Willow’s kinda quiet when I pick her up and drive to the airport, as if she’s trying to restrain the natural spark that usually makes her blush and bluster in the same sentence. That mixture of self-assured but genuinely warm that I’m starting to think I’m addicted to, replaced by a more formal, clipped kind of tone. I wonder if she’s afraid of flying, if I should have just driven us all the way to Vegas instead.

“You nervous?” I say, as the airport looms at the end of the highway.

“No. Not at all,” she says, smiling quickly before looking back at the road.

I can tell something’s on her mind. Something she doesn’t want to talk about. I wonder if it’s apprehension over where things are going with us, or simple work/life stress. For now, I’ll give her some space to think. I’ve got something I’m holding back myself.

I park the car and we wheel our bags into the airport, Willow a little taken aback by the fact that I bought us first-class tickets. Over the course of the hour or so flight she opens up a little, relaxes a little, and the shy smiles and sharp comebacks make me start to relish her proximity. Her skinny black jeans brushing against my leg and the elegant chasm of her cleavage that it takes all my willpower not to be caught looking at starts to twist at my groin, as if she’s got a hand there, gripping me with the tight magnetism of her beauty.

While my mind starts running wild with enough ideas to fill an entire erotica section, I keep the talk as focused on the business at hand as possible. There will be time for play later, I tell myself.

Once we land in Vegas one of the staff members that Martin’s just hired meets us outside baggage claim to take us to the new place.

In the back of the car Willow asks, “Do you have a name for this new restaurant?”

“Not yet,” I say. “Though Martin suggested ‘Fork,’ and it was such a terrible idea that I haven’t been able to shake it.”

She laughs and turns back to look out the window, as if rewarding me for making her laugh by exposing the perfect line of her neck.

‘Fork’ is coming along nicely, and when we arrive I take Willow on a little tour.

“The place is incredible,” she coos, as we pass by the kitchen, where the chefs are cursing and cooking up a storm. “It might even turn out better than Knife.”

“The fittings are all in,” I say, sweeping a hand across the kitchen. “Pretty much all that’s left is cosmetic. Painting, decorating. Colors, materials—that kind of thing.” I gesture for her to return to the main seating area. “I actually wanted to get your opinion about some of that too.”

Willow turns to me, the look on her face that same one she gets when she’s about to offer an opinion, but instead she stops herself, settling for a simple, functional smile instead.

“Sure,” she says.

“First though, let’s eat. If you’re up for a tour of the menu now?”

“Oh hell yes. A man after my own heart,” she teases.

We move back to the main area to sit side-by-side at the large round table in the center—the only table that isn’t stacked up against the wall or covered in linen. I pop open a bottle of sparkling water and pour a full glass for each of us.

“So…” Willow says, looking around her as the raucous sound of the chefs’ shouting increases, “how is this going to work, exactly?”

“The kitchen will prepare every single item on the menu for us,” I say, pulling out my leather-bound notebook and Montblanc pen. “Just the way it would be served to a customer. Course by course. You’ll try a bite of each and then tell me what you think. Whatever it is. Don’t hold back.”

Willow nods confidently.

“Ok. I can do that.”

When the plates start coming, Willow transforms. Whatever was on her mind all morning is gone now as that burning passion and wisdom about food starts to show itself. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about her in the short time I’ve known her, it’s that the path to her heart is through her stomach—only it’s more like a bullet train than a path.

“Can I see a menu?” she says, after taking a bite of an appetizer salad.

“Sure, I’ve got a printout right here,” I say, pulling the sheets from my briefcase and handing them to her.

She flicks a sheet, sees what she needs to see, then shakes her head.

“Yeah, ok,” she says, pointing at the salad. “Maybe this is just me, but I would not use this dressing. The orange zest is overpowering. It’s amazing, but if someone orders it and then orders the fish with the mint-roasted potatoes the flavors are going to clash horribly.”

It takes only a half second for me to understand what she’s getting at, insight so clear I almost kick myself at letting it pass. I scribble down a note as Willow pushes aside the salad to try something else.

“Oh,” she says, eyes lidding over with pleasure. “This salmon mousse…”

“You like?” I say, enjoying her expression.

“I love.”

“So do I.”

She looks at me for a beat, a slight moment of wild, inarticulate tension passing between us, before the presence of the watching waiter and the obligation of the job at hand pull us back to reality.

“You know, maybe a dash of something red to make the color pop. Paprika? Saffron?”

“Slow down,” I say, scribbling in my notebook. “You’re critiquing faster than I can write. And we’ve got a long way to go.”

Willow doesn’t slow down, though, and for the next three hours she runs through ideas, impressions, and opinions that would put a dozen food critics out of business. We argue over the Escoffier sauce, agree completely on the wild game dish, and both teach the other something when it comes time for the eclairs. I go through about seventeen different emotions with her during each course, swinging from offended and contemptuous of her American-style ideas, to marveling at the utter brilliance with which she seems to cut through to the heart of what makes great food.

Tongues alive with the onslaught of flavors and textures, bodies humming with the satisfaction of a thousand different ingredients, minds almost working as one by the time we reach the final dessert, I find myself realizing something very singular: This woman is absolutely incredible.

She slouches back in her chair, hands on her stomach as if it were potbellied and not as perfectly toned as the rest of her, and sighs happily.

“Is that it?” she says.

“That’s it,” I say, slapping my notebook shut.

“That’s a hell of a menu.”

“You just made it a hell of a lot better.”

She looks at me with a curious smile.

“I doubt you’re going to take any of my advice anyway.”

“Is that because of a lack of confidence in yourself? Or in me?”

Willow tilts her head slightly.

“In you, of course.”

I laugh along with her and check the time.

“We should get going,” I say, standing up.

“Aren’t we going to talk interior design?” she asks.

“Soon. For now I’ve got something more important I wanted to show you.”

Willow squints at me, trying to decipher my half-smile—and then my phone rings. It’s my second in command, so I need to take the call.

“Give me a moment,” I say with an apologetic expression, taking out my phone and walking out of earshot. “Hey, Martin.”

“Hi, boss. Just wanted to give you an update on the guy I mentioned—the one working at the Italian spot down on Mateo. Now he’s pretty happy there, and I’m still not sure he’d move to Vegas, but I honestly think if we make an offer that—”

“Martin, stop,” I say firmly. “I’ve changed my mind.”

He doesn’t talk for a second, and when he does he sounds completely perplexed.

“What about? I don’t understand.”

I look back at Willow, sitting and chatting with one of the chefs, making him laugh, the guy looking like he’s already as besotted with her as I am.

“I’m gonna do what you suggested; move Michelle up here to Vegas.”

“Really? Ok…well…yeah. That’s good. But we’ll still need to find a replacement for her at Knife.”

“We’ll need a replacement—but not for the head chef.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I think I’m gonna offer the position to Willow.”

There’s a pause. “Willow? The one I just hired as a line cook?”

“Yeah.”

Martin’s disbelief sounds like a cough, spluttering for words.

“Cole,” he says, his voice taking on a soothing tone as if he’s talking me off a ledge, “she’s worked there for a couple of weeks. Plus she had hardly any experience before that.”

“She’s a phenomenal cook,” I say, looking back at her again and winking when I catch her eye. “Why would I hire somebody else when one of the best chefs I’ve ever seen is already working for me? She’s got the skills, the training—and she’s got instinct. You can’t learn that.”

“Yes. But…well…she’s never been a head chef before. It’s one thing to be a great cook, another to lead a whole kitchen. It’s a big step. Most people spend years and years—”

“Give her one week and I guarantee you she’ll make that kitchen her bitch.”

“I don’t know,” Martin says, and I can almost hear him rubbing his brow. “The crew won’t like it. The new girl suddenly being their boss after a couple of weeks, getting a job that any one of them probably feels more qualified to do. Will they take orders from her?”

“I didn’t hire them to be advisors.”

Martin sighs, and I can tell he’s mulling it over. “Leo will probably quit on the spot, you know—I don’t think he likes her.”

“Good. It’ll save me the trouble of firing him.”

“Cole…”

“Like I said, I’m only just now thinking about it. I haven’t actually made a move yet. We still need to talk to Michelle about Vegas, anyway. So why don’t you go ahead and carry on with the shortlist, and we’ll talk more when I get back.”

“Yeah. Ok.”

“Great. See you then.”

“Wait!” Martin says, a split second before I hang up. I wait, but all I hear are throat-clearing sounds as Martin struggles to get his thoughts out. “Is this…never mind. Forget it.”

“You want to know if this is because I’m fucking her.” Martin coughs as if the very idea offends him, but I save him the trouble of protesting. “The answer’s no. You should understand where I’m coming from, Martin. Hell, you’re the one who hired her. You’ve seen what she can do in a kitchen.”

He lets out a nervous laugh.

“Sure, sure. I know she’s good. It’s just a question of whether she’s good enough. I mean, I know you have faith and all, that’s obvious, but do you really trust her that much?”

I look back at her again. She’s at the bar now, leaning over on it and sipping martinis with the cooks.

“Yeah. I trust her.”

I finish up the call with Martin and go over to peel Willow away from the chefs, with whom she’s already in so tight you would never guess she’d just met them. We go outside and get into the car, Willow bemused by my eagerness.

“Where are we going now?” she asks.

“It’s a surprise.”

Twenty minutes later we’re pulling up beside a dusty airstrip, the Nevada sun beating down on us. Willow shields her eyes and scans the shimmering horizon.

“What are we doing out here?”

I nod in the other direction, and she suddenly notices the helicopter starting to spin its blades. She looks back at me, grinning like a kid on Christmas, and I put a hand on the small of her back to hurry her toward the chopper.

“You ever see the Grand Canyon?”

“Not in person,” Willow says, almost laughing with surprise.

“It’s one of the most majestic places on earth—spiritual. Especially when you see it from the sky.”

We duck under the hard pressure of the whipping blades and I open the door for Willow to climb in, getting in after her. The pilot has us buckle up and then lifts us up, spinning away dramatically and making Willow squeal through her overwhelmed smile.

Before long we’re swooping through those sunset-gold cliffs, the grandeur around us making us feel insignificant, even at this height. The horizon all around us filled with that ancient landscape, etched and scarred and formed by time, a history written by nature itself.

But even that can’t compel me as much as the woman beside me, can’t tempt me to peel my eyes from her, can’t diminish the magnificence in her face. Unconsciously, our hands find each other’s, fingers interlocking, as if they were meant to go together.

The chopper veers and dips, pressing our bodies closer. Willow lets out a sudden laugh and we find ourselves staring at each other, our faces inches apart.

“How did you know?” she asks, the roar of the blades stealing her whisper, but her lips easy to read.

I take a second to think about it, to wonder what it was that made me understand she’d like this. But the answer doesn’t come, the feeling something I couldn’t put into words. An answer, a meaning, a thought, that I can only give by moving my lips across that unbearable distance to hers and kissing her with everything I have.