He offers me a hand, which I accept, searching his face warily. He only nods, walks over to his office door. Pausing there, he shoots me an impatient look.

“Are you coming?”

“Where?”

Another soft smile, a light chuckle.

“I like what I’m hearing. There’s just one more thing I need to do to find out if I’m going to go through with the investment.”

“Which is...”

Allan offers me his suited arm, which I accept.

“Why don’t you join me and we’ll find out?”

It turns out “joining him” entails going through a door in the hallway I didn’t even notice, onto a fire escape outside that leads to the roof. Once I see what’s waiting for us on the gravelly surface, I’m even more confused than before.

“A helicopter. You need to ride in a helicopter to figure out whether my idea’s worth pursuing.”

Another one of his infuriating laughs.

“Yes, exactly.”

At my murderous glare, Allan lifts up both hands.

“Whoa, whoa. I was joking, Eva.”

I say nothing and turn to go. Clearly, I was right about Allan Dane—this is all a joke to him, a funny little distraction from his real work, whatever it is.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“I don’t know what this is to you, but I’m not in the mood to be messed with. You can go on your helicopter and you can go to hell.”

As I storm off, a strong grip on my arm stops me.

“Whoa, whoa, Eva. Hang on there.”

I only struggle for a few seconds before falling still, although I don’t turn to face him.

“Why should I?”

“Because we’re riding in that helicopter to a resort with some people who are going to help me make my decision.”

I feel my tensed-up shoulders sag, and I turn to face him.

“Why didn’t you just say so?”

He shrugs, grins his irreverent grin.

“I like surprises.”

I pause for half a minute, enjoying what looks like worry passing over his handsome face before, finally, I nod.

“Okay.”

He grins.

“Okay?”

“Yep, let’s go.”

So, I take his arm and he leads me up to the helicopter. The interior is more whiteness incarnate, all gleaming leather and blanched-out hardwood.

We sit down and I take in the beautiful furniture. Following my gaze, Allan snickers.

“I know, I know. You’re thinking I really like white, aren’t you?”

With a grin, I nod again.

“It’s not just that, though. I like transparency, clarity, cleanliness.”

And it’s funny, this man sitting across from me, lord of the tabloids, king of shady starlets—as he says this, he looks like he’s actually dead serious. He and I both go quiet. It’s not because the whirr of the helicopter blades is too loud, or even because there’s nothing more to say now. It’s because of the view from the window, the sprawling metropolis that’s New York City, all being reduced to one mottled landscape of gray. We are both speechless before its immensity. I find myself wondering which speck Angel is on right now, working her boring-ass waitressing gig at Ivana’s, which speck Dad’s on, sitting in his favorite chair in the recreation room.

“It never gets old, you know.”

I glance to Allan. He has a chip bag extended to me, but even as I accept it, he doesn’t look at me.

“The views like this, the way everything shrinks and expands. The way distance makes everything so orderly and coherent. It’s funny, lots of things I never thought would get old, I’m tired of before long—wild nights, shopping sprees, beautiful women—it all starts to whir together all too fast. But views like this, quiet walks in nature—I could do those for weeks and never get tired of them.”

Before I can respond, he’s talking some more.

“I know, stop the press, Allan Dane likes long walks in nature, but it’s true.”

I giggle.

“Don’t worry, I won’t breathe a word to anyone.”

His gaze out the window grows sad.

“That kind of story wouldn’t make it to the front page, anyway. Wouldn’t make it to any pages, really. People, myself included, we’re naturally drawn to the blowups, the disasters.”

My gaze follows his to the hazy outline of the city that’s growing hazier.

“Yep, nothing like a good meltdown to distract us for a few seconds.”

Allan shifts his gaze to me.

“Speaking of, what would you say if I told you that we were going to reach our destination in five minutes?”

“Then I’d ask why you gave me this Lay’s bag, and when you were planning on having me eat them.”

His gaze flicking to the unopened bag, Allan groans.

“Why do I always do this?”

His casual question I find strangely upsetting, yet refreshing. I was starting to feel like we were sharing a moment, like I was special. I’d almost forgotten that sitting beside me was Allan Dane, who’d probably had fifty or so women sitting in my exact seat before me, all listening to his tortured soliloquy and privy to his chip generosity.

Taking it back, Allan tucks the small thing into his interior coat pocket so that the upper part of his jacket is sticking out ridiculously. Turning to me, he assumes a serious expression.

“Looking good, eh?”

Catching my eye, we crack up together.

“Just who exactly are we going to see at this resort?”

With a tap on the side of his nose, Allan winks.

“Remember what I said about surprises?”

I hold his gaze, refusing to let mine grow as merry as his.

“What if I told you that I hated surprises?”

“Why?”

“They never end up good. Not for me, anyway.”

Images flash through my head: my mom’s casket; the day after my birthday; my dad’s fall and the stranger who got back up; Angel showing up at my door years ago, sobbing, her clothes all ripped and covered in blood... No, surprises had never done me any good.

But now we’re touching down; outside the window, there is no longer a miniscule city but a beautiful wooden lodge.

“Clearly, they don’t share my affinity for white, although it is a beautiful place.”

After Allan’s thoughtless comment, he rises and offers me his arm once again.

“Business time.”

We exit the helicopter with a wave to the pilot and another wave for a smartly dressed woman at the door of the wooden lodge I’d seen from the helicopter window. Over her spectacles, she gives us an intent falcon-like look, then opens the lodge’s door.

“Right this way, Mr. Dane, sir. The committee has been waiting for you.”

Allan shoots me a guilty look.

“If I’m going to be completely honest, I’m very late.”

Next thing I know we’re inside the wooden lodge, whose floors, ceiling, and walls are all as wooden as you’d expect. Although, I don’t have much time to take in my surroundings as I’m being conveyed to a chair at the head of a long wooden table. It’s less the table that has me stupefied but its occupants. From one end of the long maple structure to the other are New York City’s finest chefs, from Howard Pickler to Geniva Smith, all of them looking at us with ill-disguised irritation. For his part, Allan lets out a light laugh.

“Ah, yes, I’m over an hour late, I know. I’m sorry—you know how helicopters are.”

No response, so Allan gets up, spreads his arms.

“Ah, yes, so I had Polly set up this very impromptu meeting because I’m interested in advice. Your advice. All of you are respected and renowned chefs all working in New York’s top restaurants. So, it’s only natural that I’d like your advice on a culinary matter.”

Suddenly my whole body feels leaden, like it’s made of wood too. Now I not only have to convey the merits of my app to Allan Dane, a rich irreverent playboy, but also to a group of already unimpressed-looking top chefs, my idols who could just about kill me with a scornful look? And all that without any real preparation, impromptu to boot?

“But I don’t think I can do any justice to what Eva’s told me about by trying to explain the thing to you. I’ll let her take the stage.”

And before I can protest or run away or do anything, really, everyone at the table has turned to me expectantly. And so I stand there, stock-still, as at least fifteen sets of dignified eyes burn into me. Run, my brain is telling me. Say something. Say something or run. Since my limbs still feel leaden, I decide on the latter.

“I have an idea for an app. A cooking app.”

No reaction; maybe this wasn’t as ridiculous as I suddenly felt it was. Maybe I could do this after all.

“It helps regular people make delicious meals in the comfort of their homes. All they have to do is enter a list of the ingredients they have in their house, and then the app generates a delicious recipe using those ingredients. Of course, I haven’t decided on the particulars as far as appearance and the actual interface itself as well as many of the recipes themselves, but I would be personally involved in the development of these recipes, as I am a chef myself.” I sneak a look at the illustrious group before me. “Although, of course, I’m nowhere near the caliber of you all.”

A deafening silence, and the stiff group of people doesn’t move.