I pour an amber ribbon of bourbon into a small tumbler. As soon as the liquid coats the ice, I listen to it crack, hiss, and clink against the glass.

It's only my second glass … okay, maybe my third, but it feels so good.

I lean back into the leather of my couch and let out a sigh.

The floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse give me an unparalleled view of the city. The darker the sky becomes, the more the city glitters, like tiny shards of glass.

There's something beautifully impressive about a city skyline—the way skyscrapers reach toward the clouds and know no ceiling. Skyscrapers reaching up like fists of progress.

It makes me want to conquer the world.

I have a moment of peace and quiet—a brief clearing of the mental fog left from the week. A moment where I feel motivated about the future. It was a long day at work, but the team did well. Dishes were made. Diners were happy, and nothing was burnt.

Even though I'm enjoying the quiet, it seems that whenever I feel I've reached any sort of mental clarity, it's short-lived. Percy's new review of my recent dishes came out today—a high-gloss, highly anticipated article in one of the biggest culinary journals of the city—and as expected, he doesn't fail to trash me with the gusto of a man starved.

It's as if he won't stop until he sees me destroyed. But there are other critics. He isn't the only one, and if I get enough good reviews to outweigh his trash talking, I think The Pearl on Park will make it.

I look at the review again (seeing it for the fifth time) and read Percy's opening sentences out loud:

"An inexperienced child could come up with a more sophisticated and better executed culinary concept than Chef Palmer. In fact, I've tasted free sauce packets that taste better than the condiments prepared by Palmer and his team. The Pearl on Park—instead of being a culinary spark for the city—is an unpleasant and placid reminder of high-end cuisine gone wrong."

I slap the article back down on the coffee table and kick up my feet.

Another scathing review, but this time it doesn't bother me. Sure, it's unjust, unfounded and unwarranted, but I see straight through Percy's bullshit.

Besides, I have bigger, more important things on my mind: Nicole.

I pick up a small business card sitting on the coffee table, and I flip it over in my fingers.

There's an embossed orange flame on one side, edged with gold foil, and on the other is my name, and phone number, along with a quote: "Play with Fire."

Three words that I repeat like a mantra.

To me, they symbolize action, motivation, perseverance, and triumph.

Regardless of what's thrown at me right now, my mind is relentlessly fixated on my restaurant … and Nicole.

I wish circumstances with her would be different. We come from two different worlds, and sometimes as if we speak a different language. I can't read her all the time.

How could her and I ever work out—we have two competing restaurants, and there's also the fact that I need to stay focused. I don't have time for anything else in my life.

I feel time slipping through my fingers like water. The harder I grab at it, the quicker it disappears. That's an unsettling thought.

But maybe I shouldn't view this as a race or a competition, and maybe I'm just still unable to accept it for anything else. Something inside of me feels missing—could that missing something be Nicole? Could she be the remedy?

No, she couldn’t possibly be … could she? Not with what's been thrown at me recently. But still, I wonder …

What's she doing right now? Is she looking at the same skyline? What is she thinking? Is she feeling what I'm feeling?

I just can't seem to shake her from my mind, and it pisses me off. I'm irritated by the fact that with all these big fish I have to fry, she's what's causing me the most internal conflict. It isn't her fault—it's mine. I need to get my fucking life together before I worry about other people like this, but that'll have to wait for now.

It's useless … nothing can get her out of my mind.

I take another sip of my drink, tilting my head back as the bourbon burns a fiery path into the pit of my stomach.

Fire.

Action.

That's it … I need to do something.

I can't sit here and let thoughts of Nicole consume me.

I walk over to the kitchen and grab my cell from the granite counter top. I scroll through my contacts until I find her name.

I hesitate for just a moment, a split second of time, asking myself if I'm making the right decision. I pace the kitchen, shuffling my feet across the marble floor, and fingering the screen of my phone. My fingers hover over my contacts, frozen, waiting for me to act. Fuck it. You only live once, I think to myself.

And with that I dial Natalie.

It only takes two rings for her to answer.

And the voice that answers is the softest, sweetest music to my ears.

Fuck. There's no more guessing.

Yes, I've made the right decision.