, yes?”

“Sure,” Lou says. “Cole Chambers, right? We’ve been there a couple of times. The place is flawless.”

“Then you’ve already tried Willow’s food, probably,” Tony says with a poker hand smile. “She’s one of the best chefs there. Sure, Cole Chambers is the pretty face at the front, the guy who takes the credit, but who do you think is actually cooking the food in the back?” Tony points a sly finger in my direction. “And let me tell you, she’s given him more than a few ideas, too.”

Now I’m the one looking at Tony like he’s crazy. What is he talking about? I didn’t even tell him about the Basque burgers…

His bluff seems to work though, as Andre and Lou exchange a glance, uncertain of how to take us, no more entertained laughs now. Lou clears his throat, wringing his hands.

“I’m not really seeing it still. It’s gonna be high-class like Knife, but it’s gonna have organic, local food? It’s gonna compete with Michelin starred restaurants but it’s not gonna have things like caviar on the menu?”

“Fine,” I say, smiling as if I care much less than I really do. “If you wanna do the whole ‘bourgeois, faux-European dining experience’ thing then there are a thousand chefs that could do that for you. You wanna make a restaurant that’s just like Knife? Just like a dozen other places in the city? Go ahead. But don’t be surprised if people still choose to eat at Knife.”

“Right,” Tony says, pointing at me, strength in his voice now as he finds his angle. “We’re gonna do something totally unique, totally different. And we’re gonna do it so well that you’ll never want to eat caviar again.”

“Imagine this,” I cut in. “You go to dinner at Knife, where you stand in line for forty minutes before getting seated at a cramped corner table where you spend the next two hours in the dark just so you can have the ‘privilege’ of eating a teaspoon of overpriced imported caviar and a miniature steak drowning in heavy sauce, with—of all things—fried potatoes on the side. You go home, you feel heavy. You feel like you overpaid. And the worst thing is: You’re still hungry.”

Lou nods gravely and Andre rubs his chin thoughtfully. I feel like a total jerk throwing Cole’s restaurant under the bus like this, but sometimes you have to exaggerate things to get your point across.

“Now imagine this. You walk into our restaurant—it’s a bright space filled with natural light, exposed wood beams overhead and potted succulents on the walls. You’re seated immediately, and the rotating menu tonight offers a carefully curated selection of west coast comfort food prepared with the freshest organic ingredients and cooked by some of the best chefs in the country.”

“What exactly is west coast comfort food?” Andre asks, his face skeptical.

“How about golden fried free range chicken with local sage blossom honey and chili, coated with chopped peanuts and served alongside crisp asparagus and flash-fried sweet-potato croquettes in lemon and dill sauce,” I say breathlessly, the menu items I’ve dreamed of serving for so long spilling out of me in a dreamy rush.

Andre lets out a quiet ‘yum’ across the table, and I know at least one of them is on board.

Tony leans forward, picking up where I left off. “Or maybe you opt for the slow-roasted red bell peppers stuffed with chili con carne cooked to perfection off a cinnamon base. Or the avocado and grapefruit salad with rosewater and herb dressing and pan-toasted almonds.”

Then I cut in, “And for appetizers we have carnitas nachos with slivered pineapple, house-made kale chips with lemon tahini, and fresh baked rosemary focaccia or sourdough rolls for people to choose from. And these are just our preliminary ideas.”

“I get it! California comfort food.” Even Lou looks liable to drool now. “You’re making me hungry, and I just ate,” he says, and it doesn’t sound like he’s joking.

But despite the compliment, both of them are still looking us over critically, like they’re not quite sure what to make of our pitch.

“So…?” Tony says, glancing back and forth between them.

“Well,” Andre says, “this is the part where we tell you we’ll think it over.”

Something sinks in me. I know what that means. I’ve been through this before.

The deal is off.

“Wait!” I say, quickly pulling out my phone and scrolling through notes. “I did do a few mental calculations, looking at some possible locations online, thinking about what our initial outlay might be for the first six months in terms of operating budget. It was just some back-of-the-envelope numbers but if you’d like to get a general sense of—”

“That’s fine,” Andre says, holding up his palm. “We’ve seen everything we need to see here.”

I swallow and lower my phone, body almost shaking with nerves and the agony of our failure, not even hearing the small talk Tony makes with them as we say our goodbyes and make our way through the lobby, back out through the revolving doors before Tony explodes into gasps of released energy.

“Holy shit,” he says, almost panting.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry, Tony. I don’t know what came over me. That was awful.”

“What are you talking about?” Tony says, putting his arm around me.

“I don’t know why I always go off like that when I’m talking about food, I just can’t help myself when it comes to ingredients. I really apologize.”

“Are you kidding?” Tony says, laughing. “That’s why I brought you! That ‘foodie passion’ thing you do? It was awesome! They loved it.”

“I doubt it. That sounded like a ‘thanks but no thanks’ to me. They didn’t even let me tell them about the plan, price ranges, what kind of location we wanted. You think they would have just dismissed all that if they were seriously considering giving us a chance?”

The valet brings the car to a stop in front of us and hands Tony the keys.

“Oh honey,” he says as he tips the valet and we get inside. “We can draw up budgets and business plans all day long once they’re ready to talk logistics. For now we just needed to give them something to whet their appetites, something to believe in—and you are somebody to believe in.”

I nod, completely unconvinced, as he starts driving.

“Well you are somebody who can make people believe anything—what was all that about me giving Cole a ‘few ideas’?”

“Just a little creative embellishment. These investors expect a bit of that.”

I nod and grip the door handle as Tony speeds up and starts passing other cars.

“Oh. That makes sense. At first I thought you’d heard a rumor or something,” I say.

Tony looks at me, deadpan, and I experience the extreme fear that is becoming familiar as his passenger.

“What do you mean?” he says, all curious now at the prospect of gossip. “You really did give him ideas? You’ve been there what, two weeks? Damn, girl. Workin’ it.”

More for the sake of getting Tony’s eyes back on the road, I say, “He maybe, sorta-kinda, might have put one of my dishes on his menu. Just as a trial run.”

“No shit! That’s incredible.”

“I dunno. It just kinda happened after we got talking.”

Tony shakes his head.

“The things a man will do to get a pretty young thing on his side…”

“It’s not like that. I mean…we keep having our run-ins, I guess, but…I don’t know. I don’t want to get into anything with him. He’s still my boss.”

“Not for long,” Tony says, gleefully. “Not if we get what we want.”

Tony drops me off outside Knife, still buzzing with excitement as he tells me not to ‘get too comfortable’ there. Already a couple minutes late, I rush through the delivery entrance as I pull my whites from my duffel bag, heading straight for the women’s bathroom to get changed and hoping nobody sees me scurrying in.

“Hey. Willow.”

Fat chance at sneaking in undetected. The unmistakably commanding voice comes from the back office, and I rewind a few steps to peek inside. There he is, shirtsleeves pulled up to reveal those muscular forearms, shifting a crate of salt so that his muscles are pumped and squeezing, hair mussed perfectly like only a man who works with his hands can get it.

“Hey,” I say meekly, putting mountains of effort into sounding as effortless as possible. “I know I’m a little late, but I’ll make it up out of my break.”

“Come on in. Let’s have a word,” Cole says, dumping the crate and sweeping another to the side with his foot.

I look back at the end of the hallway anxiously, as if I even have the option of saying no, then step inside the office.

Guilt isn’t a feeling I enjoy—I guess that’s why I always try to do the right thing. It’s like a bad meal, sitting in your stomach heavily like an illness, impossible to digest, difficult to purge. Its aftertaste lasts a hell of a long time.

During the next few seconds, as Cole leans back on the table, scanning my outfit from the meeting earlier—cigarette pants with a crisp white blouse and tailored blazer—my mind works overtime coming up with excuses. For my lateness, for the fact that I’m hoping to start my own place, for the undeniable truth that the girl who slammed him up against the wall of a nightclub and wrapped her tongue around his cock last night was actually me, and that despite all my reservations there’s nothing in the world I’d like more than to do it again.

“You look amazing,” he says, once he’s done taking in my outfit. “Special occasion this morning?”

“Uh…no,” I mumble, effecting a feeling of coyness at the compliment. “I just did a little shopping. This is L.A., you know?”

Cole smiles at me.

“City finally getting its claws into you, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“I like it,” he says, leaving a silence afterward that feels like he’s holding back.

“Look,” I say, unable to bear the silence, the way he looks at me. “About last night…uh, I haven’t had that much to drink in a while, and it’s been so long since I went out. I guess I got kind of carried away…”

“I thought you said you weren’t drinking last night?” he asks, his brow furrowed.

Shit. Caught in a lie by my hot-as-fuck boss, minutes before starting a shift I’m already late for because I was at an investor meeting for a restaurant I’m trying to open behind his back. Batting a thousand, Willow. “Right. Well. Anyway, I’m really sorry about everything. Do you mind if we just…like, forget about it? I didn’t really think it all through, and I’d like things to remain professional between us. It’d be the best thing, I think.”

Cole seems to consider it for a moment, though he keeps that enigmatic smile on his face, so I have no idea what he’s actually thinking. Does he buy that I’m not interested?

“If that’s what you’d prefer. Though I’d rather not forget about it,” he says.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I wanna take you out. For real. You. Me. A date.”

I laugh nervously, push hair behind my ear three times in a second.

“What about the last time we went out?”

“That wasn’t a date. That was formal. Business,” Cole says, waving it away.

“Well if that’s how all your formal meetings end, I can only wonder how a date would.” Now that I’ve said it, the array of images flashing through my mind are more than enough to send my pulse racing.

“Yeah,” Cole says, stepping toward me, his voice lowering, “I wonder too.”

I look up at him, half of me debating whether I should run out the door, while the other half of me fights the urge to tear off his shirt and pull him onto the crates on top of me. Instead, I settle for looking awkward and uncertain.

“I know it’s a bit much to take in,” he says, “me being your boss, you being new to L.A. You probably still think I’m like the guy on TV.”

“And the magazines.”

Cole squints a little. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you have a reputation. When it comes to women.”

He laughs. “Even more reason to let me prove you wrong.”

Suddenly Leo’s voice comes through the door, shouting to Cole before he pops his bald head in the doorway.

“Boss! Boss! She’s late again! This is getting—shit! There you are. The hell are you doing still undressed? We’re fifteen minutes into a shift and you haven’t prepped anything. We’ve already got an order of Basque and no garlic sauce!”

“Control yourself, Leo,” Cole says, switching into boss mode easily. “You think anyone takes you seriously when you shout like that? Willow and I are in the middle of a meeting right now, so get back to work and leave my employees to me.”

Leo glances from me to Cole, seeming to consider the bad idea of saying something else, before wisely shaking his head and disappearing.

“I’d better go,” I say, pulling my duffel up on my shoulder and turning for the door. I look back before leaving though. “Um. I have Monday off—are you free then? We could do something, if you want.”

Cole smiles, licking his lips like he just tasted something great.

“You like the beach?”

I grin. “It’s one of the main reasons I came to L.A. But I haven’t really had a chance to go yet.”

“Perfect,” he says. “It’s a date.”