Will this day ever end?

Just as I’m about to finally beeline out of the stuffy, overfilled room, someone grabs my hand.

“Not so fast, Blondie.”

At the sound of Geno’s slightly mocking tone, I suppress my urge to sigh. Instead, I turn around with the best smile I can muster.

“Yes?”

Geno’s grinning as if we hadn’t just spent ten straight hours teaching a bunch of unwilling amateurs how to cut carrots properly.

“There’s a customer who wants to speak to you.”

My smile hangs, but I glide over without a word to where his tanned finger is pointing. I know all too well how long a customer just wanting to “speak to me” can drag on—whether it’s a three-part fable of their cooking woes until they stumbled across Geno and me, or some compliments and picking my brain for every cooking tidbit I have, there really is no bounds to trying to get out of it, especially not while Geno’s hovering by like a delighted vulture. He doesn’t care how long after my shift I stick around, nor whether I like it. All he cares about is that we baby our customers to the point of ridiculousness so that we get a five-star review online and in all the famous cooking magazines. After all, “the customer is always right.”

This time, thankfully, it’s just a table of delighted tourists, who all clap their hands in glee and thank me profusely. And yet, every time I’m about to successfully escape, another one of them pipes in about their favorite part of the class, how they almost burned themselves, ha-ha, he-he, etc. All the while I stay dutifully frozen in place, with my smile plastered on, half hoping they can see how eager I am to leave so they will let me go in peace—it’s 5:15 p.m. now, and I don’t get paid for the extra time. But the whole group is delightedly oblivious, chattering on and on, not really including me—I’m just a symbol really. God, I can’t wait until I get my app developed; then I won’t have to deal with this nonsense anymore.

When I finally do tear myself away, I’m almost at the back of the restaurant when someone grabs my arm. I freeze. I twist around to see Geno. Closer to the back of the restaurant now, away from most of the patrons, Geno’s fake smile contorts into a scowl.

“What were you doing?”

I avoid his angry gaze.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Those people at that table at the front over there—those customers. You weren’t even pretending to be interested in what they were saying. You were rude, unconvincing, ungrateful.”

Now I dare meet his furious gaze with my own. I rip my arm away.

“Can I say something?”

Geno and I turn around to see the speaker, a customer we didn’t notice at a booth nearby. Though how we didn’t notice him is a miracle in itself; the man is, hands down, the most gorgeous guy I’ve ever seen. Model-sculpted face, dark curls the pride of any hairstylist, he’s wearing a black suit, and his piercing blue gaze is locked on me. Running a Rolex-watched hand through his hair, his gaze flicks to Geno.

“May I speak to your chef?”

Geno’s scowl immediately inverts into a placating smile.

“Of course, sir, of course!”

And then he’s gone, leaving me with the gorgeous man who I definitely didn’t teach today and yet still seems strangely familiar. With one finger the man beckons me over, and with wobbly legs I make my way to him and sit across from him. Plopped on the red plastic booth there, I can only gape at him with a half-stupefied stare. I’m too exhausted and starving for this.

“I’ve had your food before.”

“Oh?”

He grins, showcasing a line of perfect white teeth.

“Here in the restaurant, Picklebucket. And my buddy, Gerald, I don’t know if you remember him—big guy, dopey kind of smile—he came here. Before he would screw up Kraft dinner, and now, thanks to you, he’s making edible dishes: casseroles, pies.”

As I continue to stare at him stupidly, he explains “So I came here. To learn how to cook.”

The lightbulb lighting up in my head, I nod, smile.

“Great. You can just talk to my boss, Geno. It’s actually the end of my shift now.”

But when I rise, he does too.

“Why do you let him talk to you like that?”

“Who—Geno?”

The man nods, those too-blue eyes tracing the contours of my face, looking for something I’ll bet isn’t there. I avert my gaze.

“Geno means well. He’s taught me a lot; he just cares more about the customers than his own chefs.”

The man’s face appears as unsatisfied as I feel at my own response.

“Besides, I’m just biding time here until I can find an investor for my app.”

At my admission slipping out, I feel my cheeks redden as I avert my gaze again.

“No way.”

“Forget I said anything.”

But when I start to walk off, the man’s cool hand grips mine. When I turn to him, he looks as surprised as I feel and releases my hand.

“Sorry. I just—I’m an investor and have been looking for a new opportunity.”

The man returns to the table, sweeps his hand across from him where I’d been sitting before.

“Why don’t you sit down and tell me about your project?”

I pause. Really, at this point that’s just about the last thing I want to do. I’ve got a throbbing headache and a roaring stomach ache, but there’s something about this man, about what he said. I don’t know why, but I know instinctively that I should stay.

“Here.” The man fishes something out of his pocket. “Why don’t I give you my business card and you come by my office to talk more when you have more time?”

Once again, I’m speechless. Because the name on this card suddenly explains why this man looked familiar; he is familiar. Sitting in the booth less than two feet away from me is none other than Allan Dane, notorious billionaire, womanizer, and tabloid fodder.

Now he’s rising, passing by me.

“You know where to find me.”

And then he’s gone, leaving me half-stupefied. I find myself sitting back in the booth, staring at where he’d been sitting mere seconds ago, turning his card in my hand. Something tells me this may be the most important card I’ve received in a while—and the most dangerous.