I make it to the condo where my best friend, Dahlia is pet sitting. My mind is blown. The main floor of the penthouse apartment is filled with her favorite flowers. They’re gorgeous, and they’re everywhere, filling the space with sweet scents that I’m sure will go great with what I’m about to make. In my view, only violets would make the gesture more special. I adore violets.

I adore these flowers too.

But Dahlia doesn’t. And she isn’t too impressed with me mentioning that it’s a sweet gesture from Jackson, her date.

She’s also not keen to tell me why a room full of the flowers she’s named after isn’t a good thing, so I fill her in on how the night went while I prepare a few appetizers for her to sample. In this business, using a new recipe is destined for failure without the taste test, preferably by non-chefs and a decent selection of taste buds sampling the final product.

I’ve gone all out with five new recipes for Mrs. Worthington’s event. I don’t just want that gig. I need it. It’ll be the most money I’ve ever been paid, so screwing it up is not an option. This is one time where mundane dishes that everyone else serves won’t cut it.

On top of that, I have a new job. Blair offered me a part-time job at his very upscale restaurant called Gauche. To say that I’m excited about the opportunity to work for him regularly is an understatement. I spent all night wishing our apartment had room for me to do cartwheels while Rosa and I shared a bottle of white wine to celebrate. A new job, possibly a real gig that pays thousands, well, it all feels like my life has transformed into my second most wished for fantasy.

Only one person is missing, but if I spend even a moment thinking about her, my entire mood will change. It’s the reason I take the day off every year on her birthday. I become way too emotionally raw to function. It’s one of the reasons I’ve never been in a serious relationship. Connecting with someone romantically will likely require me to open up about this part of my past, and how can I be open about it with someone else when I can’t face it myself?

While Rose was doing a psychology course in her undergraduate program, she told me that my mind is coping with the trauma of losing Joy by suppressing the memories of her. Maybe Rose is right. But I’ve found that the only way to make it through the day is to keep that part of my life neatly packed away, closed off from everything else. If I don’t, this accomplishment of being so close to graduating from culinary school, the part-time job, the possible gig, they’d all feel as empty as that small part of my soul that I try not to focus on.

Shoving the depressing thoughts away like I usually do, I turn on the stove. I find the two saucepans I brought with me in a separate bag on the counter. Pulling them out, I start the caramel glaze in one and warm up the second pan for the garlic sesame dip that’ll go with my jumbo shrimp appetizer. Each of the hors-d’oeuvres I’m planning has to be prepared at a different temperature, from hot to room temperature to straight from the fridge. It sounds like more work, but actually, a plan to serve this range of items will make it easier for me on the night of the event. I won’t be slaving over a slew of saucepans all at once.

As things are well in hand, I do my best to push Dahlia some more. I’m so curious to know how her night went, to hear her take on the event from a guest’s point of view. But she’s still not talking much, and when she does, it’s to rave about my career news or to dote on her fur babies. All I know is her evening crashed and burned at some point, and she blames it all on her date.

She also doesn’t have much of an appetite. Not a good state for my taste tester.

While I’m working on the sauces, there’s some ruckus with the dogs and Dahlia goes out onto the balcony to figure out what’s going on. From Dahlia’s accounts, they’ve been sneaking over to the neighbor’s side to make all manner of trouble for her. The next thing I know, she’s more frantic than before. I realize why when there’s a knock on the door shortly after.

I’m met by the tall, sandy-haired guy with glasses who had his eyes on me all night last night. He’s with a friend who introduces himself as the neighbor.

Damn, they’re both gorgeous.

I start to envy Dahlia all over again for lucking out on this gig. An exquisite condo to live in, even if it’s temporary. No subway transit all the way from Brooklyn to the Upper West Side. And hot, handsome men dressed in expensive business suits showing up at her door unannounced.

Lucky bitch.

After showing them in, I announce them to my bestie and return to the stove. The cute nerdy one follows me to the kitchen while his friend tries to have a conversation with Dahlia.

Considering that I’m here for her taste buds and she’s not in the eating mood, I figure, hell, why not go with the flow. Maybe the sexy geek is hungry.

“Hi, there,” I greet him. “Didn’t I see you at the gala last night?”

“Yeah.” He comes closer to the stove and leans against the counter nearby. He clutches the high-end smartphone in his hand as though it never leaves that position. But who am I to judge? I sleep with my chef’s knives under my bed, and it’s not for safety reasons. “What’s cooking?”

“Nothing much,” I answer.

“I bet your food’s anything but that.”

“Just some samples I brought over for Dahlia to try out. Want to try some? I can use a fresh set of taste buds while she’s busy with your friend.”

“Hell yes,” he answers. “Matter of fact, I’d be more than happy to volunteer if you’re ever looking for someone to taste…your food that is,” he adds with a wink.

Gosh, he’s a flirt too.

I point at the finished dishes. “Try any of those five at the end. I’m still working on the sauces for these two hot menu items.”

“What’s that one with the pears wrapped in bacon?”

“Bacon wrapped caramelized pears. Wait. Here.” A sudden dose of courage causes me to lift the spatula from that saucepan to his mouth. I must really like this guy. Being this forward is so unlike me. And I still don’t even know his name. “Taste it with this.”

My stomach does a flip as he steadies my hand with his at my wrist, lowering his head until his lips are level with the spoon.

“Wow.”

“Good?” I ask.

“Delicious. Thanks for the sample. There was no doubt in my mind that it’d be anything but. The menu last night was a hit, which is a pretty big accomplishment for such a picky crowd.”

“My head chef prefers to call it discerning.”

“However you call it, the guests you served happen to have high expectations, and your team managed to impress them all. I’m Dylan, by the way.”

“Emily Fields.”

I catch the smile that rises on his face, as well as the deep dimple on one cheek, and quickly return my gaze to the saucepans. If I keep looking at this man, there are sure to be more features I’ll find myself ogling at on his chiseled face and ripped body under that business suit.

“You give everyone your full name when you meet them?”

“I have my reasons,” I say, but don’t go into heartbreaking details. “It’s mostly force of habit.”

“Interesting.”

“Knowing someone’s full name can be a lifesaver. What’s your last name?”

“Worthington.”

Oh crap. I’m sure he notices my eyes as they widen. I study his features more closely, searching for a resemblance. “Are you related to Diane Worthington, the exec who helped organize last night’s event?”

His arms fold at his waist. He comes to stand beside me. “Why do you ask?”

“She might be a new client of mine. It’s for a catering job a few weeks from now.”

“To answer your question, that would be a yes. Congrats and good luck with the job.”

“Thanks. Any tips?”

“Keep your cool under pressure. Under-promise, over-deliver, and be really early.”

“You don’t sound too thrilled about being related to her.”

“We don’t get to choose our parents, and sadly, not all of us are lucky to have the nurturing ones.”

The temptation to tell him he’s lucky to have a parent who’s alive at all is at the tip of my tongue, but I manage to keep it to myself. No point pissing off my first client’s kid. “She’s your mom?” I ask instead. “She seemed nice.”

“That’s probably the kindest thing anyone I know has said about her.”

“Really? I mean, I can’t claim to know anything at all about her after one interaction, but she didn’t seem that bad. Sure, she’s a little reserved, and maybe not the type to wear her emotions on her sleeves, but—”

He cuts me off with, “Diane Worthington doesn’t have emotions.” He smiles and that dimple sends me reeling again. “But you know what? The last thing I want to do right now is spend the few remaining minutes of my lunch hour talking about anything or anyone but you.”

I hear the unfamiliar girlish giggle I let out. Jeez, that was me? I swear to God I’ve never sounded that way. I don’t want to admit that just the look he gives me has caused my cheeks to heat up and butterflies to fill my lower belly.

“So, you’re Dahlia’s friend. What are you, roommates? Or do you go to the same college?”

“Both actually. Good guess.”

“I figured you couldn’t be from the same town. Your accent sounds more local.”

“You’re right. I grew up less than an hour’s drive from here. I’m from New Jersey.”

“Nice. And you’re a chef?”

“Assistant Chef, yes. Just starting out, but graduating soon.”

Dylan opens his mouth to reply, but Dahlia pops her head in the kitchen. Why is she more upset now than earlier? I thought for sure Jackson would win her over by this point. She tells me she’s leaving and wants me to lock up. It’s no trouble at all, being left to my own devices in as lovely a place as this. Especially with the present company.

But then Dahlia’s date comes in. He’s not any happier either.

“Hey, time to go, Dylan,” Jackson mutters and adds, “Nice meeting you, Emily.”

“Same here,” I answer.

Dylan pops another appetizer into his mouth and gives Jackson a nod. “Sure. I’ll be a minute. Meet me out at the elevator.” He finishes the bite of food and turns to me. “That’s my cue.”

“Sounds good. Nice meeting you, Dylan. Thanks for the tips.”

“Anytime. So, I was thinking, as both our friends are getting to know each other, it might be a good idea for us to do the same. Starting with drinks sometime? Or dinner?”

“Sound good,” I say, but then I start to connect the other dots. “Although well, you’re related to my potential client. That may not be the best idea.”

“Trust me, your working with Diane will likely never intersect with my life.”

“It kinda did last night at the gala.”

“That was different. I was there for a good cause. Besides, most of her social life relates to her work as a lawyer.”

“I’m not sure… Can I think about it and let you know?” Pulling out my phone from my apron, I unlock the screen then hand it to him. “Put your number in here.” His face shows a bit of disappointment so I add, “I’ll call or text no matter what.”

“Sure.” He takes a little longer entering something into my phone and find out why when his smartphone buzzes on the countertop. A look at my own screen shows me the text he’s sent to himself from my phone.

On top of adding his number to my contact list as Dylan ‘Your Friendly Neighborhood Taste Tester’ Worthington, his text message presumably from me to him reads,

Dylan: Hi gorgeous. It’s me, Emily. I can’t wait to meet you for drinks.

“Smart move, getting my number while you’re at it,” I tell him, unable to keep a straight face.”

“Smart is pretty much my m.o.,” Jackson shouts his name from the front door, reminding him they have a meeting to attend. “Gotta go, but I’ll be in touch.”

“Later.”

I’m glad he didn’t ask me out again while he was standing so close.

It probably would’ve been a ‘yes.’