I turn up at Knife early the next morning. Early enough to smell the jasmine still lingering in the coolness of the night air. Insomnia can be a real problem, but in the restaurant business it’s virtually a necessity. So here I am, in the only area of Knife that I allow to be a mess: the back office.

I’m sitting behind the desk, among the filing cabinets and piled-up receipts, a few crates of wine in the corners (I let the staff use the room for storage sometimes). The sound of the dish washers hosing down the last of the pans a satisfying background music as I run through the accounts and figure out the pricing of some seasonal menu items.

As a couple of the chefs start arriving for the lunch shift, I hear a knock on the open door and look up to see Leo’s bald head in the doorway. He’s wearing a buttoned-up checked shirt and creased slacks that would have been out of date even in the sixties. He’s one of the few chefs for whom the chef whites are a step up. Even though he’s forty two, he still has the smooth, puppyish skin of a baby. Clean scalp reflecting even the dim light of the office, skin pale enough to make you wonder if he commutes from Alaska.

“Hey boss,” he says, in his gritty, quiet voice. “Willow just turned up. Should I tell her to leave?”

“Why would you tell her to leave?” I ask, my voice firmly dismissing his assumption.

“Ok, ok,” he says, holding up his hands. “I didn’t know you wanted to fire her yourself.”

I lean back in my chair, cross my arms, and shoot him a look like I’m about to challenge him to draw.

“Who told you I was going to fire her?” I’m feeling defensive about her all of a sudden, and I don’t know why. Especially considering that her behavior last night was unacceptable.

Leo looks at me a little nervously, as if performing a dozen calculations at once. He glances back into the hall, looking each way, then steps inside the office, leaning forward so he can lower his voice.

“Of course you’re going to fire her. Right? I mean, she fucked up a main dish and made a scene in front of the customers, then bailed in the middle of a dinner shift. We were a man down for half the night.”

I look at him for a few seconds and he waits expectantly, oblivious to my intent.

“Come see me after your shift, Leo,” I say calmly, returning my attention to the computer screen.

I don’t want to hear anything else—and Leo’s just about smart enough to realize that, so he turns on his heels, rubbing his bald head as he leaves the office.

Shortly after that I hear another light rapping on the door, and look up to find Willow there. Except this isn’t the Willow from last night, a pretty face poking out of that shapeless chef’s uniform—there’s nothing shapeless about her now. Tight, ripped jeans hug her toned legs, her shirt struggling with the combination of her round breasts and that tight stomach, leaving a mouthwatering strip of flesh around her navel that reveals itself only a little as she moves.

“Shut the door,” I tell her, growling the command, then watch with focused eyes the balletic movements of her body. Delicate fingers on the door handle, swish of her hair against the nape of her neck, turning just enough for me to study the jeans-filling roundness of her ass.

She turns back to face me, big, brown eyes looking up from that angelic face, and I stand up to walk in front of my desk. I need to move, partly because I’ve been sitting down for too long, and partly because the sight of her in street clothes has got my blood pumping a little too hard, a shot of adrenaline unexpectedly slamming through me.

“I’m surprised you came back,” I say, leaning back onto the desk and folding my arms.

Her cheeks color a little but her gaze stays fastened on mine. “I came to say I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have used the lemon thyme. I get it. And you’re absolutely right. That’s not acceptable for Knife, and I hold my hands up to that. I shouldn’t have changed the recipe. It was a momentary lapse of judgment, and I thought I could get away with it. But I’m not here to make excuses. I just wanted to explain and to say I’m sorry.”

I nod at her. There’s something down-to-earth and genuine about the way she talks, the way she looks me in the eye. Perhaps I’ve spent too long in the upper echelons of Los Angeles’ nightlife, but her straightforward manner disarms a little of my anger.

“You don’t get to make mistakes when you work for me,” I say firmly.

“Which is why I wanted to apologize.”

“Apologies don’t change the past. I don’t make them, and I don’t accept them.” Willow simply nods before turning back to the door, that gentle hand already on the handle. “Did I say you could leave?”

She turns back to me, the regret in her eyes replaced by a hard pride. It’s the kind of look people usually build up for decades before they feel they can direct it at me.

“Am I supposed to just stand here so you can shoot negative platitudes at me before I get fired?” she says. “Because I can watch one of your shows if I want to see you cut somebody down.”

If those tight jeans made me second guess whether I should fire her, the way she stares me down like I’m not the best chef in the country, and she’s not just some new hire, is piquing my interest enough that I want to keep her around at least a little longer. She’d make a hell of a poker player.

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t fire you,” I challenge.

“I’m not going to beg you for my job.”

“Most chefs would, in your position.”

“Well, I’m not most chefs.”

“Clearly,” I say, allowing myself a little smile as we stare each other down.

Willow breaks her gaze, hanging her head a little, but I don’t miss the way her eyes flicker over my body, lingering for a half second on the biceps of my folded arms.

“Neither are you,” she says, though her tone (and my rampaging imagination) makes it more innuendo than retort. Our eyes lock.

The electricity crackling between us is almost audible. A charge less like that of manager-employee relations, and more like the sexual ambiguity of two people swapping looks across a bar. There’s no doubt in my mind there’s something between us—and the fact that I wanna find out what it is makes it almost impossible for me to fire this girl out of my life.

“It’s your first week and Michelle tells me you’ve been handling it like a champ apart from this…faux pas. We’ve had chefs who couldn’t even make it through a second shift.”

Willow shrugs, and I can see she’s relaxing a little now, her hand no longer on the door handle.

“Well, I won’t pretend it was easy. But I’m not afraid of working hard.”

“Obviously not,” I say, picking up her resume from the desk and waving it. “You don’t make it through Guillhaume’s course without having some steel in you.”

“Oh yeah,” she grins. “I think I actually learned more about my emotions than about cooking under him.”

I glare at her intensely once again, freezing her with a look.

“Regardless. That was the first and last time you walk out on a shift. If I give you another chance, are you gonna fuck me over?”

There isn’t even a flinch, not even a quivering lip as Willow looks right back at me and shakes her head, “No. I won’t. You’re the boss.”

“That I am. And you’ll do well to keep that in mind.” I nod and smile a little, making it clear that the issue’s settled for now.

Willow seems to relax, and I find myself calming in her presence.

“So what did Guillhaume call you?” I ask, in a more easy tone.

Willow lets out a quiet laugh; she knows what I’m talking about. Everyone who studies under the Frenchman gets a specific nickname, an insult designed to demean and break one’s spirit through repetition, but which most chefs carry like a badge of honor—that is, if they’re able to survive the boot camp that is his training course.

“Well, as soon as he found out where I was from he stuck me with ‘the Idaho Potato.’ Said my talent was making everything taste as lifeless as mash,” she says, smiling wistfully at the memory. “‘Curse ze farmer zat pulled you out of ze ground!’”

I smile along with her. “You got off lightly. He used to call me the Hollywood Assassin. Said I cooked like I was trying to poison somebody.”

She laughs again, gently. Her face showing a few more phases of beauty. I let the moment settle, enjoying the sight of her a little more, that smile, those eyes…

“Well,” she says, glancing at the clock above the desk. “I really should get on the lunch shift.”

“No you shouldn’t,” I say, stepping out from behind the desk. “I had Mark come in to take your spot. Wasn’t sure if you’d even show up today.”

“That’s fair.” She frowns and nods, as if disappointed that she won’t get the chance to work today.

I don’t know whether it’s because I’ve been too busy to take a woman in weeks, the cramped intimacy of the back office, or the delicious curves of her body, but I’m struggling to find a way to end this conversation that doesn’t involve pulling her over the desk and tugging her jeans down to her ankles to bury my head between her thighs and find out what she tastes like.

I check the time, and realize I should have left the office about two minutes ago.

“What do you think about kids?” I say, packing my pockets as I prepare to leave the office.

“Um…as customers? In the restaurant?”

“No,” I say. “I mean, are you good with kids? Do you like them?”

“Sure. Actually, I used to volunteer teach a cooking glass for an elementary school in Idaho. And I have two nieces back home, and either they’re mature or I’m not, ‘cause we always have a great time together. Why do you ask?”

I move toward the door and hold it open for her.

“Because I’m gonna need your help,” I say as she moves through, and I steal one more look at her peachy ass. I talk as we move through the restaurant, toward the front. “I signed up for this Young Chef mentoring program—or rather, Martin signed me up for it. He thought it would be a good bulletpoint to the publicity around me, and the new restaurant. Said I had gone too far down the ‘hard-edged food perfectionist’ route, and needed to show a more humane side.”

Willow nods as we push through to the tables.

“I can see that,” she says, without sarcasm.

“Yeah…well, I’m not exactly sure I have a more humane side. Last time I spoke to a kid, I was one.” I push open the front doors and scan the street. “There they are.”

The mousey woman with a warm smile who I assume to be Chloe’s supervisor is standing next to the small girl. The kid has dark hair, tied back into a ponytail, and dusty, tan skin. I wasn’t exactly sure what nine year olds look or sound like, but she’s a little more upright and tough-looking than I imagined. Less a waddling toddler and closer to the kind of savvy kids you see in movies, not least because she stares at me with a judgmental gaze.

The supervisor waves and we start moving toward them. If I thought this was a silly idea when I heard it, then I think it’s outright stupid now that I’m actually doing it. What the hell am I going to do with this kid? Teach her how to make a red wine reduction? Make her a cheesecake and sit her in front of a TV to watch cartoons? I suppose if worse comes to worst we can use an extra pair of hands peeling garlic cloves.

What I’m feeling right now is probably the closest I’ll ever come to empathizing with guys who have no confidence going on dates; concerned about doing or saying the wrong thing. I don’t even know how to greet her, whether I should shake her hand, tousle her hair, or lower myself to her eye level and make baby noises.

Luckily, Willow wasn’t lying when she said she liked kids, and does exactly what I needed her to do—help me.

“Hi there, I’m Maggie,” the supervisor says, shaking my hand.

“Cole Chambers. Great to meet you.”

“Hello, I’m Willow,” she says, shaking the supervisor’s hand with a smile before directing a huge smile and happy eyes at the girl. “Hey you! What’s your name?”

“Chloe,” the girl says, and immediately I’m struck by the way Willow’s infectious smile seems to compel the kid to do the same. Guess it works on kids, too.

“That’s a gorgeous name,” Willow says.

“I like yours, too,” Chloe replies, shedding any shyness instantly under Willow’s warmth. “It’s also the name of the tree.”

Willow laughs easily.

“What do you think?” she says, wryly. “Am I like the tree?”

Chloe sizes her up, her smile showing her gapped teeth now, enjoying the game.

“No…well, you’re tall. But a lot less droopy.”

We all laugh, and I turn to Maggie to ask, “So what are we doing today?”

“Oh, that’s on you. I’m leaving her here now,” Maggie says, in the slow, clear tones of someone who often addresses large numbers, “and I’ll be back to pick her up in a couple of hours. Does that sound ok? My cell number is in the email we sent you, just in case.”

“Wait, but what am I supposed to do?” I say, getting a little frantic now. “Just give a cooking lesson, or lecture her on matching appetizers to mains, or—?”

Maggie eyes me, a little puzzled.

“Nobody told you anything?”

“Nope.”

“Well, Miss Chloe is involved in a cooking competition, and she’s made it through the first rounds already but the finals are in a few months, and most of the contestants—as well as being experienced and having attended cooking courses—are being mentored by various chefs from California. None of them as big as you, though, I must say,” Maggie smiles.

“Oh, that sounds awesome!” Willow says, glancing from me to Chloe to share her excitement.

“So,” Maggie continues, “you can do whatever you want, whether it’s refining her skills or working on her mental game—anything you can think of to try and help her be a better cook. It’s not about the winning, of course, but it should be fun for both of you.”

“Say no more,” I assure her, finally feeling like I have a handle on the situation. “I might not understand kids, but I definitely understand competition.”

Minutes later, Willow, Chloe and I are walking toward the neighborhood farmers’ market. Willow and Chloe are getting on like a house on fire, and I’m spending more time marveling at how good Willow is at this than I am thinking about the kid.

“Are we going to cook after this?” the kid asks.

“Hell no,” I say. “I don’t let chefs get anywhere near a flame until they prove they can understand the principles. Produce, plan, and prep.”

Willow squints at me a little.

“Isn’t that exactly what you used to say on your show? The one where you showed convicts how to cook?”

I glance at Chloe, then back at Willow.

“I don’t see how this is any different—with less swearing, perhaps.”

Willow nods, a smile as if humoring me, and we enter the farmers’ market, passing through stall after stall where I drill into Chloe the importance of choosing good produce and providing consistent quality.

After about an hour of eyeing vegetables with a critical gaze and squeezing fruit, I turn to Chloe.

“You have any idea what you’re gonna cook for the final round?” I say.

Chloe looks up at me, the smile she’s been pointing at Willow turning into a pout.

She shrugs and says, “I dunno. The first round was assigned dishes, and after that one they gave us the ingredients they wanted us to use to make something up, but for the finals we have to pick our own dish. I have no clue. There’s just too many things I could choose.”

“Well,” Willow says, “what do you like to eat best?”

Chloe thinks for a second.

“Pasta.”

I shake my head and frown.

“You ain’t winning a cooking competition with pasta.”

Willow glares at me before turning back to Chloe.

“That sounds great,” she says. “Let’s see about selecting some ingredients to make your pasta the best.”

I don’t like the way Willow overrides me—if anyone pulled that with me in the kitchen, they’d be washing dishes for a month. Yet the combination of her being so disarmingly hot, and the way Chloe seems to respond by gaining a burst of energy, gives me no choice but to roll with it.

We continue walking on a little, buying agua frescas and a box of ripe, fragrant strawberries to eat while we check out the other produce. I give up on trying to add anything productive to the conversation, especially in the face of seeing how adept Willow is at it. It’s hard to imagine the kind of women I usually spend time with pulling silly faces for a kid, or even putting that much effort into one, and if I suspected Willow was something a little different before, I’m absolutely sure of it now. Instead, I focus on complimenting Chloe’s skills at choosing perfectly-ripe fruits and vegetables, and keep my mouth shut as she goes on and on about ideas for her competition-worthy pasta sauce.

Eventually, we make our way back to Knife and meet up with Maggie again at the curb. I send Chloe home with a bag of her farmers’ market selections and she grins and waves at me and Willow through the departing car’s window. When the SUV is out of sight, Willow turns to me and I can almost sense her sympathy.

“You weren’t lying, huh? About needing help. I mean you weren’t awful, but…”

I shrug. “Guess I’m never having kids.”

Willow laughs.

“Never say never. Besides, I think she’s going to be good for you. You need a kid around to keep you from taking everything so seriously.”

I narrow my eyes at her, but for some reason it’s hard to give that gorgeous face my tough-guy stare, especially when she’s smiling playfully at me.

“You speak to all of your bosses like that?” I ask.

“To be honest, I never had a boss before.”

“Figures.”

Though everything about the moment signals she’s about to leave, that we’re about to part, I find myself wanting to spend more time with her, wanting to dig a little deeper beyond that captivating face, those doe eyes. Confident enough to handle me, headstrong enough to assert herself, yet down-to-earth enough to handle Chloe—there’s something about her…

She turns to leave and something within me makes a snap decision.

“Listen, we should talk. Properly. Martin told me you were special, and Michelle does nothing but sing your praises—but I’d feel more comfortable knowing you a little better myself, especially since I wasn’t the one who hired you.”

“Sure. Now?”

“No. I have a full day that should have started about fifteen minutes ago. Tonight. My friend owns a place not far from here. We’ll grab a bite, have a drink. You can tell me your story. Best way to get to know a cook is by eating with them.”

“Sounds good to me,” she smiles, and I wonder if she buys the idea that I’m being completely professional. “Though I’m not sure I have enough of a story to fill a whole evening.”

“Then consider it the start of one.”