I can’t shake the memory of Dylan’s kiss a couple of nights ago, but I have to. The truth is I’m closing in on the start of my career. Not every graduate finds a job after they’re done school. And not every employment situation pans out. My part-time job with Blair can become something big, but I learned a long time ago that starting something that’s all mine can be better.

It’s strange. My mother wasn’t an entrepreneur. Neither was grams. Still, somewhere along the way, I must have picked up the entrepreneurial bug. I want to eventually work for myself. To me, it means the shot Diane Worthington gave me is worth a whole lot more. Just like many of my college culinary professors teach, a food professional’s career thrives on word of mouth. On happy taste buds and satisfied bellies. Who knows what doors this gig can open.

And for that reason, as hot as Dylan’s kiss was, I need to stay away for at least a while. At least until after today’s lunch meeting to show Mrs. Worthington what I have in mind for appetizers for her event. And after the event. Maybe longer. It all depends on where this goes.

I enter the upscale Central Park West condo building and announce myself to the concierge. And to think I believed the penthouse where Dahlia’s pet sitting was ritzy. This building looks brand new, decked out in glass and chrome, with granite floors and massive crystal chandeliers almost everywhere.

The concierge gives me directions to park Blair’s catering van in an underground visitor parking spot, plus a code I can use from that level to buzz myself into the elevator that’ll take me to Diane Worthington’s condo unit. She asked me to meet her here as this is the location she’ll use to host her event. If this place is her second home, I can only imagine what her actual mansion is like.

After parking, I pull my two travel containers from the back of the van and follow the directional signs to what I hope is the right elevator. The code works. This has to be the place.

The elevator has only one button with the number fifty-one, which I press. Less than a minute later, I walk out to a landing before a set of towering double doors.

I give the one on the left a small knock and wait. A woman in her late thirties dressed in one of those black and white maid’s uniforms answers the door.

“Good afternoon,” she greets me.

“Hi, I’m Emily Fields.”

“Yes, I know. Mrs. Worthington is expecting you. She’s on her way over from the office. Come on in. I’ll show you to the kitchen so you can set up.”

“Thanks.” I follow her past several sleek, modern rooms decorated in eggshell dark gray and silver, admiring the marble floors and undoubtedly expensive artwork on the wall. We arrive at the massive open concept kitchen. I’m not surprised that it happens to be bigger than the entire apartment I share with Dahlia and Rose.

The maid stands beside the entryway she led me through a second ago. “This is the kitchen. The fridge is to your left, the pantry is around the corner, and the stove top and oven are at the center island over there. Let me know if you need any help with burners or anything else. I’ll be around. My name is Marie.”

“Thanks, Marie. Oh, is there a powder room nearby?” I ask. It doesn’t hurt to have the lay of the land, so I don’t end up having to search high and low for a place to empty my bladder on the night of the event.

If Mrs. Worthington hires me.

“Back through this hallway, three doors to your right.”

“Great. Thanks again.”

I only need a few minutes to lay out and decorate the seven hors d’oeuvres I brought along for sampling. They all have to present well, and it goes without saying that the taste must be exceptional.

Before I’ve finished plating the last appetizer, my body tenses up as I hear the clicking of heels along the marble floors. She must be here. My suspicion is confirmed. She’s nearby, in conversation with someone over the phone. She enters the room with the phone still up to her ear, and quickly wraps up the call.

“Emily. So glad you could make it,” she says, sliding her smartphone into the black Saint Laurent designer bag hanging on her arm.

“Hi, Mrs. Worthington.”

“Please, call me Diane. It turns out that I only have a few minutes due to some shifting around in my calendar. I hope that works for you.”

“I understand. It’s no problem. Would you like to sample the six that are ready?”

She glances at the counter beside me and notices the appetizers laid out on rectangular all white serving platters and steps up to them. “That would be perfect.”

I take a bit of time to explain the selection I prepared. I went all out, putting my own spin on each of the hors-d’oeuvres. She takes a nibble of everything. I walk her through the options. Bacon wrapped caramelized pears, a variation of the dill cucumber bites I made for the gala, but these are formed into cups. There are also sun-dried tomato parmesan bruschetta, zucchini chicken crostini with goat cheese, jumbo shrimp bites with a garlic sesame dip, plus the avocado and chicken mini skewers. I point at the unfinished sausage stuffed mushrooms that I’m working on. She doesn’t hesitate to taste one of the not too presentable half-done pieces. Her moans of gastronomic pleasure are not lost on me. That’s more a measure of the likelihood that she’ll hire me than words or polite nods.

“These are all phenomenal,” she exclaims after she finishes chewing what was in her mouth. “You’re hired. I have to head back now, but send me an email. We can take care of the rest.”

“That’s great. Thanks for your business. Um, Mrs. Worthington, should we discuss the price per guest and finalize which five hors d’oeuvres you prefer from the seven I presented?”

“Let’s go with all seven. It’s a great selection. And the price is fine. Whatever Blair charges works for me.”

I knew I should’ve come a little earlier. I would’ve gotten rid of my distracting phone. My phone. The goddamn traitorous phone. As Diane wipes her fingers on one of the cloth napkins beside the serving trays, my phone screen lights up directly beside it with a text from Dylan. And crap, it’s clear as day that it’s her Dylan. His whole Dylan ‘Your Friendly Neighborhood Taste Tester’ Worthington shows as the sender, and his message starts with, ‘Hey sexy. Good luck with the—’

Thank goodness the rest of it is cut off. But it’s damaging.

“I’m sorry about that,” I say, flustered as I try to flip it over. But all it does is its usual long buzzing and slips closer to Diane’s line of sight. She’s definitely seen it, from the way she’s stopped what she was doing and freezes with her fingers in midair just inches from the shoulder strap of her purse. “That’s just a message from… someone—” I can’t even scramble to explain.

She studies me for a moment from the corner of her eye, then composes herself again. “You know my son, I gather?”

“I…yes, I do.”

“Are you one of his…female friends?”

The slightly nauseating way she forms the last phrase worries me a little. “Um, he’s more a friend of a friend,” I say honestly, leaving out the part that we kissed less than twenty-four hours after meeting for the first time.

“I see. Sorry to cut this short. Let’s connect by email to finish up the details.”

“Yes, that’s fine. Thanks for seeing me.”

“Marie will show you out. Take care.”

I stare at the half-eaten appetizers. She liked them all. And I’m hired. I think I am. If this tiny incident doesn’t screw it up. God, I hope it doesn’t. Seven appetizers for around a hundred and fifty people, at close to a couple hundred dollars per person. Oh my gosh, I’m rich!

At this rate, a few more gigs like this and I’ll pay off my student loans before the end of this summer.

If.

If I still have the fucking gig.

After packing up, I’m on my way down the elevator when my phone buzzes in my purse. I roll my eyes. It’s probably Dylan again. My hands are full, so I ignore it until I put everything back into the catering van and drive out of the underground parking.

It buzzes a couple more times when I’m topside. I pull over to the side of the busy street to check. There’s a group message from Rose and Dahlia, and a separate one from Dylan. They all want to know how it went, but Dylan’s message has a little extra. I send a quick reply to Rose and Dahlia that I got the job, then switch over to read Dylan’s text more closely.

Dylan: Hey Sexy. Good luck with the meeting. Hope it goes well with Diane. If it does, we should celebrate. Drinks tonight for real?

Awww hell. I’m going to have to turn him down. Panty-melting kiss or not. No matter how bad I feel for making him drive all the way out to me in the shady part of Brooklyn only to cancel on him. It’s best to accept that our interaction ran its course in his car two nights ago. For all I know, it wouldn’t end up being anything more than just one of those short-lived experiences.

My instincts tell me it’s not.

That and the butterflies swirling around just from his innocent text.

Time to pump the brakes on this thing.