"He's like candy on a stick," Sarah smiles, sliding back into her chair.

I roll my eyes. "Are you serious? If you mean the kind of candy that melts and sticks, and gives you the world's worst toothache and puts you into a dentist's chair, then … okay, I can see it," I say, letting out a sigh.

I love Kate, but she can be one of the most dramatic people you've ever met, and she doesn't have the most rational mind.

"What's with you?" Kate asks, eyeing me suspiciously. "A bit harsh, don't you think? He looks good enough to eat—those eyes, and that smile. Don't pretend that you don't know what I'm talking about."

"It's just that I'm not buying into the hype," I say. "Sure, he has the name and the money, and that Michelin star, but so what?"

"So what? I mean, look at the man! A Michelin star isn't easy to get you know," Sarah says. "It's not like you can snap your fingers and will it into materializing. And c'mon … you can't tell me that he isn't easy on the eyes."

I let out another sigh and allow the potato leek soup to slip off my spoon and drip back into the bowl. "I know," I say, "but this food is soulless. I mean, look at it. It doesn't have heart. It's as bland as these white linens … and it's cold."

"It's only cold because you've refused to touch it for the last twenty minutes," Kate laughs.

I watch as the soup plops into thick, white lumps back into the bowl.

I didn't want to be here, but Sarah insisted we show up since it's the grand opening for The Pearl on Park. I could think of a million things I'd rather be doing—like scooping cat liter, or plucking my eyebrows, or washing dishes, or folding laundry, or—

Sarah breaks my train of thought. She grabs my arm and squeals. "There he is again! He has to be the sexiest piece of man meat I've ever seen."

Her eyes look glassed over, like she's entered a new state of nirvana.

"Give me a break," I say, rolling my eyes. "Whose side are you on anyways?"

"I can't believe you're even asking me that," she says. "I'm on your side babe, but now you're just being unreasonable."

As much as I want to argue that point, I let it go.

I watch as Chef Palmer walks between his kitchen and back through the dining room, mingling with the crowd.

Women seem to swoon and melt in his presence like clockwork, one after the other.

They bat their eyes.

They pucker their lips.

They lower their blouses to show extra cleavage.

They fan their faces as if the heat emanating from his body is too much to handle.

It all makes me sick.

This chef … this restaurant … is threatening to put me out of business, and it makes my stomach do somersaults.

That's a cold, hard fact.

With that knowledge, I think he's about as handsome as a cockroach.

I watch him walk back and forth, from the kitchen to the dining room and back again, and can't help but scowl at his swagger.

Who does he think he is? He's got an ego bigger than Mt. Kilimanjaro … not that I've ever hiked it, but I've seen the pictures.

"Look," I say, "Do you see this rice? I scoop it into the prongs of my fork. It's overcooked. It's like paste. I mean, what chef can mess up rice? And this fish? It's drier than the Sahara. It's not flaking apart. It's a hard, dry slab … a fish brick."

"Um, Nicole," Sarah says, but I don't let her finish.

"And don't even get me started about the soup again," I say. "These potatoes? You don't even—"

But Sarah clears her throat and nods her head over my shoulder.

"I wouldn't, um—I, uh—" she says, her voice catching in her throat.

But I cut in again. "Oh come on Sarah. We all know he's easy on the eyes, but that doesn't mean his food is—"

Then I stop. I notice Sarah's eyes fixed on a figure just beyond my left shoulder and I can't help but turn around and see what she's so focused on.

And when I do, my heart nearly stops in my chest.

I look over and lock my gaze on two eyes the color of the Atlantic.

They pierce me like a set of hooks.

It doesn't take me long to realize who it is.

It's Chef Palmer.

And he's … smiling?

My mind races. How long has he been standing there? What exactly did he hear? Did he hear the part about me talking shit about his food, or the part where I dismiss his Michelin star?

And how did I not know how handsome he was?

It's times like this where I wish I had an invisibility cloak, or a button to teleport right out of this restaurant. Anything to disappear.

Palmer senses my discomfort.

"You were saying?" he smiles, flashing me a disarmingly white smile.

His teeth are unnaturally white … like something out of a toothpaste commercial.

I'm in the hot seat now. I can't hide from this, or backpedal.

I need to own up to it.

"I was just expecting something … different," I say.

"I take it this isn't meeting your expectations?"

He knows it isn't. It's a rhetorical question.

"I've had better," I say, standing my ground.

His eyebrows jump in an arc. "Is that so?"

"This fish … this starch … I was expecting more from The Pearl. There's a lot of hype about this place."

I watch as he crosses his arms and I notice a black blemish on the sleeve of his chef's coat … as if it caught on fire. It looks like he hasn't had the smoothest of openings, and I find my heart going soft at the thought … as a chef, I know how hard it is to run a kitchen, but I quickly shake that from my mind.

He's the competition.

He's part of the problem in this city … overpriced, soulless food.

"Fine," he smiles, his eyes still on mine. "Come here tomorrow after closing hours and I'll show you what real food is all about."