"Look at this place," Nicole says. "It's amazing."

I can't help but smile, as she walks around my apartment wide-eyed. The innocence with which she looks at the world is refreshing. She's soaking it all in, taking nothing for granted.

"This," I say, pointing around the apartment, "is just a collection of things. Don't get too excited. We can't take these things where we're going."

She frowns. "Well, that's kind of a dark thing to think about."

"It's the truth," I shrug. "But… they sure are fun to collect."

"Since when did you become so humble? This isn't the cold, calculated, driven chef I've heard so much about," she laughs.

"You can't always believe what you read."

As soon as I say that, I can't help but think about Percy Whitman and his reviews of my restaurant. That's a prime example of something that shouldn't be believed.

"What's this?" she says, pointing to a painting on the wall. "It looks so… chaotic."

"That's a Jackson Pollock painting."

"A real Pollock?" she says, her eyes widening again. "You own a real Pollock painting? I've heard of him, but have never actually seen one of his paintings in real life."

"You see all of those lines? He created this piece by dripping paint on a canvas that was placed on the floor. Pretty incredible when you think about it… I don't think anyone else was using that technique at the time."

"Couldn't anyone do this thought? I mean, it just looks so… messy," Nicole says, stepping closer to the painting. "I could take a paintbrush and drip a bunch of paint onto the floor."

"It's in the eye of the beholder, I guess, but I think there's something remarkable about Pollock… the way he rebelled, you know? The way he used color. And he wasn't concerned with painting objects that he could see in everyday life, like a traditional landscape of the sea, or of a fruit basket, or a vase of flowers.

“It feels as if he wanted to show action… he wanted to show what was going on in his own emotional interior with all of these lines."

Nicole considers this. "I can appreciate that. I think you have a point," she says, and then laughs. "Who knew Chef Palmer was so… cultured."

"What's that supposed to mean? Did you think I was some soulless brute?" I laugh, giving her a hard time, but she blushes, and I change the subject.

"You hungry?" I ask.

She doesn't answer. Instead, she's walking into the living room, transfixed by the things she sees. And as I follow her around the penthouse, I realize that I'm so surprised by how genuine I am being with her.

Normally, when I have a woman over, it's a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am sort of affair. We fuck. We maybe eat.

And I watch her as she walks out that front door.

But this is different. Nicole is different. She isn't like any of those other women.

"Unreal—you collect pottery too?" she asks, pointing to a vase.

I smile. "That's a Brouwer vase."

"Never heard of it, but I love the colors—the gold and reds and yellows… all kind of swirling together. The more I look at it, the more I think I can sink right into it."

"This piece comes from Long Island, and I like it because of the way it's crafted, using an open firing technique."

She shakes her head. "You're gonna have to speak my language. I have no idea what that even means."

I lean in close, and delicately grab her hand in mine. "Here," I say. "Touch this." I drag the tips of her fingers across the vase, and she follows my lead, feeling the texture.

"The glaze on this has been whipped by flames," I say. "And that creates some really spectacular coloring."

"Incredible," she says, at almost a whisper. "You never cease to amaze me. You have incredible taste."

"They're extremely rare… these vases I mean."

She pulls her hand back. "Then I probably shouldn't be touching it like that."

I laugh. "It's fine. I trust you."

As soon as those words tumble from my mouth, I realize I'm no longer talking about the vase. I'm talking about me. I'm talking about us.

Nicole is the first woman I've ever opened up to… trusted enough to open up to, and if I'm being honest, I should probably tell her my whole story.

"What's wrong?" she says, scrunching her eyebrows.

"Nothing," I say, trying to look away. Is now really the right moment to rip open my chest and hand her my naked, beating, vulnerable heart on a platter?

"I may not have known you that long, but you aren't a very good liar. You're thinking about something… tell me."

She's right. I take a deep breath.

"There's something symbolic about fire that drives me. It transforms things—food, places—but it also symbolizes action and immediacy. I'm so driven to make The Pearl on Park a success because I want to leave my mark on this city.

“I want to show everyone how good high-end cuisine can be… and I don't think I have much time."

She turns and looks at me, holding my gaze in silence.

Then, she finally says, "What do you mean… not much time?"

"It's probably nothing… but a few weeks ago my doctor saw a white mass on a routine scan… in my brain. He told me to come back, so that we could figure out what it was."

"And?" she says, a look of concern washing over her.

"And I didn't go back," I shrug. "I feel fine."

"Are you crazy? Doesn't that seem stupid, to not follow up?"

"Maybe," I say, "but we're all mortal. No one is gonna be here forever, so instead of thinking about that, I'm choosing to live in the present, and focus all of my energy on The Pearl."

There. I said it. I've just served handed this woman the keys to my innermost secrets and desires.

Now let's see if I've scared her off.