A week goes by. Everything changes and stays the same. Angel quits her shitty waitressing job to become my assistant. She announces it in the typical over-the-top Angel way, surprising me by throwing up confetti of what was left of her waitress apron when I get home one day. Allan Dane cuts me a check for the upcoming expenses associated with the app preparations. Meanwhile, Geno is nice, too nice. At the restaurant, he tiptoes around me, even letting me go home at my regular time when customers are lined up with questions. When I reveal that I’m going to be leaving the job entirely to work on my app, Geno doesn’t so much as frown, only chirping, “Oh, yes, it’s fine, just fine!” Still, I agree to keep on working until he finds a replacement; as much of a jerk that Geno has been, it’s only the right thing to do. However, Geno’s total 360 turn in behavior does get me thinking: Could Allan have something to do with it? I haven’t seen him since our momentous helicopter ride slash app meeting slash heart-to-heart, but when I text him, he denies everything, only mentions that he misses me.

I don’t say anything, leave it at that, although Angel’s teasing and my nightly dreams aren’t helping. Now that I know Allan Dane personally, resisting my attraction to him seems even more difficult. Although it’s not like I have much choice. This opportunity for my app is the best I’ve ever had. I can’t mess this up by letting my heart get involved.

The next Monday Angel and I get drinks at the Rooster. There, under the severe gaze of a wooden rooster, we watch TV and talk about the app. We agree on the symbol—a smiling measuring pot being filled with foods and ingredients. Angel recounts all the meetings she’s set up for me in the coming month, with statisticians and data entry people who can figure out how to design the app. As I’m sipping my Smirnoff Ice, Angel’s eyes suddenly widen.

“No... way...”

I follow her gaze to the TV, where I see an all-too-familiar face. It’s Allan, his whole face contorted in rage.

The newscaster’s voice is smug.

“And some more drama involving Allan Dane. The latest is that he was in a fight with celebrity chef Pierre Ramseth.” A picture of the bald man from the resort pops up. “And now he’s been ordered two nights in jail to show for it.”

In front of Allan’s furious face some bars descend, and I look away. Angel lets out a sigh.

“Crap. Do you think that’ll affect the app or anything? I wonder what the fight was about.”

I don’t say anything. I have a feeling that I know all too well what that fight was about.

—

THAT NIGHT, I GO FOR a long walk with Popper, enjoying the cool night air, letting it ease my harried mind. I’ve been texting with Allan daily since our meeting. Just little unimportant things—observances of the weather, comments on some food we’d had somewhere. But now I haven’t heard anything from him since yesterday. It is, of course, no doubt since Allan is now sitting in jail, unable to access his phone at all. But the thought that I may have been the cause of the fight just makes me feel worse. Allan is so kind, so unlike I expected, the last thing I want to do is make his life more difficult.

Once I get home, after I let Popper off his leash and bid a couch-bound Angel good night, I practically collapse in bed. No sooner have my eyes closed, however, than my phone starts ringing.

“Eva.”

I sit up in bed. It’s Allan.

“I’m sorry for calling like this, I... You probably know where I am and know why I just wanted to hear your voice.”

I’m speechless. Allan sounds tired, miserable.

“Eva?”

“Are you... okay?”

A pause, then, “As okay as can be expected.”

Silence, then I dare ask what’s been on my mind since I saw the broadcast.

“Allan, that chef you got in a fight with, that was the one from the resort, wasn’t it? Was it about... me?”

Another long silence, then, “Yes. Yes, it was. Good night, Eva.”

Then I’m left with the dial tone to talk to.

The rest of the night I’m restless. My dreams of Allan have gotten worse, more lurid. Now he’s screwing me on that long wooden table in the lodge in front of all the chefs, in the helicopter while it zooms over New York, at the restaurant surrounded by the tasting dishes. When my alarm finally shrieks, it feels like I haven’t slept a second.

—

THE NEXT DAY AT WORK, I get a call.

“Hello, is this Eva Lynn?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

The voice sounds very vaguely familiar.

“Polly Benedicson. I’m Allan Dane’s personal assistant; we met briefly the other day.”

“Oh, okay.”

“I’m calling you to ask if you’d be willing to pick up Mr. Dane from jail. He’s at the Manhattan Detention Complex. Unfortunately, his lawyer has finally quit—was fed up with a backlog of pay and working overtime, so he’s going to have to stay there overnight. He’s personally asked for you to pick him up, if you’re comfortable. I’ve been told he has more details about your business arrangement to discuss.”

I pause. Clearly, this isn’t a good idea, but how can I say no?

“Ms. Lynn?”

“Yes. I mean, yes, I’ll pick him up.”

“Great. He’ll be released at 7 p.m. tomorrow. Thanks for your cooperation. Goodbye!”

And then again, I’m listening to the dial tone.

The rest of the day drags on. Geno is irritable and the customers seem banded together to annoy me too, burning every food item they touch and complaining about the ones they do manage to not burn. At home, even Angel is out of sorts, while Popper barks at mysterious nothingness outside. The next day is much the same, more unbearable waiting, until it hits 6:30 and I’m driving over to the good old Tombs. Parking is a nightmare, but when I actually get to the building, it’s worse.

Reality hits me full force. This giant brown building in front of me is a prison—and it looks every bit the part. Its very design is prison bars, lines running horizontal and vertically across into brown squares and window rectangles. At the topmost part of the structure, there’s actually brown cells. Maybe that was where they kept the worst prisoners, tormenting them with the streams of light, of hope, inside.

Inside, it’s no better. Some brown-gray walls, a glare of a receptionist. When I tell her why I’m here, she deepens her glare before picking up a strangely pristine phone.

“Allan Dane’s friend is here to take him away.”

“Yeah? Yeah.”

Hanging up the phone, a cracked-lipped smile plays on her face. She jerks her thumb behind her.

“He’s not ready yet. You’re gonna have to go in.”

I gape at her for a minute.

“You sure?”

She responds by jabbing her thumb in the same direction. So, down the fluorescent overlit hallway I go. At the end, I round a corner and then come face-to-face with it. The jail cell with its prisoners. All of whom are staring at me.

“Eva!”

I turn around to see Allan, looking tired but happy.

“I was just coming out. It’s good to see you.”

At the sight of Allan, the prisoners break into applause.

“That your lady, Allan?”

Allan chuckles and waves his hand at the speaker, an older, tattooed guy.

“Nah, Billy, I’m not so lucky as that.”

His next wave he directs at the whole cell.

“See ya, guys!”

They wave back, hoot, and applaud some more. As we make our way back down the hallway I came in, we pass some guards, who give Allan a similarly happy greeting.

“Ah, so you got out of here after all, eh, buddy?”

Allan shrugs, grins.

“What can you do?”

The redhead he’s talking to grins and waves.

“Well, good luck to you!”

We make our way out of the building and take a seat on a bench outside. Allan nudges me with the side of his arm.

“Hey, you okay?”

I nod.

“Yeah, I... I’ve just never been in a jail before. Reminds me of picking up Dad one time after he went on a rampage, the same one he almost killed Popper in, right before I had to put him in the nursing home.” I take a deep breath, direct my glance to Allan. “How are you?”

He shrugs again.

“As good as can be expected. I’m used to these short stints, know what to do by now.”

I cast him an interested sidelong look.

“Which is?”

He cocks a grin.

“Bribe ’em.”

My face falls, but he’s shaking his head already.

“It’s not what you think, though.” He reaches in his coat pocket, then opens his hand to reveal several blue-and red-wrapped squares. “It’s chocolate.”

I laugh and he grins himself.

“I know, right? That those poor jail boys go just about as bonkers for these things as for cigarettes.”

He laughs.

“I always have some on me, have for years now. That way I’m always prepared.”

This time, I don’t laugh with him. Instead, I turn to him.

“Isn’t that... a bit negative, though?”

“What do you mean?”

“By carrying them on you like that, that’s like assuming eventually you’re going to end up in jail. Isn’t it better to just avoid going to jail entirely, to be sure that you’ll stay out?”

Now, Allan’s face is desolate, his focus straight ahead of him.

“You know, Eva, there was a time when I would’ve agreed with you. But now, these past few years...” He sucks in his cheeks. “Sometimes life gives you things you don’t expect, things you can’t handle. Not in any of the legal ways, anyway.”

Silence, then he rises.

“Anyway, enough of that. The important part is that I’m free now, free as a bird. Would you mind driving me home? Unless there’s something you wanted to do or somewhere you had to be first.”

I nod, rise myself.

“Of course. And no, I don’t have any plans tonight.”

As we walk down the street toward my car, Allan grins again.

“Great. This way I can show you my house.

My own “great” is only an unconvincing echo. Because all of a sudden, I’m feeling very, very uneasy.

But there’s no way to avoid it. No, we get in the car, chat some more, Allan directs me and then, before I know it, we’re there. The awe-inspiring mansion I have to stop and take a minute to get a good look at.

“It’s pretty nice, isn’t it?”

His tone is nonchalant, while I can only let out a shocked laugh myself.

“‘Pretty nice,’ are you kidding me? Allan, this place is amazing, stunning. It’s like something you’d see in some architect catalogue or something. ‘Pretty nice’ is the least of it.”

And I’m right, the sky-high pillars, the thin blue ribbon of mosaic bordering everything, Allan’s house is like some kind of Greek palace, something fit for a king.

Following my gaze, Allan nods.

“You’re right, I am pretty lucky.”

His voice is sad, and when I glance at him, his face is sad too.

“An old friend of mine thought so too, thought it was the most beautiful place in the world.”

Another long silence. When I look up, Allan’s already halfway toward the house. I follow him.

The house’s interior is no less stunning, with Grecian vases and pottery everywhere, filled and draped with exotic flowers. The marble floor lets out clear clacks as we walk across it, then a muffled ping as Allan drops his shirt on the floor. Glancing at me, he chuckles.

“Sorry, I’ve been waiting ages to do that. Can’t wait to shower and get in some fresh clothes.”

We stand there for a minute, this bare-chested god of a man eyeing me, while I’m suddenly hyperaware of the tight dress I chose to pick him up in today.

Allan’s deep sonorous voice breaks me out of my reverie.

“I have a confession to make.”