“What do you mean, there are reporters?” I ask with widening eyes as one of the servers crosses the room, looking dazed after a peek out the windows. It’s opening night at Ocotillo, and there’s been a crowd gathering outside for the past few hours.

“There are reporters,” the server repeats, shrugging his shoulders, running a hand through his hair. “And cameras.”

“Chef Alonso?” I call back to the kitchen, making my way to the back door and sticking my head in.

Jorge looks up, in the middle of barking some orders to the rest of the kitchen crew, including Claire. The poor girl has looked like a deer in the headlights for half the night so far, but she looks like she’s finally getting her bearings as the whole crew comes together to make the night possible.

“Don’t suppose you advertised yourself to the media recently, have you?” I ask.

“My work speaks for itself,” he says without missing a beat, quirking a perfectly trimmed eyebrow.

“Then why do we have reporters out there?” I ask, looking around for a word from literally anyone.

But nobody gives me any answers. What in the world is happening?

I let out an exasperated sigh. “Alright, fine. I don’t have anything prepared, but we’ll have to make do. Crew, if anyone tries to come back here to ask questions, don’t let them. Chef Alonso, the moment you see a thirty-second break to make a statement coming up, you let me know. I’ll do most of the talking. We open in five. Everyone ready?”

“Yes!” the kitchen says in unison.

I grin, feeling some of my anxiety melt away. We’ve got this. “That’s good. Damn good. Let’s knock this shit out of the park.”

Five minutes pass by in the blink of an eye. Soon, I’m standing proudly at the back of the restaurant, watching one of my servers make her way to the doors and open them, letting the flood of customers trickle in group by group.

As soon as the first few groups of customers gets seated, I make my way toward the front to deal with the press. I’ve been furiously going over different lines in my head, readying myself for any question—most of them about Chef Jorge Alonso, who is the only reason I can fathom a crowd like this is here. I knew he’s the kind of man who makes waves, but this is a surprise.

I step outside into the dry, desert air and put on my best PR smile for the handful of cameramen waiting for me. I make my way a few paces from the nearest window, drawing the flashing lights out of view of the diners, then give the small crowd a brief introduction of myself and the restaurant. The words are barely out of my mouth before their questions start firing off.

“Mr. Graham, congratulations again on the Ocotillo’s grand opening— how do you feel about the beginning of this partnership?”

Partnership? Who would bother doing the digging to find out that this is technically a partnership with the Madsens?

I know we’re both influential families in the city, but this didn’t strike me as a groundbreaking deal. But this feels like a press conference, and all I can do is roll with it.

“Thank you, and it’s just ‘Ocotillo,’” I clarify with a smile. “And I feel very good about tonight, it’s the culmination of a lot of work on all parties. What we’re working toward today is a slice of desert cuisine the very heart and soul of Las Vegas can be proud of, and our partnership is emblematic of that.”

Cameras flash, and a few bystanders crane their necks to watch while the line of guests continues to filter into Ocotillo. It’s all coming together like clockwork, and the smile on my face grows a little more genuine.

“Do you want to tell us a little about the celebrations last night?” one reporter asks.

“Things were very lively,” I say with a laugh, “but this, tonight, is the real celebration for us—being able to serve the people what they deserve. Chef Alonso is the cornerstone of that vision.”

“What about Claire Madsen? Would she like to give a statement?”

That’s the last possible question I was expecting, and I almost let my face show it. How the hell does anyone know about that, much less care?

“She’s busily working in the kitchens to make sure this afternoon is everything we all want it to be,” I say. “We’re both Vegas locals, and we couldn’t be prouder about this partnership. It’s going to be a very exciting first year.”

“Thank you again, Mr. Graham,” one of the reporters says after a final round of camera flashes. “And congratulations again on your new partnership, I’m glad the two of you get the chance to see your business off to a strong start.”

Two of us?

I give the cameras some final waves and smiles, and soon, the crowd disperses. I take a deep breath and head back inside, where I’m beyond happy to see the appetizers already coming out of the kitchen. I spend a minute making the rounds and chatting up the guests, making sure that everything is running smoothly and spirits are up. The smell coming from the kitchen is astounding, and I see smiles all around the place. It’s perfect.

I make my way back to the kitchens after realizing nearly half an hour of schmoozing has passed, but the thrill is incomparable. This is happening. Ocotillo is up and running, and people seem to be loving it.

I have a broad grin on my face when I make it back to the kitchens during a short lull, and I’m surprised to see a couple of the cooks gathered around a tablet, looking at something.

“Alright, everyone,” I say, expecting to get their attention away from it, “Press has cleared out and we’re in good shape. How are things back here?”

No answers. All I hear is the usual background restaurant sounds—banging of pots, clinking of utensils, low murmur of conversations—and the audio track of whatever supremely interesting thing is playing on that damn tablet.

I realize at this point that even Chef Alonso is glancing over at the screen with a raised eyebrow, and he looks up at me. “Didn’t realize you and Claire had that kind of relationship, chief.”

I furrow my brow. “What are you talking about?”

I didn’t tell my staff about how I came to rent this prime piece of real estate, partly because I don’t want them thinking badly of Claire and partly because it’s none of their business. So what if Claire’s technically my business partner? That doesn’t change a thing. It shouldn’t.

“They didn’t waste any time getting an article up about the restaurant, boss,” the junior cook who owns the tablet says.

“You don’t have to hide this kind of stuff, you know,” Chef Alonso adds with a wry smile. “It’s just life.”

“What’s happening?” I hear Claire’s voice ask as she comes out of the bathroom, drying her hands.

Everyone in the kitchen is giving us funny looks.

“Let me see that,” I say, marching forward and taking the tablet out of the guy’s hands. My jaw drops at the headline.

“What in the fuck…?”

My jaw drops as I look over the front page of not a news journal but an online tabloid, a local press that runs ridiculous articles on the rich and influential faces of the city. I’m on the front cover, and a candid shot of Claire working in the kitchens is pasted next to me.

Claire herself bustles up next to me to look at the article with just as much shock. “What . . . what did you say in that interview?” she asks, eyes widening as she takes the tablet from me. “‘Restaurateur likes his women in the kitchen’? ‘Brags about exciting night after engagement party’? What is all this?”

“I . . .” My voice trails off as I find myself at a loss for words. “Claire, I never gave them this impression, but this makes it sound like they think the party the other night was . . . an engagement party.”

“They think we’re engaged?” Claire asks faintly. Hers is a face of utter confusion, and mine probably looks just as bad.

I might be in hotter water than I thought. Or should I say we’re in hotter water? As in, me and Claire?