Time seems to slow until Monday. Every business meeting twice as long, every minute spent in cars and planes twice as boring. My problem used to be thinking about work when I should be having fun, now my problem is thinking about Willow when I should be working.

Her smell, her taste, her smile. The passionate way she talks about her ideas, her stubborn refusal to kiss my ass, the impression she gives of being an unlit firework of talent about to explode over L.A.

My impatience is all exacerbated by Martin running names by me of two dozen chefs he thinks could replace Holly, until they all blend into one. Now that I’ve seen what real talent looks like, now that I’ve watched it dance through a kitchen making work look like a performance, now that I’ve seen that headstrong dedication to perfect food, these other chefs pale in comparison, experience be damned. Memories pull me into a constant state of distraction and arousal, compelling me to check clocks and calendars until Monday comes around. It’s been a long time since I had to wait to get what I want, and the waiting just makes the wanting even harder.

By the time Monday comes I feel like I’ve gone through a desert. I take my time picking out swim shorts and a t-shirt, take more time to stand in front of my cars and pick the right one. When you’re an ex television celebrity and the most well-known restauranteur in Los Angeles, women start trying to impress you, rather than the other way around. You can wear pajamas and show up in a beat-up Civic and, if anything, it only makes you glow even more in their eyes. But Willow…something tells me she doesn’t buy into all that shit. If I want to impress her, I’m going to have to work at it.

First off, there aren’t many women who’d tell the owner of a successful restaurant their entire food philosophy is wrong. Not many who’d pin that owner against a counter and force him to try their food. Not only that, but Willow looks me in the eye, talks like she’s not afraid of me, and doesn’t hold back when it comes to her own principles or opinions. She’s a challenge, and I like it. I won’t even get into what she did to me with her mouth in that dark corner of the club, how hot it was when she made eye contact with me, how much of a turn on it was that we might get caught. That’s a girl with some untapped talent right there.

I meet her at my favorite Santa Monica beachfront hotel. One with a private beach area that I know will give us some time alone. She’s standing outside the front entrance when I valet my car, by the swaying palms that hide the footpath to the beach. A wide-brim straw hat, a wicker tote bag, and a chiffon kaftan over that tight body. Slightly see-through, so her bikini clad figure teases behind it like the haze of a dream.

I walk toward her slowly, taking my time to appreciate the view, and when we get close enough I make sure she knows how good she looks by kissing her on the cheek, a little too slow, a little too close.

“You look incredible,” I murmur into her ear. “I’m not gonna be able to take my eyes off you.”

“It’s so beautiful here,” she says, turning her blushing face away from me to gaze at the azure waves.

“You haven’t seen it yet,” I say, gesturing at the beach path.

I take her hand, leading her down the steep steps as we move toward the isolated cabana. A wood platform that juts out onto the pearlescent beach, a couple of loungers set out on it, folded towels neatly stacked on them, and a small table with a crystal vase of flowers and some bottles of expensive sparkling water. The scene surrounded by four posters holding up the thin white linen that acts as a shade, swaying in the breeze.

“Oh my God,” Willow says excitedly when she sees it, hurrying her step to get there quicker. “It looks like actual heaven. This is amazing!”

“I’m glad you like it,” I say. It’s sincere. Willow’s so different from the usual women I take out that I was worried about hitting the mark. “It’s ours for the day. What would you like to drink?”

I glance over at the waiter emerging from the fauna, and Willow follows my gaze to see him.

“Something with fruit. Fresh,” she says.

“Alcoholic or no?”

Willow shrugs easily, as if she’s up for anything now that she’s happy and relaxed.

“Sure,” she says. “It is my day off.”

The waiter nods graciously in her direction, much like Charles, as if he knows exactly what’ll make the customer happy.

“We have a green tea mojito that is very popular,” he says.

“Perfect,” Willow smiles. “Cole?”

“I’ll have a single malt whiskey,” I tell the waiter. “Your choice.”

“Very good, Mr. Chambers,” he says, before turning primly and heading back.

Willow eyes me playfully.

“He knew your name.”

“Don’t believe what they tell you—TV still has reach.”

Willow dumps her bag and pulls off her hat, swishing her hair in the wind to loosen it.

“Oh, I’m sure you come here often. I bet the ladies love it.”

“Is that jealousy I’m hearing?”

“Nope,” Willow says, laughing so that I know she’s not lying. “Just figuring you out a little.”

“You don’t have to figure me out—I’ll tell you exactly who I am.”

“Is that so?” Willow says, pulling the knot at the back of her kaftan and sliding it away to reveal a body that stirs every masculine fiber inside of me. So lithe and beautiful it’s almost torture to look and not touch. “Tell me then: Do you swim?”

I stand up and perform my own show, pulling off my T-shirt and standing proud, knowing the long hours I put in every week with my trainer at the gym have sculpted my physique to near-perfection.

“What does it look like?” I ask.

Willow looks me up and down, then shifts her weight to one side, sassily.

“It looks like you’re probably too worried about your hair to be a good swimmer.”

I laugh in disbelief.

“Imagine that, being judged as a swimmer by someone from Idaho. What coast is that on again?”

“Hey, I was the captain of my swim team in college.”

“And I’m sure the swimming pools in Idaho are really something.” I look out at the roaring ocean. “But I grew up by the ocean, it’s another level.”

Willow beams at me, bouncing a little with eager naughtiness. Then she winks, spins, and starts running down the short beach to the lapping waves. I watch her for a second, just admiring her, a little stunned at how this girl is bringing out a side of me I didn’t even know I had. Then I take off after her, giving chase as she laughs back at me over her shoulder, until we’re wading into the water, diving synchronously into a rolling wave.

We swim out a little, and I find out Willow wasn’t lying. She’s a good swimmer, good enough to tease me, to sweep away when I get close, submerge herself, long legs flicking into the air before they disappear. I let her go, enjoying the push and pull, satisfying myself with the sight of the water catching her wet hair, gentle laughter mixing with the rush of waves. Until she emerges right next to me, taking me by surprise. I whip around and grab her waist underwater, pull her toward me, a shrieked laugh emerging from that pearl white smile as she brings her sun-glowing face to mine.

“So,” I ask, mock-seriously, “are you the kind of girl who kisses on a first date?”

“I don’t know. Depends on the guy,” she teases, leaning in.

We kiss slow and gentle, as if we’ve got all the time in the world, the Pacific stretching out beyond us making it feel somehow more private, more intimate. I can almost taste her happiness, taste her inhibitions fading in the beauty of these surroundings.

We pull back, and she grins again. Before I can say anything, she notices something beyond my shoulder, back at the beach.

“Drinks!” she says, pointing at the waiter putting them down at our loungers, and we break apart, swimming our way back to the cabana. Willow tosses me a towel and we dry off a little before sitting down, the table between us. We raise our glasses, clink them together, and drink.

“Oh,” Willow sighs happily. “It’s so nice out here. This is bliss.”

She settles back on the lounger, and I drag mine closer to hers before doing the same.

After a while of staring at the Santa Monica pier on the horizon, I look at her, eyes closed as she faces the sun. Golden skin drying, her breasts moving imperceptibly with her peaceful breathing.

“You think you’ll stay here?” I ask.

“In Los Angeles?”

“Yeah. Are you not feeling pull of the Idaho cornfields yet?”

“Not at the moment. But some day, sure, I’ll probably move back. To be close to my family. Maybe when I’m older, retired. What about you?” She turns to look at me.

“Me? I’m not planning to go to Idaho at all, to be honest.”

Willow reaches out to slap my arm playfully.

“You know what I mean. Are you going to stay in L.A. forever? Retire here?”

“I don’t plan on retiring.”

Willow eyes me for a few seconds, nodding, seeming to draw some kind of conclusion about me.

“You think I’m a workaholic,” I say.

“Nope,” she grins. “I know you are. You never know, though. Sometimes people mellow out in their old age.” Then she winks, takes a slow sip of her drink, and closes her eyes as she tastes it.

I watch the muscles of her throat flex, my cock stirring in my shorts, and when she opens her eyes she notices my focus on her and tilts her head.

“So how did you get into cooking?” I ask her.

“Oh…I don’t know. I’ve loved it as long as I can remember. I think it was my grandma who started it…” she says, looking dreamily into the distance. “She had this little herb garden, little pots around the kitchen. Basil and oregano, rosemary and thyme, mint and sage. The smells were almost magical. I’d watch her cook, and I thought it was incredible how she would just pluck a couple of leaves, give them a little rinse, tear them into a pot, and make something that tasted wonderful. She gave me a couple of plants and I started making stuff with them. For a year I put mint on everything—even French fries.”

We both laugh a little, though I don’t take my eyes away from how alluring she looks when she’s lost in thought.

“How about you?” she asks, looking genuinely curious.

I take a moment to think back, sipping my whiskey as I sift through old memories. “It was when I was about twelve or so, at a juvenile detention center—”

Her eyes go wide. “Are you fucking with me? You went to juvie? You are a bad boy.”

I laugh and shrug. “I was there a couple of times actually. I was young enough that it didn’t go on my record though. Anyway, they used to get these guys in—teach the kids a trade, get them onto a healthy path. Carpenters, welders, that kinda thing. One day this chef comes in. He gets us cooking these Spanish omelets. Of course, most of the kids fucked up, or didn’t care enough to really try, but that was when I first learned I could do this.”

“Wait a second,” Willow says, leaning forward, intrigued now, “is that why Martin asked me to cook an omelet for the interview process?”

I smile at her.

“Yeah. See, most people—doesn’t matter if they’re a dad cooking breakfast or a seasoned chef who’s been around the block—they think omelets are simple. You whip the eggs, throw them in a pan, add the filling and you’re done. But there’s so much more to it. You can just whip the eggs, or you can separate the yolks from the whites and whip them separately, and if you do that then do you use all the yolks or half? Do you add cottage cheese or a splash of pancake batter?”

She nods, following along as I go over every aspect.

“And then, do they wait for the eggs to warm up a little, or just whip them cold right out of the fridge? Do they use butter or olive oil in the pan? What kinda ratio? How melted is the butter? Don’t melt it all and you’re really gonna taste it. How do they manage the pan? Temperature, texture. When do they fold? When do they take it out? You know, the most common mistake is people taking it out too late because they—”

“Don’t know that the eggs continue to cook on the plate,” Willow interrupts, smiling satisfyingly.

I laugh a little.

“Right. And an omelet’s so simple you can taste every mistake, every skill.”

“Smart.”

“That guy was the first one to compliment me on anything other than my left hook, so I realized I could actually do this, and do it well. I had some innate skill and the motivation to take it further. Once I got out I worked in kitchens any way I could, taking odd jobs at any restaurant that would take me until I finally rustled up enough money to go to France and study under Guillhaume. And that’s where I met Jason.”

Even saying the name feels like a jab to the ribs, and the waiter shows up just in time, bringing the whole whiskey bottle and a fresh pitcher of mojitos for Willow.

“Who’s Jason?” Willow asks, once the man is gone.

“He was my best friend—pretty much my only friend at the time. We finished the course in Paris and then came back to L.A. together. Like everyone who makes it through the program, we wanted to start our own place right away, but we didn’t have the money. Somehow, Jason took care of that. He was smooth, good with people. He was on first name terms with everyone from the food truck vendors to the fancy chefs downtown. At the time I was still was too dark and brooding to take an interest in all that business stuff. Just a twenty-one year old with too many tattoos, an uncontrollable temper and an unhealthy obsession with making the best food I could.”

Willow shifts uncomfortably, her eyes unable to meet mine, probably trying to give me space because I’m opening up.

“So we get the money, get the location, and before long we’re in business. Or, I should say, I was in business. I was doing all the work, developing the menu, running the kitchen, managing a full staff, but I hardly saw Jason. He was too busy partying, getting into drugs, faking his way into every Hollywood party he could find. He took his share of the profits, of course—and then some. I found out later that he’d been skimming off our supplies and selling them to other restaurants. The real kicker came when someone told me he hadn’t been paying the loan sharks back like he said he had. These weren’t mom and pop investors, you know? They took their money whether you gave it willingly or not.”

Her brows knit together in concern. “What happened?”

I pour out some more whiskey, and lift it as I consider the memory, sipping slowly.

“Jason comes in soon after I heard the news, gives me this long speech about how he knew he’d been fucking things up, and that he’d finally realized he needed to get his shit together. Full confession, heartfelt apology, the works. He told me I’d been working too hard, and to take the weekend off. After that, we’d figure out what to do and make it work.” I take another slow sip. “And I trusted him.”

Willow looks at me, a sympathetic expression on her face. “I’m guessing that didn’t turn out well.”

“I came back on Tuesday, drove straight to the restaurant first thing, and the place…it’d been burned to the fucking ground.” I gesture with my hands at the scene, as vivid as the sea in front of me. “Just fucking blackened rubble and ash and dirt. Jason had put his name on the insurance policy, of course, and my name on the loans. He took the insurance money, and I never saw him again. I went to bed and woke up on Wednesday morning, twenty-four years old, with nothing but a pile of burnt bricks to my name, and nearly a million dollars in debt.”

Willow shakes her head, her delicate features gone pale. “Holy shit…that’s awful.”

“Not really, in the end,” I say, taking a sip. “For the lessons I learned that day, it was worth it.”

“What do you mean?” she asks, sitting upright now and leaning toward me intently. “How could anything be worth that?”

“You think I trusted anyone but myself after that day? You think I ever let a contractor quote me for something I didn’t already know the price of? That I’d ever let my accountant put a tax bill or receipt through that I didn’t spend as much time going over myself? I cleared that pile of bricks with my own two hands; laid half of them myself until I found a builder I trusted enough to help. Then I named what went in its place Knife, so I’d never forget the one Jason put in my back. I’ll never have another business partner again.”

Willow stares at me, her expression carefully blank, but her eyes wide with thought.

“Sheesh,” she says eventually. “The lemon thyme thing makes a lot more sense now.”

I let out a genuine laugh for the first time since I started telling the story.

“You know, you’re something. You’re the first person I let Martin hire for me. Usually I run candidates through all the hoops myself. But I’ve never in my life heard him rave about a new chef the way he raved about you. His instincts are excellent.” I take a breath, watching Willow take a long drink from her glass, enjoying the way the muscles in her throat move. “It’s not like it was the last time somebody stabbed me in the back. I’ve turned no-hopers into brilliant chefs, only to have them disappear without notice and pop up days later at some fancy place that promises them the world and ends up failing. I’ve had accountants that embezzled cash, waiters that stole food—and I’ve lost count of how many people have stolen recipes and suppliers once they’ve left. It’s best to treat everybody like they’ll eventually betray you in this business, because in my experience, they probably will.”

Willow squirms a little, rubbing the side of her neck as if she can’t get comfortable. I guess no one has ever given it to her this straight before. No wonder her restaurant collapsed. She’s brilliant, talented, ambitious—but in some ways, still a little naïve about the world.

“I don’t know,” she says with a contemplative sigh. “That sounds like an unhealthy way to live. Doing everything yourself. Not trusting anybody. Always looking over your shoulder, still holding on to all of that no matter how many years go by.”

I smile at her once more before lifting my legs back up on the lounger and lying back.

“It got me here, didn’t it?”

I draw some more of the whiskey and close my eyes, listening to the waves and feeling almost as if they could carry me away. Maybe this is what therapy feels like. As if some knot deep inside of you that you didn’t even know you were carrying is loosened. Then Willow’s words break the trance.

“Does it ever get lonely at the top?” she says.

I open my eyes and turn to see her sitting on the edge of her lounger, looking at me anxiously now as if worried.

I let out an easy chuckle. “How could I be lonely? I own a restaurant.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

I look at her, not quite understanding the question.

“How could I be lonely when I spend all my time around people, hundreds of people who turn up at the restaurant every week. And my staff. All the cooks I’ve worked with over the years. The parties, the events…I’m never alone. If anything I wish I had more time to myself—”

“That’s not what I meant,” Willow says, her tone more serious now. “That whole ‘not trusting anyone but yourself’ thing, it sounds kinda…sad. I don’t know how you can live like that. I can’t imagine living without any close friends, without someone you can open up to.”

“Why does that sound like an offer?”

“Maybe it is.” She laughs a little, almost nervously, then stands up.

Looking up at her, I say, “You need a break from my dark, painful past, I take it?”

She smiles. “I can handle it. But right now, it’s just too gorgeous out. Let’s swim.”

Willow holds out her hand, and I take it.