“Happy Birthday!”

Blinking in surprise, I emerged from the walk-in freezer and glanced around the kitchen. Most of my staff was there, the line cooks, the sous chef, the pastry chef, and some of the waitstaff. How had they known it was my birthday?

“For you, my dear,” said Dante, the maitre d’. He handed me a glass of champagne and everyone lifted their own glasses. “To Cheyenne, the youngest and the best head chef Fantabulous has ever had.”

“And the only head chef Fantabulous has ever had,” I said, smiling as I raised my glass. The champagne was crisp yet sweet. “Thanks everyone. It means a lot. Now get back to work,” I said with a grin. People laughed and smiled good-naturedly, knowing I was mostly kidding. But the dinner service was about to start, and I needed all hands on deck.

A few others came by to wish me well before going to their stations. They knew how busy we’d be an hour from now, and they all had their jobs to do. My job was to make sure everyone in the kitchen was doing what they were supposed to. I wanted to keep a special eye on Maria tonight. She was new, and she’d been hit or miss at the fish station so far.

As I walked around, checking in on everyone, checking everything, I couldn’t help but think how much my life had changed in the last half year. Most nights I was far too busy to get introspective, but birthdays were a good time to take stock.

After my elimination from Kitchen Tyrant—and my amazing night with Chef Bryant—I thought that was the end of that chapter of my life. It had been a magical evening, but afterwards, it was time to return to the real world. One that unfortunately didn’t include incredibly handsome, sexy, and wealthy celebrity chefs.

Though I hadn’t seen Chef Bryant since then, he hadn’t been completely absent. He’d texted the day after my return to Kansas City, wanting to make sure I’d gotten back okay. And I’d sent him a few messages about my search for a head chef position.

Around the time I’d been interviewing at various restaurants in the area, the eighth season of Kitchen Tyrant aired. At every interview I went to, the restaurant owners wanted to talk to me about the show. They all wanted to know if I’d won, but of course I couldn’t tell them. When I’d first heard about a new restaurant called Fantabulous opening in a trendy area of downtown Kansas City known for its nightlife, I was thrilled at the chance to interview for it. But as I’d explained to Chef Bryant in a text message, the timing was really awful. My interview was scheduled for two days after the episode in which I was eliminated.

But the very next day, I received an overnight package that contained a glowing letter of recommendation from him. I’d taken it to the interview, and after three meetings and two cooking demonstrations, I got the job.

As much as I missed Chef Bryant, I hadn’t been able to watch any of the episodes of this season of Kitchen Tyrant. I told my family and friends that I just didn’t want to see myself on camera, but that wasn’t the real reason. It was him I didn’t want to see. I mean, yes, I wanted to see him, quite badly, but not like that. Not on a television set the same way everyone else in the country did. I preferred my memories of the real man to the persona he played on his show.

Lately, however, we’d been texting less than usual. Since starting here as head chef three months ago, I’d gotten a lot busier. It was a mad house to serve so many customers night after night. And I insisted on the highest quality. After all, I’d learned from the best in the business.

Chef Bryant seemed pretty busy, too. He’d mentioned once that there was the possibility of a special season of Kitchen Tyrant next year in which some former contestants like me might be invited back. My heart had leapt at the idea of another chance to see him, no matter how brief.

But now that our texts had cooled off a bit, I wasn’t sure that he still wanted me to be on the show next year. Which was probably for the best. Yes, I still thought about him every day—and definitely every night—but he was in Hollywood, and I was in the real world. At some point, I’d need to move on, maybe even start dating. But I couldn’t imagine ever meeting anyone who could compare to Chef Bryant. And right now, the thought of meeting someone else was pretty painful when I’d already met the man of my dreams.

Once the dinner service started in earnest, I didn’t have time to think about him, or my birthday, or anything except food preparation—at least until Dante burst into the kitchen.

“Chef Cheyenne!” he called, his hands waving and his voice acrobatic with excitement. Usually, his exuberant demeanor was confined to the dining area, where he oversaw the greeter and the serving staff, attended to influential restaurant patrons, and assured that everything in the front of the house ran smoothly. His arrival in this agitated manner must mean something big.

“Cheyenne, ma chérie … you’ll never guess who’s in the dining room!”

Uh-oh. “Is it the critic from the Star? You said he wouldn’t be back again for months!” For a moment, I panicked. Were the tablecloths properly ironed? Did everything in the dining room look perfect? And oh my god, I’d better take Maria off fish immediately. I’d cook it myself.

“No, no, it’s not him. Besides, his first review was positively glowing. But never mind that—you’re not going to believe this, but it’s a celebrity chef! Right here at Fantabulous!”

My pulse rate tripled, but outwardly I remained calm. At least I think I did. At least I wasn’t openly trembling with fear and excitement, as Dante was. “Which one?” I said, fighting to keep my voice neutral.

Dante started to respond, but I cut him off before he got the chance. “Is it the British one?”

“No,” he said, practically bouncing up and down on his heels.

“The tattooed one?”

“No, even better, it’s—”

“The naked one?”

“No,” Dante said. “Though that would be fun! It’s your old pal, Chef Bryant.”

My mouth went dry, and I had to work hard to swallow. Finally, I managed to say, “Bryant the Tyrant? Here?”

“Yes. He looks even better than he does on TV. And that accent is almost as delicious as your salmon with sun-dried tomato pesto, and that’s saying a lot. Maybe all those supermodels he dates are a ruse. Do you think there’s any chance he’s secretly gay?”

“I’m pretty sure he’s not,” I said, faintly. “Did you get him a good table?”

“He wanted a booth in the corner, probably to avoid the female diners who looked more interested in eating him than our specials tonight. Shameless hussies. Do you think he’ll give me his autograph?”

“Dante.”

“Right. I am the ultimate professional,” he said, looking like a child who’s been told he could open his Christmas presents early. “Do you think he knows you’re here?”

“He’s probably just passing through town on business,” I said, but actually, that was rather doubtful. Chef Bryant owned several insanely successful restaurants in Los Angeles, New York, and London. It seemed rather unlikely he had business in the Midwest. But if he wasn’t here for business …

“Make sure he gets the very best service,” I said, cutting off that thought. “Use Alan as his server, he’ll be great.” Claire was on the floor tonight, and she was even better than Alan, but she was also tall, blonde, and gorgeous. No way was I sending her to Chef Bryant’s table. “Make sure everything is perfect,” I said.

“Of course I will.”

“Sorry, I’m a little flustered. I can’t believe he’s here.”

“Don’t be. You run an excellent kitchen. You’re going to make us proud. You’re going to make him proud.”

I sincerely hoped so. I grabbed a wine menu and quickly skimmed down the list. Only the best would do for Chef Bryant. “Here,” I said, showing my selection to Dante. “Send him a glass of this. Tell him … tell him compliments of the chef with apologies that we’re currently out of Redbacks.”

Between the wine and the food, Chef Bryant would be busy for a while. But at some point after he ate, I’d see him. Even as nervous as I was, I couldn’t wait.