It’s mid-morning in Los Angeles, and I’m sitting at the diner Tony suggested, stirring the foam at the bottom of my coffee cup lazily as I look out of the window. It’s a nice place with a vintage 50’s flair, kinda small, and with a great menu I’m more than ready to pick something from, but which I thought would be rude to do before Tony came.

For almost thirty minutes now I’ve been eyeing the attractive waiter (though he can’t hold a candle to the flame of Cole’s perfection) and watching the breakfast rush hour die down as I sip my coffee, trying not to think about last night, the lingering soreness I can still feel between my thighs.

“Spud!” I hear Tony call, turning to see him step inside the diner, open his arms, and make a beeline for me.

I step out of the booth and hug him—or more precisely, allow myself to be squeezed like a lemon.

“Relax, it’s only been a week since I saw you,” I mumble, even with my asphyxiated lungs.

Tony pulls back and laughs, taking a seat across from me. He pulls off his aviators to reveal emerald eyes that always made me kinda jealous.

“I’m just pleased to see you.”

“Shut up,” I smile. “I know you’re just trying to make me forget how late you are.”

It makes sense that Tony would end up in Los Angeles. Even though he’s from Ohio, and I met him when we studied in the south of France, he’s never looked quite so at home as he does with an L.A. sky behind him. His bronzed skin, meticulously arranged more-on-top brown hair, skintight T-shirt revealing a hint of his bare chest, immaculately sculpted pectorals—all of it fits in perfectly now that he’s here.

“Oh, I’ve got a very good reason to be late, trust me,” he says, conspiratorially. “Thanks for meeting me last minute.” He looks up and gestures for the waiter to come over.

“What can I get started for you two?”

I grab the menu in front of me and say, “Are you still serving the carnitas hash?”

“We are.”

“I’ll have that then, please. And a lemonade.”

“And for you?” the waiter asks Tony through a dazzling smile.

I look up to find Tony smiling back at him.

“What do you recommend?”

I watch the waiter lean a little toward Tony, his eyes almost alight with mischief.

“Something sweet?”

“No,” Tony says, looking at me for a second and making me feel like a third wheel before turning back. “I’m trying to stay fit these days.”

“You look like you’re in amazing shape to me,” the waiter says, and I almost drop my jaw at the way he doesn’t hide the fact that he’s looking Tony up and down like he’s the one who’s hungry. “I think you could have whatever you want.”

Tony laughs and sits back.

“I’ll have the same as her, then. But I’ll definitely be back sometime for the sweet stuff.”

I stare at Tony with a smirk as the waiter leaves and he finally peels his eyes away to look back at me.

“What?” he says.

“Nothing,” I say, laughing. “Just wondering how long it’ll take before he gives you his number.”

“We’ll just have to wait and see,” Tony smiles. “You look great, by the way.”

“Are you flirting with me now, too?”

“I mean it. You’re looking good—especially for a girl who’s been working her ass off in a Cole Chambers kitchen.” He pauses a moment to study me like a connoisseur. “I don’t know what it is…you’ve got some glow about you today…you look a little more relaxed…” His eyes narrow. “Wait—did you go out last night? Oh, you did. You definitely did. You hooked up with some mega hottie last night, didn’t you?”

“What?” I say. “No.”

But the way I drop my head and the slight rush of heat to my cheeks isn’t going to pass unnoticed.

“Yes you did!” Tony exclaims. “And you went all the way, I can tell. Good girl! Finally! Who was it?”

“Nobody. I mean…I can’t say.” I can’t meet his eyes, knowing one look will betray everything. But my silence is incriminating enough to blow my cover anyway.

“You fucked Cole Chambers?” Tony hisses, in disbelief.

I sit upright and glare at him like a figure in a haunted house.

“How the fuck do you do that?”

“Oh please,” Tony says, leaning back in his chair. “He’s the one guy you would try to keep a secret. Not like you’re gonna give me the ‘I can’t say’ if you screwed the dish washer—not after I told you about that time I did. So how did it happen? You’d better tell me, or I’m gonna run through every scenario I’m imagining in my head in glorious detail until you crack.”

“Ok, ok,” I say, defeated. “Calm down, Sex-Columbo. To tell you the truth, it just kinda…happened. We had a drink together and then somehow—”

“Hold up: You went on a date with him?”

“No. It wasn’t a date. We just hadn’t talked yet, he wasn’t there when they hired me.”

Tony smirks, obviously skeptical of my explanation, which sounds weak even to me. “You said there was alcohol during this event, and was it at night, I’m guessing?”

“Is that some kind of L.A. thing nobody told me about? Look, it wasn’t a date. Not exactly, anyway. We had a drink, some food, then went back to Knife so I could show him some recipe and…somehow we ended up screwing each other senseless.”

Tony’s eyes widen.

“In the kitchen? God, Willow. Isn’t that a Department of Health situation? I don’t know if I wanna eat there now that I know that.”

“No! He pulled me into the back office, and then we got on the desk and—look, forget that, the point is that I just fucked my boss, and I’m a little bit concerned I might have fucked my job too.”

Despite the exasperation in my voice, Tony smiles and shrugs nonchalantly.

“Well, good thing you won’t be working there much longer.”

For about the fifth time I stare at him in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

Tony pauses as the food is laid out in front of us, affording the waiter just a mischievous wink this time.

“Wanna know why I was late to meet you?” he asks, leaning forward. I nod. “I was on a call with a potential investor.”

“Investor? For what?”

Now it’s Tony’s turn to look at me sideways.

“Have you seriously forgotten?” he says, sounding offended. “Our restaurant. Your rustic, Idaho’an…ingredients thing, and my astonishingly good taste and presentation coming together in a single place that’ll blow this fucking town apart. It’s the whole reason you moved down here, remember? To start over and take back your dreams?”

“Oh…oh yeah…” I say, still taken aback. “I remember, but I mean, I thought we were just talking. Fantasizing. Laying out what we would love to do, at some future point in time. I didn’t think you—we—were actually going to go for it. Not right away, at least…”

“Spud,” Tony says, using my Guillhaume-inspired pet name the way only an old friend could. “I might love L.A. but I’m not from L.A. When I say I’m going to do something, I do it. Now are you in or not?”

“Of course I’m in,” I say. “It’s still my dream. I’m just…anxious, you know? This is kinda quick. It’s not that long since my last place failed. And I’m working now—”

“And fucking Cole Chambers now. Whatever. Anxious is fine. So long as you can still cook a mean beans, that’s all we need. Now I’m arranging a meeting with these investors and you’re gonna come too. I think they’re the real deal and we need both of us there to show how serious we are. Are you with me?”

“Hell yes.” I don’t hesitate, feeling once again like a girl from Idaho in a city where nobody seems to stop for breath.

“Hell yes. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear,” Tony grins as we dig into our food.

I get to Knife at around two—hours before it’ll open for the evening shift, but it’s Tuesday, the one day each week the chefs sit down to eat together before work. It’s a chance to talk shop and air any problems that might be brewing, though it’s mostly a chance to share a meal with the people you’re too busy working beside to spend any time with. This is only the second one I’m going to, but it already feels like I know the place better than my own.

At least I won’t have to face Cole. I’m not quite sure how things are gonna go when we next bump into each other. I’m thinking I might go for a ‘what we did in the office that one time was cool, but we should get back to reality’ kind of vibe, though I’m worried it’ll turn into a ‘what the hell was that all about, and when are we doing it again?’ sort of thing. Because the truth is that—even though it’s complicated, and messy, and there are a dozen obvious reasons I shouldn’t—I wouldn’t mind a repeat performance.

I know Cole’s a player, but maybe what I need, after all this time moping over my asshole ex and my failed restaurant, is to play around a little. Cole’s definitely not going to get serious on me, and I’m too focused on work to get serious on him, so why not? Sure, there’s a little voice in my head telling me it’s a bad idea that could be dangerous—but I have to struggle to hear it over the loud tingles my body gets when I remember how good he was, the way he commanded me to come for him…

I snap back to the urgency of the present moment, step through the propped-open exit door and hurry through the kitchen, checking my watch to see how late I am.

“Hey! Willow!” someone calls from the kitchen.

I stop to find Aaron, a line cook from Brooklyn who makes everything sound like he’s delivering a line at an open mic night. His round, bearded face sitting upon his round body giving him the appearance of a snowman, and his ever-present smile almost as big as his heart.

“Hey,” I say, moving over to him as he plates some seared scallops. “Is everyone here?”

“They’re sitting down,” Aaron says, nodding toward the tables. “But if you help me carry the plates through they probably won’t notice you’re late.”

“Sure,” I say, taking the scallops from him and picking up a couple of other dishes.

I move through to the front of the restaurant, where the staff are already laughing and chatting with the easy energy of relieved tension, languishing in their chairs like soldiers waiting for action, already working their way through two bottles of the least-ordered reds, preempting the busy shift ahead of them. Two tables have been shoved close together to fit the dozen plus members of the kitchen staff and waiters, and as soon as I draw close they start picking food from the plates before I’ve even set them down.

A couple of them affectionately call out my nickname, ‘Spud,’ as I grab the bottle to fill a glass and take my seat.

The last time we did this, Cole wasn’t here, and I’d figured that he wasn’t interested in the kind of banal gossiping and trivial camaraderie that went on, so I freeze a little in surprise when he shows up at the door a few minutes in, flashing his diplomatic, assured smile. His hand is on Chloe’s shoulder and she’s grinning ear to ear. I flash her a little wave and she returns it happily before the raucousness of the other chefs takes over the moment.

“Hey, who’s your new girlfriend?” Aaron laughs. “Little young, even for you.”

“Quiet please, everyone,” Cole says, ignoring the joke. “You remember I told you all about the Young Chefs mentoring program? Well here she is, the most promising cook in Los Angeles County: Chloe Fernandez. Chloe? Welcome. This is my staff.”

There are coos and greetings of ‘hey Chloe’ from the more interested members of the staff that Chloe returns happily, beaming uncontrollably as she waves back and takes in the group.

“So you wanna be a great chef one day?” Michelle asks between bites of scallop.

“Yeah. I really do.”

“Better than Cole?”

Chloe grins. “I’m already better than him. He overthinks everything.”

The table erupts into another wave of easy laughter.

“You got that right!” Michelle says.

“Ok wiseass,” Cole says to Michelle, pulling out a chair for Chloe at the table. “Let’s eat.”

The number of people there, and the added interest of having Chloe at the table, means that seeing Cole again isn’t half as awkward as I expected it to be. He spends most of his time at the other end of the table doing his best to entertain his young mentee, while I talk with Ryan beside me about his guitar collection. After a half hour, my full stomach and a glass of wine making it easy to smile as I listen to the stories around me, I almost forget that he’s even there. Once the plates are empty, the volume starts to fade, and Cole seizes everyone’s attention with that voice that makes it unmistakable he’s the boss around here.

“Ok everyone,” he says, clapping his hands together and putting his elbows on the table, a posture that leaves no doubt he’s about to talk business. “Anyone have anything they wanna raise here? Any problems or issues? Kitchen? Waitstaff? Management? I’m all ears.”

Cole looks around at a few of us, and I notice that his eyes don’t meet mine. There are a few shrugs and shakes of the head around the table until Leo eventually says, “Did they get back to you about the abalone deliveries?”

“Nope. I’m calling them right after this.”

“They’ve got to move them to Mondays.”

“I know. Leave it to me. Anything else?”

“There’s some rapper coming in on Thursday,” Charlie says fretfully.

“Full entourage?” Cole asks.

“Possibly. Where should we put them?”

Cole tilts his head. “Let’s rearrange the seating in the back of the dining room and keep some chairs available in case. Anyone else? No? Nothing? Ok, listen. I’m going to add something new to the specials menu—just for this week. See how it goes, see how the customers like it.”

My pulse starts to pound.

“A new dessert?” the pastry chef asks hopefully.

“No. A main. Basque burgers a l’ail et moutarde. I’ve already shown Willow how to prepare it, so she can show the rest of you.” My stomach drops. He showed me how to prepare it? Cole looks at the waiters as I feel my heart thump. “Maybe if you have some down time this shift. You guys can try it, get to know it, then suggest it to diners. And be sure you ask them what they think afterward—I wanna know what they think.”

There are nods amongst the waiters, but I’m staring at Cole now, mouth open in astonishment.

“Why are you adding this?” Michelle says. “The menu’s perfect as-is. And it’s…a burger.” I note the disdain in her voice but keep my mouth closed. As much as I want to defend the dish, I’m still too stunned that Cole is taking credit for my idea to be able to speak.

“I was thinking,” Cole says, looking up a little like he’s genuinely remembering, “our mains are good. Rich, full—but they’re pretty similar in texture. I thought this might add something a little drier, something less sauce-based. Without losing that richness of flavor.”

There are murmurs of understanding around the table, but it’s all I can do to hide the swirling ocean of anger that’s building inside of me. Leo frowns and leans forward, looking from me to Cole.

“Hold on,” he says. “Willow? You taught the new hire how to cook it? When did you do that?”

Cole glares at Leo in a way that makes the bald-headed saucier almost shiver in front of us.

“We had a little catch-up yesterday, a progress report. I showed her then since I won’t have time now. I take it that’s not an issue?”

“Well,” Leo says, glancing at me dismissively. “I mean she’s only been here a few days, and she’s already passing on your recipes?”

“If she couldn’t handle it I wouldn’t have hired her. Don’t worry,” Cole says, casting a look in my direction that seems loaded with mystery, “she can handle herself. Everybody get your asses in the kitchen. You’ve got an hour to do prep.”

Cole claps his hands again and it’s like a school bell, sending the crowd off in their separate directions, the sound of pushed chairs and stacking plates taking the place of the conversation and laughter. I hover around for a second, waiting for an opportune moment, and when Michelle strikes up a conversation with Chloe, I touch Cole on the arm to get his attention. He spins around, smiling a little when he sees that it’s me.

“Hey.” I try to keep the edge out of my voice, since my job is still in his hands, but I can barely contain my irritation.

“Hey,” he says, his voice bassier than the one he used for the others.

“Can I have a word?”

“Sure,” he says, taking my arm now and leading me off to the side of the restaurant. I catch a glimpse of Leo watching us, but ignore it as I try to hold my cool enough not to snap.

“What the hell was that?” I hiss angrily through gritted teeth.

“What?”

“My recipe.”

Cole frowns, his confusion all over the furrows of his brow.

“Oh. Right. Like I said, it goes on the menu for a week, and then we see if you’re as good as you think you are.”

“‘I taught Willow how to prepare it’?” I say, quoting him. “What was that all about?”

Cole’s confusion turns into a flippant chuckle.

“What did you expect me to say?”

“I don’t know. Maybe give me some credit for my dish.”

Cole chuckles again, even louder now, shaking his head as he does so.

“Wow. You know, maybe you aren’t cut out for the restaurant business. You really don’t see the problem there? Telling cooks who’ve worked for me for over five years that I’m letting the girl who’s been here ten minutes put something on the menu? The last thing you need is to make enemies here. And it’s not just petty jealousy or your life getting harder in the kitchen—there’d be other complications. Gossip about what’s going on between us.”

I take a breath, trying not to let Cole’s firmness sway me.

“Still…” I say, searching for words to articulate the sense of injustice. “To just take it like that…let everyone think that you…you know, you should have given me something.”

“Given you what?” Cole says, the chuckle gone now, replaced with the voice of a boss.

“I don’t know,” I say. “But you literally took the words out of my mouth and passed them off as your own. You don’t have to tell them the dish is mine, but at least pass on some of that credit in my direction.”

“Listen,” Cole says, serious now, “credit goes both ways. What if your burgers are a disaster? What if the guy who orders it feels short-changed when he tries his wife’s buckwheat galettes? Who takes the hit then? Me. It’s my reputation attached to this restaurant, and to the food it serves—not yours.”

I sigh and look down, struggling to maintain my frustration in the face of Cole’s logic.

“Still,” I say, shaking my head at his leather shoes. “I just didn’t like the way you presented it.”

After a second’s pause, I look up and see Cole smiling at me, a little too much like the way he smiled last night…

“Look: Your dish is about to be served in one of the busiest restaurants in L.A., to some of the most discerning eaters, and in some of the best surroundings. Credit or not—most chefs would take that.”

Michelle calls out to Cole, and he looks back to see Chloe waiting eagerly for him to come back. He raises a finger then looks back at me briefly to say, “Just hope that they like it,” before walking away to lead the Young Chef outside, the two of them waving at the others like departing family members.

I think about what he said for a moment, standing in the corner of the restaurant as the others reset the tables and the sound of prep starts cranking up in the kitchen. The sense of something not quite right about what my boss did still stirring, unresolved, in my stomach.

Irritated and confused, I try not to consider that giving him the recipe isn’t what I’m actually most bothered by—it’s what we did afterward, and the fact that it seems he’s completely forgotten about it.