“Well, well, well . . . look who the cat dragged in.”

I slump down on a stool next to Billy. “I told you I’d come.”

“Yeah, and you’ve told me before . . . countless times.”

“Are you gonna order me a drink, or just bust my balls?”

He smirks and pulls out his wallet from his jean pocket.

I scan the bar as he orders me a beer. The place is loud and packed. When I asked Billy to meet me somewhere subdued I never had a college speakeasy in mind.

“Isn’t there somewhere a little more private we can chat?” I say, raising my voice above a tune that blasts out from a jukebox in the corner.

“Private?”

“I can hardly hear myself think and I need to tell you something . . . something kind of big.”

“Ooh, sounds intriguing.” He hands the barman a twenty and slides my beer over. “Work secrets?”

“Something like that.”

Pushing to his feet, he jerks his head over to the far side of the bar. “Follow me, baby girl.”

When we find a table that’s in the shadows and away from the crowd, I take my first gulp of beer.

“Jesus,” Billy says. “Take it easy.”

I set the glass down and wipe away froth from my top lip. The glass is already half empty. “I was thirsty.”

His eyes widen on my glass. “I can see.”

“It’s been a long week.”

“I bet. So . . . tell me all about it then. I see you haven’t cracked yet.”

“Yet being the operative word.”

Billy smirks. “You wanted to be a world class chef, remember?”

“I know, but I didn’t imagine it would be so hard.”

“Serves you right. Anyway, what’s the boss like?”

I shrug. “Okay.”

“Aw, come on . . . you can do better than that.”

“What?”

He tuts. “Is he as fit as he looks on TV?”

I blush. “Billy!”

“I take that as a yes then. Your cheeks are practically on fire.”

“Are not.”

Billy leans back, picks up his drink, and rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

I study him for a while. I badly want to share my sketchy intuition about Vincent with him. I feel like I’m going mad keeping it all in. I’m reluctant though. I mean, what if I’m wrong? What if I’m mad for even thinking what I do? Also, Billy tends to make a big deal out of everything and I already feel silly enough thinking the way I do without him causing a fuss.

“So,” he says. “What did you want to tell me?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh no you don’t. You dragged me away from the man-candy at the bar so you could tell me something important. You’re not getting out of it that easy, Missy.”

My lips twist as I stare down at my beer.

“I’ll leave,” Billy warns, half pushing up from his chair.

“Okay. All right then.” I motion for him to stay. “But promise you won’t say a word to anyone.”

He grins.

“Promise me, Billy. You know how fast rumors travel around here.”

He huffs. “Okay, okay. I promise.”

I lean right forward. “I mean it, Billy. Vincent is a private man.”

There is a pause before Billy’s face stretches. “Oh my god . . . did you guys fuck?”

“No!” I look around me, panicked in case someone overheard.

“Then what?” He tuts and folds his arms like a disappointed kid. “It’s not juicy if you guys haven’t screwed.”

“It’s not like that,” I whisper, still very self-aware of my surroundings.

He breaks out into a grin. “But you want to . . . don’t you?”

“Well . . .” my words drift off and I look down at my knees.

He suddenly claps his hands together. My gaze snaps to him. “What?”

“This calls for a celebration. Shots!”

“I don’t know, I have a shift tomorrow, and—”

“Shots, Missy! And another beer. Fuck it, a pitcher of beer. Me and you are going to be very busy tonight. I know how the script goes, angel. You like him and you’re not sure if he likes you.”

“Yes.” I shake my head. “No . . . Oh, I don’t know. Maybe?”

“I’ve worked with you for over a year now and I have never seen you gush over a man.”

“That’s because I’ve been too busy.”

“Exactly. An attractive, single young girl like you shouldn’t be as dry as a desert.” He tuts and shakes his head. “It’s tragic.”

“So . . . what can you advise me on?”

“All in good time. Don’t worry, that’s what having a gay best friend is for.” He looks across the bar. “First let me get another round of drinks and that hottie’s number, then I’m all yours.”

He pushes from the table and sprints over to the bar.

Meanwhile, I stare ahead at the space he’s left.

That’s it, for the next few hours he’s going to do a full psychoanalyses on me.

What have you let yourself in for, Mel?

* * *

“Melanie, can I have a word?”

Fuck.

I set my pan down to cool and curse Billy’s name. The raging headache that rattles around my skull has made today virtually impossible to get through. Now I remember why I hardly drink.

Following Vincent to his private office, at the very back of the restaurant, I press on the sides of my temples. It’s a wonder I didn’t fall asleep as I was peeling sweet potatoes earlier.

Vincent opens the door to his office and motions me in. As I push past him, he shuts the door, locks it, and pulls the blinds down.

That’s it. I’m fired.

He extends his hand out to a chair opposite his. “Take a seat. I won’t keep you long.”

Yep, I’m history.

He slowly walks past me and sits down, leaning back on his chair. My eyes fix on anything but his and my headache now dulls in comparison to the fear that runs through my veins. Thinking I’m heading back to Mickey’s has my stomach tied up in knots.

“You’ve been a little slack today,” he starts.

I look down at the toes of my scuffed Converse sneakers. “Sorry, chef.”

He tuts. “What did I tell you about calling me chef?”

My eyes meet his. “But we’re at work.”

“We’re in my office . . . alone.”

I look back down at my feet. “Sorry.”

He chuckles “Late night?”

I blow out, feeling nauseous at the memory of six shots and two pitchers of beer.

Sliding his chair across to a steel filing cabinet, he pulls out something from the bottom drawer. Flinging a small packet my way, I just about catch it.

“Take two,” he says.

Tylenol. Life saver.

“Are you free tonight?”

I fix my eyes to his. “Sorry?”

“Tonight. After work. You’re doing a pretty good job but I’d like you to come to mine so I can show you a few things.”

“Oh.”

He smirks. “Try not to sound so enthusiastic.”

“Oh, I am, I mean—what kind of things?” My mind swims down the gutter when I imagine some ‘alone time’ with him.

“More abstract ways of thinking about food.”

As usual my smutty fantasies are way off point.

“Mel, your food lacks punch. Sure, you can just about follow a recipe . . . I’ll give you that. But you need to feel your cooking. You need to be able to really taste and identify the food, instinctively know what makes a dish stand out from the rest.”

“I am trying, Vincent.”

“I know you are. And that’s commendable. But I think we both know you could do so much more. You have a gift, Mel. I really mean it.”

I blush. Getting a compliment from De Luca is like winning a gold medal at the Olympics—in other words, impossible.

“So,” he says. “Is that okay with you? Of course, if you’re not going out again tonight.”

“Oh no, I’m not going out. Yes. Yes, I’ll be there.”

“Good. Shall we say, nine?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, finish off that plate of food you were making and take early leave. I’ll need you to be sharp for later.”

Rising from my chair, I walk over to the door. Just as my fingers coil around the handle, I look back over my shoulder. “Want me to bring anything?”

“Just yourself.”