ROMANCE IMPOSSIBLE

Melanie Marchande

reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express

written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief

quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. All characters are fictional, and any

resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The cover art for this book makes use of licensed stock photography.

All photography is for illustrative purposes only and all persons

depicted are models.

Author's Note

Dear Readers,

What's your favorite thing to cook?

Have an answer? Is it something like "toast?" I live between two

worlds when it comes to the culinary arts. While I appreciate the finer
things, and much prefer to make things from scratch with fresh
ingredients, there is also a part of me that sees Hamburger Helper
commercials and salivates. I think we all have a little bit of both inside
of us.

This book is for your inner gourmet. For the Food Network fans.

For the ones who narrate an imaginary TV show while cooking alone.
For anyone who's ever watched a cooking competition and though: I
could do that.

But it's also for the romantics. The ones who see a man who's a little

rough around the edges, and can still fall achingly in love. The loyal
ones. The ones who won't compromise. Who will get lost in a man if
he's strong enough, but will never lose themselves.

I think this is the best book I've managed to shake out of my brain so

far, and I hope you'll agree.

xoxo,
Melanie

P.S. Don't forget to join

My Mailing List

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the Billionaire series just for signing up!

CHAPTER ONE

A La Minut

In my kitchens, all dishes are a la minut, or made to order, as time allows. Slow-cooked

meats, soups, stews and casseroles being the obvious exceptions to my rule. But I have toured far
too many kitchens where food is made "fresh," then bagged up and frozen - what, dear reader, is
the point of that?

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Jill

***

"I need two salmon specials, sub spinach for potatoes on one. VIP table. Quick quick quick."
"Yes, Chef!" I swiped my sleeve across my forehead, one eye on the grill as always. The

medium-well burger would be done in another minute or two. I grabbed a fresh pan and flicked on a
burner, drizzling the stainless steel surface with oil before dropping a fresh salmon filet in, skin-side
down.

Lenny, the sous chef, was a no-show again. But that was fine. I could handle myself just fine

without his help. I was just supposed to be the line cook on the grill, but lately, as Lenny seemed to
lose interest in his job, head chef Souverani was relying on me more and more.

Tonight was no exception. We had a special guest in the house, the up-and-coming Chef

Maxwell Dylan, who'd recently returned to the city amidst a flurry of gossip and speculation in the
culinary community. So far, his career sounded like a soap opera. I wasn't much of a gossip-monger,
but the stories about him were so larger-than-life that I couldn't help but remember them.

Of course, none of that mattered at the moment. All I needed to do was get him the best meal I

possibly could, and quickly. It wasn't just a matter of him being impatient. A slow meal was a sign of
a poorly-run, inefficient kitchen staffed with people who weren't used to being busy. That was hardly
the impression I wanted to leave him with. I had no idea why he was here, but he was certainly
someone it wouldn't hurt to impress.

As the salmon sizzled, I tossed some spinach into another pan to get the sauté going. This was

a specialty of mine, something I'd thrown together for a customer who requested a substitution for
potatoes. It had gone over so well that Chef Souverani put it on the menu.

I knew it was only a matter of time before Chef Souverani would promote me to sous chef.

He'd been hinting for ages, so it was just a matter of making it official, and finally firing Lenny. If he
ever showed up again.

I stirred the spinach. It was a very simple recipe, just a little butter, olive oil, freshly crushed

garlic, salt and pepper with a squirt of lemon juice - but it really was the perfect accompaniment to
the salmon. Hopefully, the spinach plate was Chef Dylan's. The roasted potatoes, quite frankly, left a
bit to be desired.

As much as I hated to find fault with my boss, I had to admit that Chef Souverani had been

cutting corners lately. Business was lagging, and he was trying to save money wherever he could.
Supplies that he used to bring in fresh every day were now ordered frozen, in bulk. He was even
getting things pre-made if it was cheaper than buying the ingredients. That wasn't the Chef Souverani
that I knew, but I was doing the best with what I had.

I grabbed a bun and prepared the plate for the burger, keeping an eye on everything that was

cooking as I did.

Before long, everything was plated and ready, and I hit the bell. Chef Souverani himself came

to fetch the plates. I hadn't seen him do that in months and months.

I let out a long breath and leaned on the counter for a moment, keeping my eyes on the printer.

Had I really cleared all of the night's tickets already? Much as I hated to admit it, having everything
frozen and pre-packed did make things a lot faster.

Taking a long chug from a bottle of water and wiping my forehead, I willed myself not to

notice how quiet the restaurant was. The chef tried to hide his worry, and did pretty well, most of the
time, but I couldn't help but notice how tired and downtrodden he'd looked lately.

Suddenly, a voice rose above the low chatter from the few customers out in the dining room. I

couldn't quite make out the words, but I inched closer to the door to try and hear better. Peering
through the round window, I saw that Chef Souverani was standing in front of a table, talking to
someone. He was blocking my view, and a lot of my hearing, but from glancing around the rest of the
room I had to assume the table was Chef Dylan's.

"Yes, sir," Chef Souverani was saying. "Fresh...they're, yes. They're fresh frozen."
"Fresh frozen?" The response was so loud that I heard it clearly, but the rest of Chef Dylan's

tirade was lost on me. A few of the diners turned their heads to look at the minor commotion.

"I'm very sorry, would you like me to make you something else?" Chef Souverani had stepped

back a little, like he was trying to bow out of a fight. I couldn't recall ever seeing him like this, even
with some of their most irate customers.

After another long, indistinguishable rant from Chef Dylan, Chef Souverani turned around and

walked quickly back to the kitchen, his shoulders slightly hunched, a man defeated. I hurried away
from the door before he burst through.

"I'm sorry to do this to you, Jill," he said, hollowly. "But I...he wants to speak to the chef who

prepared his food."

My throat instantly went dry.
"I'm so sorry," the chef said, again. "I should've...I should've told him I made it. But I didn't.

Stupid. I had no idea he was going to..."

"It's fine," I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. "You don't have to lie for me. I can take the

heat." I smiled what I hoped was a reassuring smile, took a deep breath, and walked out into the
dining room.

I was instantly, painfully aware of how out of place I looked. In spite of everything, Chef

Souverani still tried to maintain a classy atmosphere in Giovanni's. And here I was, in a grease-
stained chef's coat, walking amongst the people in their sleek evening outfits and the waiters in black
and white. My hair must be a mess under my hat. But those were stupid things to be worrying about
right now. Right now, all I needed to focus on was the man across the dining room, who was currently
boring holes directly through my soul with his eyes.

Pasting on a smile, I walked right up to him.
"You wanted to see me?" I couldn't believe how clear and cool my voice sounded.
Chef Maxwell Dylan looked me up and down, his eyes raking across me, like he was seeing

every flaw, even the ones I fought to keep hidden.

Well, there was no need to get so melodramatic over it. I took a deep breath, and held my

smile in place.

"And what's your position here, may I ask?" His voice was deep and resonant, with a light

accent that hinted at his rural English upbringing. And more than that, he sounded pissed.

"I'm a line cook, sir."
"And you're cooking my entire dinner...why?"
"The sous chef couldn't make it in tonight." I could feel my smile growing more brittle by the

moment. "Was there something wrong with the food?"

"Something wrong with the..." he echoed, exasperation tingeing his voice. "Tell me, truly,

would you eat this food?"

"I do," I said. "I eat it every day."
He made a tsking noise, looking down at his plate. My ears were burning, but I couldn't back

down. I couldn't let him win this thing.

We're a temperamental bunch, in the culinary world. It comes along with the stress, I think, not

that we're saving lives or anything - but from the way some diners carry on, you'd think their survival
was on the line. "High-pressure" is the term people use to describe it. You either collapse, or you turn
into a diamond. But either way, you're guaranteed to take some abuse. And probably sling your fair
share of it, too.

But even amongst chefs, Maxwell Dylan had a reputation. And now, I was starting to see why.
"I'm sorry," he said, "that your standards are so low. But mine are not yet, thankfully. Are you

really proud to serve this kind of food? Does it make you happy?"

I couldn't answer him. My mouth trembled with the effort to keep it closed. No, of course not,

I wanted to shout at him. Do you think I have any control over where the food comes from? I can't
help it if everything comes in frozen. I hate it, it's sucking the passion out of me every day, but
what am I supposed to do?

He just kept looking at me. Even under normal circumstances, he would have been

intimidating. Heavy brow, stormy eyes - even his sandy hair seemed like it didn't want to follow
anyone else's rules. He was roughly handsome, like someone who ought to have been working on a
dock, or perched out on a giant steel girder, eating his lunch out of a box with a rounded top.

But he wasn't. He was sitting here, in the restaurant where I'd been working for almost five

years now, staring me down like he wanted a fight.

"Look," he said, finally, his voice dripping with condescension. "I know it's not entirely your

fault that the food is abysmal. But you have to aspire to more than this, you know? Settling for this...I
mean, you can't be happy, can you?"

His blue-gray eyes were still fixed on me, but they'd softened somewhat. He was trying to

throw me off-balance. Rumor had it, he'd once worked under Chef Sully DePalma, a man so notorious
that it was said no one could work in his kitchen for more than a month, without leaving in tears. Chef
Dylan worked there for six months, and on his last day, it was Chef DePalma who went home early
with "something in his eye."

I steeled myself.
"I don't believe my happiness is relevant, Chef." I took a deep breath, looking him right in the

eyes. "Would you like me to make you something else?"

He glanced down at this plate, and then back up at me. "Do you have anything that isn't

frozen?"

My eye twitched.
"The salad," I heard myself say.
Customers were staring. I couldn't believe this - being questioned, shamed, in front of my

diners. I felt tears pricking behind my eyes, but I refused to let my weakness show.

"I believe I'm done here." Chef Dylan stood up, throwing his linen napkin onto his barely-

touched plate and storming towards the exit. As he went, I swore I heard him mutter unbelievable
under his breath.

Unbelievable, all right.
Un-fucking-believable.

***

THREE YEARS LATER

"Sorry, Heidi. No crusts for you this time." I licked my fingers to emphasize my point, but

Heidi just stared up at me with those soulful eyes. When she finally realized I was being serious, she
let out a massive sigh, then plopped her big bull-head down on my lap.

I had to laugh. It was pretty sad that things had gotten to this point, where I was eating every

crust of every peanut butter sandwich because I didn't know when I'd be able to afford groceries
again. But Heidi, my "guard" dog and constant companion for the past few years, never failed to put
me in better spirits. She was still eating the best gourmet pet food that money could buy, of course. I
always was a sucker for those who couldn't help themselves.

Leaning back on the sofa, I began to indulge in my nightly ritual of pondering, when did it all

go wrong?

I knew the answer, but I kept on turning it over and over in my head, like that would make a

difference.

A few months after Chef Dylan's fateful visit, Giovanni's had closed. Whether it was a

coincidence or not, I couldn't say. It wasn't like the man was a food critic. We were on a downward
spiral anyway. Worse, even, than I'd guessed. The reason why Chef Souverani never promoted me?
He simply couldn't afford it. And every time Lenny called in, that saved him a buck or two on payroll,
so after a while he stopped bitching the guy out. By the time we shut down, he'd taken out two loans

against his house, sold almost everything he owned, and was several months overdue on most of our
vendor bills. It got to the point where they wouldn't even deliver the meat anymore, unless we had
enough cash to cover the bill.

Ever since then, things had been rough. I hopped from failing restaurant to failing restaurant,

honing my skills and making connections, but apparently cursing every place I touched. Well - in
fairness to me, a lot of restaurants were failing, in this economy. And the successful ones didn't tend
to have a very high turnover rate. My options were about as limited as they could get.

And now, once again, I was living off my dwindling savings, trying to decide whether my

electrical bill or my phone bill would be the next logical casualty.

Things were Not Good.
Sighing, I got up and flicked on the TV. Any distraction was a good one, at this point. I

squinted at the fuzzy signal, then went to the window and fiddled with the rabbit ears until they picked
up something that looked like it might be PBS. But I quickly realized I couldn't actually see the picture
unless I was touching the antenna, and settled for the local news.

"...notorious celebrity chef Maxwell Dylan is slated to open his latest gourmet restaurant,

Dylan's Trattoria, on Beacon Hill in just a few weeks," one of the anchors was saying. I felt my
stomach clench automatically, at just the sound of his name.

"You know, Sharon," the other anchor piped up. "I have to say, people love to beat up on the

guy, and he's an easy target, but you just can't deny his passion for food. He holds himself to the same
standards he expects of everybody else. How he's going to find the time to get this place off the
ground, I don't -"

I grabbed the remote and switched the TV off. So much for a distraction. Heidi lifted her head,

looking at me with concern.

"Don't worry, girl," I assured her. "We'll be fine. We'll get through this, right? We always do."
She thumped her tail on the sofa, believing me as she always did. I just wished I could be half

so confident.

***

The TV in the waiting room was absolutely blaring. As usual, my doctor was running an hour

late. But I didn't have many choices on my discount state medical insurance, and the headaches were
only getting worse.

Back when I had good coverage, I'd had some serious tests done, some MRIs, even, but

nothing showed up. My doctor kept saying it was stress and neck tension, that they weren't even
technically migraines even when it felt like my head was going to explode. She suggested yoga. I tried
to picture myself in Lululemon and almost laughed in her face.

Even as I sat here, I could feel one of the headaches creeping up on me. I rubbed the base of

my neck and tried to focus on the TV, rather than just letting it drift into obnoxious background noise.

Some kind of cooking channel. I couldn't keep track of all the different ones, nowadays.

Chopped was just ending. I stretched my neck from side to side, seeking that satisfying pop. It never
came.

"THIS WEEK, ON DYLAN'S 'KITCHEN FIXER UPPERS' -"
I almost jumped out of my chair. The announcer's voice boomed through the tiny, overheated

room. Ugh. Ugh. This was the absolute last thing I needed right now. I glanced around the room for a
remote, but there was nothing.

"For years, Chef Maxwell Dylan, one of the world's most successful restauranteurs, has

been whipping aspiring cooks into shape on 'Killer Kitchen.'"

This was interspersed with several shots of yelling, followed by him picking up a plate of

food and flattening it against some poor young chef's chest.

"Now, he's coming to America to help failing restaurants find their way."
I got up and started searching through the mountains of magazines. There had to be a remote

somewhere.

"You're lazy," came a familiar voice through the tinny speakers. "That's your problem. You're

just flat-out lazy and you have no passion for this business."

"Excuse me," I said, softly, coming up to the counter. I'd searched everywhere, with no luck.

The receptionist had the phone tucked under her ear, and she gave me the "wait a minute" finger.

"YOU," Chef Dylan boomed, "ARE LIKE POISON TO THIS PLACE. THIS RESTAURANT

WILL BE BETTER OFF WITHOUT YOU."

The receptionist wasn't talking. "Excuse me, I just..."
The finger again. I sighed. The throbbing behind my eyes was getting out of control.
"Just shut down. Shut down the restaurant today. I'm leaving. Goodbye."
"WILL THIS FINALLY BE THE RESTAURANT THAT SENDS CHEF DYLAN PACKING?"
Fucking hell.
"Excuse me," I said, more loudly. "Can you just -"
"Shhh!" the receptionist hissed, glaring me.
"Never in my life, not once, have I EVER met someone I believe in less than you."
"Jillian?" The nurse stuck her head into the room. "Dr. Peters is ready for you."

***

"So, what'd the doctor say this time?" My friend Shelly eyed me over the rim of her margarita.

She'd taken pity on me, once again, and taken me out for as much Mexican food as I could stuff into
my face in a single sitting, plus a to-go box or two. At first I'd been embarrassed to take advantage of
her generosity, but it's amazing what a few weeks of an empty bank account will do to change your
perspective on things.

"Same as always," I said. "Get a massage, like I can afford it. Do some yoga, as if it helps. I

don't need inner peace, I need a damn job."

"I assume you've already put in an application at Dylan's Trattoria."
Shelly was, in her own words, a "pretty good accountant." Good enough to work at a fancy

firm where she always got paid on time. Whenever she complained about the stress of her job, I tried
not to go green with envy. I knew she didn't mean anything by it. But boy, wouldn't I give anything to
be sweating over a hot grill, stressed out to the max, just for the guarantee of some money in the bank.

But even I had my limits.
"Hell no," I said, finishing my piña colada and gesturing for the server. "I won't work for Chef

Dylan. No way, no how. No thank you."

"Tell me how you really feel." Shelly smirked. "But seriously, he can't be as bad as he seems

on TV. That's all an act."

"It's not," I said. "Trust me."
I'd never told her about the incident at Giovanni's. It was silly, I knew, that I was still so hung

up on that stupid little thing. One man's opinion. And really, he wasn't wrong that the food quality was
subpar. But it had felt so personal, with him sitting there, staring me down. Throughout culinary
school and every other job I'd ever had, nobody had ever made me feel that small.

"Okay, all right." Shelly raised her hands in a gesture of surrender. She knew I was serious.

I'd apply anywhere. I applied at McDonald's, but was turned down for being "overqualified." There
was just no way in hell that I'd ever work for a man like Maxwell Dylan.

I didn't speak for a while, just poking at the remnants of salsa in the bowl with a broken chip.
"I didn't know you'd met the guy," Shelly said, finally. She never was very good at leaving

things alone.

"Once," I said. "A long time ago. It was before he blew up. But he was just as self-important

back then as he is now."

"I think he's cute," said Shelly, breezily. "I mean, you know, in that sort of...'hot contractor

Mom and Dad hired to build the deck one summer' way."

"Wow," I said, grinning at her. "That was...amazingly specific."
She flushed a little. "Whoo, they're not messing around with these margaritas, are they? Hey!

Can we get another round over here?"

I let the server replace my empty glass with a fresh drink, even though I knew I should slow

down. The last thing I needed while I was job-hunting was a hangover - and a sugar-laden one, at that.
But now, it just felt nice to get a buzz going and forget, even for a second, how dire my situation was.

We didn't leave until a few drinks later, swaying back to South Station to catch our respective

rides home. By the time my train got there, I was confident that Shelly had sobered up enough to get
home safely, and I had, too. She hugged me tightly before we parted.

"Everything's gonna be okay," she said, still a little bit slurred around the edges. "I promise,

you're gonna do great."

"Thanks," I said, my head swimming too much to come up with anything more coherent than

that.

I actually fell asleep on the ride home, the gentle rocking of the train lulling me into a

dreamless slumber. Thankfully, the conductor knew me well enough to wake me up for my stop.

It took me an embarrassingly long time to unlock the door. Once it was done, I fended off

Heidi's excited jumping for long enough to hook up her leash and take her outside one last time for the
night. Staggering back inside, I managed to pull off my heels and unclip my hair before collapsing on
the sofa and falling back into a deep, dark sleep.

CHAPTER TWO

Charcuterie

Charcuterie is the branch of cooking that has to do with meats - a crucial part of any chef's

menu, in my opinion. Despite what some may think, I have the deepest respect for anyone who
chooses self-imposed dietary restrictions, but for a chef? I don't believe we have that luxury. It is
important for us to experience everything fully - in the kitchen, and in life.

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Max

***

When I finally came back to Boston, the trees were just starting to change their colors.
I beat the leaf peepers by a day, at most. My planned trip to Ikea to stave off the jetlag and get

something relatively disposable to sleep and eat on soon became nothing but a distant dream, as I
watched the cars crawl their way down 93 on the news. I ended up sleeping through most of the
usable hours that week, waking up too late to unpack without disturbing my neighbors.

Look, I'm rude - but I'm not that rude.
I've relocated enough times in my life that I know how it goes. For a week or two after

moving, you've got momentum. You're unpacking and organizing every day, breaking down boxes and
planning out layouts and sweeping up stray peanuts before you go to bed. But it fades quickly.
Anything that's not unpacked by the end of Week Two is staying packed forever.

And no matter how many times you move, you'll still end up packing things you never need.
By the time I was back on a non-vampiric schedule, the "digging around in boxes every time

you need something" lifestyle had become my new normal. And I was busy - the final stage of

renovations was wrapping up at the Trattoria, and the decorators were milling about, and I had to
make sure they didn't wreck everything. That was considerably more important than my own personal
comfort.

"Love what you've done with the place," was my brother Beckett's comment, when he first set

foot in my apartment.

"I'm sure yours looks like the cover of Architectural Digest," I muttered, going to the fridge for

a beer.

"I've only been here for three days," Beckett pointed out. "I'll never understand why you don't

just rent out pre-furnished."

"That doesn't really solve the problem. I'd just have a couch piled with boxes," I said,

popping the lid on my lager. "Anyway, we've been over this. I don't want to think about what the last
person was doing on the furniture in my own place."

"It's all rental," he replied, with a shrug.
"You think that makes it better?" I took a swig. "You're mental."
"But you stay in hotels. That furniture's much worse."
"Yes, but that's not the furniture in my home. It's a completely different thing. Why do you

always fight me on this? You know I'll never change."

"Because." Beckett went to the fridge and stuck his head in. "You're going to bring a woman

back here, and she's going to tell the gossip rags that you're a slob, and you're going to ring me in the
middle of the night to complain about it. I'm just trying to head this off at the pass."

"Not a chance," I said, sitting down on an empty plastic tote. "None of that, not while I'm here.

For the entirety of my tenure in Boston, I'll essentially be a priest."

He gave me a look. "I can only assume this is some previously unknown meaning of the word

'priest.'"

I flicked my beer cap at his head.

***

I really meant it - the priest thing, that is.
Celibacy is the only way for me to stay focused. I have one speed when it comes to

relationships - and it's the kind that usually ends in a fiery crash, twisted metal strewn across the
pavement, road closures...

You know, just general disaster and ruin.
"But Max," someone like my brother might say, "Max, why don't you just keep things casual?

There's no need to get attached to someone just because you're having sex with them."

Yes, yes. It sounds like a good idea, doesn't it?
And then you meet her.
You meet the one who changes everything. Instantly, you're addicted. You're either screaming

at each other or she's screaming your name, but either way it gratifies something in you, and you just
can't give it up. It's like a drug.

Until everything inevitably comes crashing down.
Who has the time for that? Who has the energy? I'm trying to open a damn restaurant.

***

"Look, I understand it's got to be a special order - I get it - you've told me a thousand times,

my point is, I don't care. Find a way to get it done. I'm not slapping that hideous knockoff color on the

walls, so figure it the fuck out."

The designer was shooting daggers with her eyes, but I was already halfway to the kitchen.
I simply refused to cut corners. If every aspect of this restaurant wasn't exactly perfect, exactly

the way I wanted it, what was the point?

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" came a deep, booming voice from somewhere in my kitchen. I rounded

the corner, a grin spreading across my face.

"Jimmy," I exclaimed, as the massive, rotund man pulled me into a crushing hug. I hadn't seen

Chef Jimmy Shaw in years, not since the last time I was in New England. His schedule running the
Ritz was punishing, so he rarely got away anymore. But he'd managed to find the time to sneak his
way in here.

"Look at them," said Jimmy, clapping me on the back and gesturing at the pair of massive,

stainless steel ranges that had just been installed. "There's nothing more gorgeous in the world, is
there?" His accent made it sound like gawgeous, and my smile just grew bigger.

"We live very different lives, if you really think that," I said. "What have you got for me,

Chef?"

He waved a sheaf of papers. "Where's your office? There's a few I think you'll be interested to

go over."

Staffing, for me, was always a struggle. Every time I opened a new place, I swore I saw my

assistant Lydia close her eyes and do the sign of the cross before she started looking over
applications. And she wasn't even Catholic. I'm picky, I admit - but look where it's gotten me.

Anyway, Jimmy was doing me a favor by letting me look over the best of his reject pile. In

fairness, his reject pile is better than most restaurant's entire payroll. He has a terribly low turnover
and everybody wants to work for him. I was prepared for disappointment, but if I was being perfectly
honest with myself, I was also a little excited about the possibilities.

I headed towards the back, gesturing for him to follow me. My desk was still piled with

boxes, but it wasn't quite as bad as my apartment. The desk, at least, was empty.

"All right," said Jimmy, settling down in a folding chair. He spread the papers out on my desk.

"I weeded through them personally - I mean, my HR girl throws away anything that's filled out in
crayon, but I figured you'd appreciate some more rigorous quality control."

"I do," I said, picking up one of the small piles at random and flipping through it. "Have any of

these been interviewed?"

Jimmy shook his head. "No time. But they look good on paper, eh?"
Scanning over the resumes quickly, I looked for key words that would stand out. Most of these

people would probably jump at the chance to work for me. A few of them would probably rather die,
but would do it anyway. I could have my pick of them. Andrew. Gavin. Akira. Lana. Jillian.
Muhammed. Troy -

Wait. Wait.
Jillian. Jillian Brown.
It couldn't be. It was too much of a coincidence.
I scanned down her job history. And there it was.
Line Cook - Giovanni's.
As I made my way back from that item to the top of her resume, I couldn't help but notice the

improbably long list for three years' worth of work experience.

"Found one you like?" Jimmy peered over the desk.
"Hmm." I was trying to keep things noncommittal. "Jillian Brown seems a bit unstable with the

career history in the past few years, don't you think?"

"All those places closed." He shrugged, a big gesture that nearly dislodged some of the boxes

nearby. "This economy, Max, what are you gonna do?"

"I suppose," I replied, slowly - trying to downplay my interest for no logical reason

whatsoever. "Have you ever met her?"

"Once or twice," he said. "She seems like a very nice girl."
"Woman," I said, absently, my eyes running down the page again. "You wouldn't call me a

boy, would you?"

Jimmy let out a huge guffaw. "Not unless I wanted to end up on my back on the pavement, no

sir."

Jillian. Is there a chance in hell?
I looked more closely at her most recent job. Nine months ago. Not quite long enough to be

desperate, necessarily, but at least long enough to consider an offer from me.

That was, if she remembered me at all.

CHAPTER THREE

Hors D'oeuvre

The hors d'oeuvre should never be an afterthought. First impressions, after all, are lasting.

Consider your appetizers an opportunity to impress, not simply something to fill the guest's
stomach while you prepare their "real" food.

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Jill

***

The chirping of my phone woke me up, bright and early the next morning. I squinted at the

screen uncomprehendingly for a while. Heidi was curled up, still snoring at my feet.

Making a valiant effort to clear my throat, I hit the "talk" button.
"Hello?" My voice still sounded incredibly raspy, but at least it was working.
"Jillian Brown?" It was a man's voice, deep and commanding. I didn't think I recognized it,

but my heart clenched anyway.

"Yes," I said. "Can I help you?"
"Is this a bad time?"
I must have sounded as bad as I felt. "No, it's fine. What do you need?"
"I was hoping to discuss an employment opportunity with you."
"Oh." God damn, if there was a worse time to get a callback...oh well, I had to make the best

of it. I shook my head to clear the cobwebs, and tried to focus. "Where did you say you were calling
from?"

"I didn't," he replied. "Would you be able to come into the city for an interview later this

afternoon?"

"Where?"
He started rattling off an address. Was I losing my mind, or had he still not said the name of

the place?

"Hang on, just -" I hauled myself off the sofa and stumbled over to the junk pile that might

have once been my dining room table, searching for a pen. "I need something to write with."

"Sorry," he replied, not sounding particularly sorry.
I finally found a half-dead ballpoint under a pile of "URGENT NOTICES" from the cable

company. "Who are you with?"

"Dylan's Trattoria," he said.
My heart stopped for a moment.
"Chef Dylan?" I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes?" His tone suggested that there was absolutely nothing unusual about him cold-calling

prospective employees.

My voice wouldn't cooperate with my desire to respond to him, even though I had no idea

what I was going to say. Do you know who you're calling? Do you remember me? Why the hell
would you ever want me to work for you?

And more importantly, why would you ever think I would want to work for you?
"Are you ready?" he said, impatiently, after a few moments of silence. I realized he was still

waiting to give me the address again. I wanted to hang up the phone, but for some incomprehensible
reason, I didn't.

"Yes," I said, numbly.
Dutifully, I scrawled down what he told me on the back of an envelope from the electric

company, which I hadn't yet dared to open.

After we hung up, I went around my morning routine like a zombie - shower, clean clothes,

brushing some of the nastiness out of my mouth - and didn't even let myself think about the interview
until I'd dragged Heidi outside. She loved being there, but getting her going in the morning was like
starting an old lawn mower.

While she sniffed the same sign post for twenty minutes, I considered my predicament. At this

point, I basically had to at least attend the interview. Word got around in the culinary industry.
Turning down a job with Maxwell Dylan was one thing, and an understandable decision, but a no-
show to an interview? That could get me blacklisted from every decent restaurant in the city.

So, I'd have to sit through the stupid thing. That was okay. If nothing else, it would make for a

good story.

***

After I'd been sitting in the lobby of Dylan's Trattoria for twenty minutes, without a sign of

life, I was starting to reconsider my decision.

What a joke. What a waste of a train ticket. I'd been hopeful when I found the door unlocked,

despite the fact that the restaurant still wasn't due to open for another few weeks. Someone must be
here. But I'd already circled the dining room, just in case he might be hiding under a table or
something, and even poked my head into the back. There was no one here.

I was starting to think this was some kind of elaborate practical joke. Maybe it was a hidden

camera prank for Chef Dylan's latest reality show. No way was I signing that release form. Not in a
thousand years.

Until I'd looked it up to plan my route, I hadn't remembered where this restaurant was located.

No wonder I hadn't recognized the address - it was in Beacon Hill, the most affluent neighborhood in
the city, and one I'd had very few occasions to visit. Walking down the narrow cobblestone streets,
past the old brick buildings that would be here long after I was gone, I felt like I'd travelled through
time.

The restaurant itself maintained the old-world aesthetic on the outside, but inside it was much

more cool and modern.

And empty. Very, very empty.
Suddenly, the front door swung open. I jerked my head up, just in time to see a man in a black

pea-coat hurry past me, without even glancing in my direction.

"Excuse me," I said, loudly. He froze, then glanced over his shoulder at me.
"Ah," he said, turning all the way around. "Miss Brown."
His face was completely unreadable. It hadn't changed much in the last few years - he still had

those stormy eyes and those rough-and-tumble good looks that the camera loved so much. I cleared
my throat and stood, accepting his hand for a shake. It was warm and dry, despite the damp chill of
early autumn beginning to permeate the air.

"Did I have the time wrong?" I asked politely, knowing that I didn't.
"No," he said. Then, seeming to sense that I was fishing for something else, he added: "Don't

worry, this won't affect the length of the interview."

"Well, thank goodness for that." I sat down in the chair he pulled out for me, acutely aware

that I had to present myself as about one-thousand-percent more confident than I felt, in this moment.
Any sign of weakness, and I'd be done for.

He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it, smoothing it out on the table in

front of him. It took me a second, reading it upside-down, to recognize it as my résumé. How had he
gotten a copy?

"So," he said, holding the paper flat with his fingertips. His hand was splayed wide on the

tabletop, and I found I couldn't stop staring at it. With an effort, I shook myself out of my trance and
looked up at him. He didn't seem to notice. His eyes were darting across the words in front of him.

"So," I replied. "Should I tell you about myself?"
"No need," he said, still looking at the paper. "Everything I could want to know is right here."
I swallowed. "Then, with all due respect..."
"Why am I interviewing you?" He looked up at me suddenly. His eyes fixed on my face with

an intensity that made my heart skip a beat. "Well, there are all sorts of things you can tell about a
person from meeting them face to face. But it's very rarely the things they say. Most of all, I was
curious to see if you'd come."

My mouth went dry. This was it - he was about to bring up our first meeting. Had he really

scheduled this interview just to assert his dominance over me, to prove I'd still jump if he snapped his
fingers? A sick feeling roiled in my stomach.

"Don't look so distressed," he said, mildly. He was still standing at the other side of the table,

his coat unbuttoned, but hanging on his shoulders like he was on the verge of walking out the door. "I
wouldn't have called you here if I didn't want to hire you. But there's plenty of people out there who
would refuse to work for me, on principle."

"Principle?" I echoed. This was going very, very badly. If he was trying to set me off-balance

on purpose, it was working tremendously well. And I was coming off as a tremendous ass.

"Or because they think I'd be a nightmare to work for," he said, finally shrugging out of his

coat and taking it over to the rack. "But you've come this far, so obviously you're willing."

Or desperate.
"I always try to keep an open mind to new opportunities," I said, evenly.
He grinned. I'd never actually seen him smile before. I realized it in that moment, briefly

seeing his face transform into something completely different. He looked...human.

With a sudden gesture, he jerked a chair out from under the table and sat down, leaning

forward to look at me searchingly.

"This will probably surprise you," he said. "But on the scale of head chefs, I'm actually not

that hard to work for. If you're eager, if you're passionate, and above all, if you listen to fucking
directions -" Here, he briefly grinned again. "- we'll get along just fine. And you come highly
recommended."

Taking a deep breath, I finally addressed the question that had been gnawing at the back of my

mind all morning. "Can I ask who recommended me?"

"My friend Chef Shaw, over at the Ritz. He was really very regretful that he didn't have any

room for you on his staff, so he passed your résumé on to me. He knows I've been having a hard time
staffing this place. I'm a bit picky, you understand."

I would have died a thousand deaths before I applied to the Ritz, if I'd known I would get

passed on to Chef Dylan, of all people.

"Well," I said. "I'm sorry to hear about your struggle."
Chef Dylan eyed me carefully, then looked back down at the paper. "Is this how you got your

last few jobs?"

"No," I said. "Generally, they asked me questions in the interview."
"I just did." There was something about him. Something that didn't come across on TV, and

something I hadn't noticed the last time we met. He was driven, which shouldn't have come as a
surprise, but - it was almost a nervous energy. Like his motor had a few screws loose.

"Questions about my...job skills, and my strengths and weaknesses. You know." I laced my

fingers together, resting my hands on the table. "Interview questions."

"I've never been a fan of the traditional interview structure," Chef Dylan said, rising and

shucking off his coat. Then, he started to unbutton his shirt. I stood up so quickly I knocked into the
table, stumbling over my chair as I backed up.

"I..." My voice shut down, somewhere about the time I saw his chest muscles tensing and

stretching while he pulled off the shirt and tossed it aside. His torso was long and tan, with a dusting
of golden hair. A tattoo snaked around his upper arm, but I didn't look long enough to tell what it was.
A light scent of something sharp and masculine wafted through the air. Sandalwood? Something?

"Oh, relax," he called over his shoulder as he headed towards the kitchen. "I'm just changing.

You should do the same. I'll be at the prep table when you're ready."

And with that, he snatched a white chef's coat off of a hanger by the door, slipped it on, and

disappeared through the "STAFF ONLY" door.

I stood flabbergasted for a moment. There was another coat left hanging. Obviously, I was

supposed to put it on and join him for some kind of cooking audition.

Just walk out. Just walk out now, before he has a chance to toy with you anymore.
But that was unfair. I had no reason not to believe him, when he said he was interested in

hiring me. He seemed to have genuinely forgotten the incident at Giovanni's, and knowing me by
reputation only, he considered me to be a viable candidate for...whatever position he was trying to
fill.

"Excuse me," I called after him, walking to the door and pushing it open slightly. "Chef?"
He poked his head up, looking at me over the heat shelf. "You're not dressed for cooking."
"I have to ask you something," I said. "You never told me what position you have available."
Chef Dylan tossed a ball of dough down on the counter. "That depends."
Oh, this was just too much.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. "Excuse me," I said, letting him think I was going back out to

change, or...whatever. I took in a long breath and let it out slowly as I pulled out my phone to look.

This is an account alert from Bank of Southsea. You have exceeded your maximum

overdraft protection for your checking account ending in 5308. Please visit -

I squeezed my eyes shut for a long moment.
Chef Dylan had me between a rock and a hard place, whether he knew it or not. It was my

pride - my stupid, ridiculous pride that was keeping me from groveling at his feet, no matter how
badly I needed this job. Any job. Even if it meant working for a tyrant. And if it were just about me,
I'd be willing to die on that hill. I guess that's why my mother always called me "stubborn like a
mule." But I had to be able to take care of Heidi, too. I'd be happy to live off of free deli crackers and
McDonalds ketchup packets, but it wasn't fair for her to suffer.

I was going to have to do the unthinkable - swallow my pride.
Hope I don't choke on it.
I pulled off my blouse and wrapped myself up in the other chef's coat. It was about five sizes

too big, and as the collar brushed against my face, my nose was filled with that sharp, distinctive
scent of Chef Dylan's cologne. It hadn't been overwhelming before, but now that my nose was
practically buried in one of his backup coats, it was pretty hard to ignore.

My pulse hammered in my throat. What on earth was I doing?
I took a deep breath and thought of Heidi, snoozing back home, and her rapidly dwindling bag

of food. And with that, I turned down the collar, rolled up my sleeves, and walked into the kitchen.

It was massive. On a busy night, every line cook would have their own prep area, bigger than

the entire kitchen at most places I'd worked. And with Head Chef Dylan's reputation, every night
would be a busy night. The main prep table in the center of the room was filled with mouth-watering
ingredients. Big, juicy scallops, vibrant greens, bright purple fingerling potatoes, a wheel of cheese
that looked like it had been shipped straight from the old country...

Forgetting where I was for a moment, I lifted the plate of scallops to my face and inhaled their

scent. Mild and sweet - they were as fresh as fresh gets.

"I got them from a fisherman just this morning," Chef Dylan said, snapping me back to reality.

"Lovely, aren't they?"

Nodding, I set them back down. "What are they for?"
"Whatever you like," he said. "I want you to create a special. A main dish. Something worthy

of this neighborhood, this restaurant. I want you to make me something I'd be proud to serve here."

I surveyed the table again, feeling slightly light-headed. Now that I'd fully admitted to myself

that I needed this job, the nervousness was setting in. And I hadn't even let myself think about the fact
that I'd cooked for him once already, and been weighed, measured and found wanting.

This was different. I had the best possible ingredients at my disposal. Nothing was holding me

back.

My eyes darted across the table. There was a nice spring salad mix, yes, good. Some angel

hair pasta. Lemons. I picked one up, weighed it in my hand, lifted it to my nose. The sharp, fresh scent
made my mouth water.

A plan was forming in my head. I filled a large pot in the sink and set it on to boil. Moving

quickly now, I took a lemon and scrubbed it clean. After patting it dry with a paper towel, I chose a
microplane grater and quickly worked it over, until I had a few tablespoons of bright yellow zest. I
set it by the stove, along with some fresh herbs and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and some butter,
making a little mise en place. I forced myself not to turn around and look at Chef Dylan.

After I had rinsed the scallops and patted them dry, I melted some butter in a sauté pan until it

started to bubble. Once it was ready, I placed the scallops carefully, mindful not to crowd them. My
biggest problem as a culinary student was my impatience. Especially in the hectic environment of a
commercial kitchen, it was always tempting to rush things or cut corners, but it never turned out well.

When I turned around to get the pasta, I saw Chef Dylan standing in the corner with his arms

crossed, watching. His eyes followed me from the prep table back to the stove, as I dumped the pasta
and stirred it gently. It was time to turn the scallops. Their savory-sweet aroma was just starting to
fill the air.

I could feel Chef Dylan's eyes on me, still, as I minced some garlic and dropped it into a

cruet. Some fresh juice from the lemon, a little of the zest, olive oil, salt and pepper completed my
fresh dressing for the salad greens. I transferred the scallops to a plate and moved the pan off the hot
burner for a moment, taking a deep breath.

I allowed myself another glance at Chef Dylan. His face betrayed nothing, but he was chewing

lightly on the side of his thumb. He was watching me like I was a championship tennis match. Quiet,
unnervingly so, and riveted. Suddenly, I was acutely aware that I must look a mess. I'd always envied
those female cooks who could keep themselves looking fresh and glamorous in the heat and stress of
the kitchen. Me, I started melting as soon as I switched on a stove. Typically I'd wear minimal
makeup to work, but today I was in interview mode, and I probably had mascara dripping down my
face.

But that didn't matter right now. I pulled out a strand of pasta and tested it - almost done. It

was time to put the pan back on the heat and make the sauce. A generous splash of wine, the rest of the
garlic and lemon zest, a handful of herbs and another knob of butter, then all I had to do was let it
reduce while I drained the pasta. Once I got back from the sink, I tasted the sauce and added a little
salt.

I felt a premature sense of accomplishment as I tossed the scallops in the pan with the sauce,

then added the pasta and let it all soak up for a moment while I plated the salad. It was way too soon
to be proud of myself. Chef Dylan was getting a fork. My fate was not yet sealed.

I drizzled the salad greens with dressing and plated the pasta with some scallops. Chef Dylan

was hovering. I spooned some of the pan sauce over the pasta, then wiped the edge of the plate with a
linen napkin. The smell of his cologne filled my nostrils again, mixed with the warm scent of his skin.

"Hm," was all he said, as I stepped back and let him close in on the plate. After staring at it

for a moment, he speared one of the golden-brown scallops on his fork and raised it to his mouth.

My heart pounded in my ears.
He chewed for a moment, swallowed, then went back to twirl some pasta onto his fork. That

had to be a good sign, right? After he'd finished that mouthful, he went back for another scallop or
two, then dug into the salad. I stood there watching him eat, for what felt like an eternity.

"I'm sorry," he said at last, wiping his mouth on the edge of his sleeve and setting the fork

down. "I forgot where I was for a moment there. Haven't eaten since breakfast."

I ventured a smile.
"The pasta's a little anemic," he said, picking up the fork again to prod at it. "If your sauce

were a little thicker, it would adhere better, give it a little more flavor. But the texture is good. I was
worried for a moment there. Seemed like you'd forgotten it."

He paused, looking up at me. I wasn't sure whether I should be smiling, or crying.
"Relax," he said. "I'm offering you a job. Sauté chef, if you'll take it."
It was a step down from my previous job, but considering this was Chef Dylan's restaurant, I

was surprised he wasn't making me start out as a dishwasher. After a moment, I realized I was
nodding.

Chef Dylan speared another scallop and held it out to me. I stared at him blankly for a

moment.

"Don't tell me you don't eat seafood," he said, frowning. "It'll break my heart."
"No, no, I mean, yes. Of course." I giggled nervously, unsure if I was supposed to take the fork

from him, or...? My awkwardness had already dragged this out long enough. I ducked my head down
and bit the scallop right off the fork, as he held it.

He blinked a few times, but didn't seem overly taken aback. The scallop was delicious.
"Thank you," I said.
"You made them." He was smiling.
"No, I mean, for the job."
"Of course." He stuck out his hand. "Shake on it?"
We did.
"See, there," he said, turning back to the plate and twirling up some more pasta. "That wasn't

so bad, was it?"

I shook my head as he continued to eat.
"Reputations," he went on, chewing. "They're like assholes, right?"
There was nothing to do but laugh in response to that.
"I don't think that's how the saying goes," I said.
"That's how it goes for me," he said. "At any rate, my point is, I'm not as bad as everyone

thinks."

Except when you are.
"Go home and get some rest," he said, gesturing towards the door. "Leave the coat. I'm

assuming you have several of your own. I want you back here tomorrow at nine o'clock."

"Oh," I said. "I, uh..."
"You'll be training with me all week. Learning the menu. If you're going to work in my

restaurant, you're going to be upholding my reputation each and every day. I want to make sure you're
up to the task well before we open our doors."

Starting salary? Benefits? Employee handbook? I worked my mouth open and closed a few

times, but couldn't quite articulate what I was trying to ask him. He started eating again, seeming
surprised when he looked up and saw me still standing there.

"My assistant will you call you with all the boring details," he said, finally. "Rest assured the

compensation is competitive for the industry."

"I'm sure it is," I said, quickly. "I was just..."
"I'll see you tomorrow," he said, firmly, returning to his plate.
Quietly, I turned and slipped out the door.
I expected the headache to come, but it never did.

CHAPTER FOUR

Frappé

A frappé, in classic cooking, is something on a bed of ice. In Boston, it's an ice cream

shake. My dual heritage often creates these strange dichotomies, but I wouldn't trade it for
anything.

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Max

***

"Hey! Chef!"
I kept walking, my hands in my pockets and my eyes fixed on the T station directly ahead of

me.

"HEY! CHEF! CHEF DYLAN!"
I stopped and turned on my heel. In any other city, at any other time, it would be a paparazzo

with a five-hundred-pound camera around his neck. But today, it was just a big, broad-shouldered
bulldog of a man in an ill-fitting Patriots jersey.

"HEY!" he shouted, his face red with the exertion of trying to catch up to me. He lifted his arm

in a vague gesture of condemnation. "FUCK YOU!"

I grinned, and gave him a small wave. There was no malice behind his words. He was smiling

back.

God, but I love this fucking city.
We came here when I was eight. My Italian mother and my very English father didn't agree on

many things, but they were both sick of living in the suburbs of London. When a job opened up for my

father in the "City on a Hill," he didn't even hesitate - we were packed up and moved within a month,
cramming into a two-bedroom apartment in Cambridge. We never owned a car. No place to keep it,
anyway. Some of my brothers and sisters were upset to leave their school friends behind, but I had a
good feeling about this place.

My feelings are seldom wrong.
I watched the city grow around me, changing every year, but never losing its soul. I had been

away for such a long time. I couldn't let that happen again.

The streets beneath my feet were cleaner than I remembered. It put a little bounce in my step,

seeing the old place looking so good.

A few blocks down, I spotted a little wine shop that I'd never seen before. With so much to do

at the restaurant, I hadn't put any effort into stocking my personal wine fridge. My apartment was still
bare and full of boxes, but this seemed as good a place to start as any. What was I going to do, furnish
the place sober?

The woman behind the counter smiled and greeted me as I walked in, introducing herself as

the owner. I thought she half-recognized me, but wasn't sure enough to say anything. That was fine by
me. Whenever possible, I preferred to be treated like a normal person.

She asked me if I wanted any recommendations, but I didn't. Not today. I did, however, ask for

an empty box.

The bell on the door jangled merrily, startling me out of my trance as I studied labels. And

who should walk in, but little Jillian Brown. My newest hire.

I smiled and nodded at her; her eyes grew wide, then she did the same. She was startled to see

me, but she had no right to be, really. I had as much reason to be in this wine shop as anybody else.

Immediately, I found myself completely distracted from my mission. She was standing a few

feet away, staring at the Italian section, her fingers resting lightly on the label of a Moscato. Of
course, she would drink something so pedestrian.

"Really?" I heard myself mutter.
That's one rumor about me that's completely true - I don't know when the fuck to bite my

tongue. That's probably why I love this fucking city so much.

Jillian cleared her throat. "Excuse me?" she said, her eyes fixed on me. A pink blush was

spreading across her cheeks, and I immediately felt a little pang of guilt. But I had to stand by my guns
now.

"That's the 7-Up of wines," I said, taking a step towards her. "Surely, you must know that."
"Well, I like it," she said, looking back at the bottle. "And I like 7-Up too. So what?"
"If you want to get smashed on something that tastes like Jolly Ranchers, why don't you just

stop at the corner store for some Four Loko?" I'd dug myself deep, but there was nowhere to go but
further down. "Here. Try this."

I handed her a bottle of Gewürztraminer. She took it, but didn't look down.
"What I drink in my spare time is none of your business," she said. Her mouth had thinned in

irritation, but she didn't look nearly as angry as she had a right to be. She held the wine back out to
me. "I think you'd better keep this. I don't have any pairing ideas, but I have a few suggestions of
where you can put it."

I let out a bark of laughter. "Goodness - don't be offended, I'm just having a laugh."
"I'm not offended," she said. And, hell - I almost believed her. "Are you?" There was an

undertone of real concern in her voice, like she regretted implying that I should shove the bottle
where the sun didn't shine.

God. What kind of person did she think I was? I'd never dare punish someone for giving me

what I deserved.

"Of course not," I said. "But please, let me get this for you." I raised the bottle of Gewürz. "A

peace offering. You don't even have to try it."

"No thank you, Chef," she said, picking up a few bottles of Moscato. "That's perfectly all

right."

She paid quickly, and I went back to my browsing. I tried to ignore the owner's stares, but I

could feel her eyes boring into the back of my skull. She was wondering what the hell was wrong
with me. And she was right to do so.

Me, I'd given up wondering long ago.
Four hundred dollars later, my barren studio was beginning to feel much more like a home.

The place was ridiculous, really - too much empty space for far too much money. But the kitchen was
too small. Kitchens were always too small.

I lined up my bottles on the counter and thought about the restaurant. I thought about printing

menus and folding napkins and screwing in lightbulbs.

But mostly, I thought about Jillian Brown.
The thing about Jillian was that she deserved better. Better than her circumstances. Better than

whatever she'd stumble into, if left to her own devices. I realized I was being horribly arrogant, even
for me - and arrogance is my trademark. But I couldn't stand idly by. She needed me.

That was the thing about it. About all of this. I refuse to apologize for who I am, because in the

end, people always thank me. Maybe not in a few days, or a few months, or even a few years. But one
day, they wake up and realize: I wouldn't be here without him.

Nobody likes the person who makes them better. The one who pushes them, and won't stop

pushing, and won't let them make excuses. Tough teachers, tough coaches, tough bosses. It's the same
story every time. You hate them, and then you respect them. And then you're the better for it. People
so often choose what's comfortable, instead of what's really best. Sometimes they need to be led.

I popped open my own bottle of Gewürz and dusted off a glass. I'd managed to get the

majority of my stemware here without breaking it, though God knows why I didn't just buy a new set. I
wasn't planning on staying longer than a year or so, just long enough to get the restaurant on its feet -
but I might as well keep the place. It would be nice to stay somewhere that wasn't a hotel when I came
to check up on things. My filming schedule never seemed to bring me back to the northeast often
enough. I'd have to do something about that.

My phone was buzzing insistently in my pocket. I plucked it out, frowning at the screen.
"Lydia," I said. "Was just about to phone you."
"I got your text," she said, sounding flummoxed. It wasn't an uncommon mood for her. "Are

you...sure? Is that a typo?"

"No, I'm sure. And you can tell the payroll people I said so."
"All right." My assistant was clearly chewing on the end of her pen, something that I'd told her

a thousand times not to do. It was a losing battle. In her defense, if chewing pens was the worst habit
she picked up while working for me, that was pretty impressive.

"We can't let this one slip through our fingers," I said.
"Is that the royal 'we?' Because I have a feeling I'm not going to be the one to scare her away."
Normally I would have jabbed right back, but I wasn't in the mood. "I'm a right bastard, Lydia

- you know that?"

"Well aware," she said, dryly. "But what'd you do this time? You haven't sounded this

regretful in years."

"The interview went okay," I said. "She was a little taken aback by my style, but they always

are - you know? It was afterwards. We ran into each other at a wine shop. I shot my mouth off. The
usual. I upset her. Over something incredibly stupid."

"Let me guess - her taste in wine."
"Moscato, Lydia!" I almost shouted. I could almost hear her wince. "I just - I couldn't take it. I

had to say something."

"You chose to say something," Lydia retorted, gently. "Why can't you just leave well enough

alone?"

"She needs guidance, Lydia. She's like a lost puppy. And yes, I realize how awful that

sounds."

"I don't know if you do." The pen-chewing had paused, momentarily. "What's your investment

in this? Also, I like Moscato - should I be offended?"

"No," I said. "You've got your life sorted, haven't you? Jillian needs my help. And that

includes wine guidance. Once she's my head chef, she can drink whatever she wants."

Dead silence on the line. I pulled my mobile away from my ear to check that we hadn't been

disconnected.

"Did you just say what I think you said?" Lydia was chewing on the pen again. "Max, she's

never even been a head chef before. Let alone at a place with expectations this high. No offense to the
girl, I'm sure she's more than capable, but aren't you throwing her in over her head?"

"I'll promote her gradually. Obviously," I said, irritated. "Everybody has to start somewhere."
"I..." She clicked her tongue. "Well, I suppose that's true." It was her this isn't worth arguing

about tone of voice. I knew it well.

That's the thing about people - everybody thinks they know best, all the time. The difference

with me is that I'm honest about it.

"Is that all?" I asked, feeling caged by the conversation.
"Sure," said Lydia, not sounding sure at all. "I think so. I'll let you know if there's anything

else."

I hung up without saying goodbye.

***

Growing up in a family like mine, you learn to own what's yours.
Every family has a pecking order. Sometimes it's based on age or gender, and sometimes it's

based on personality. Other times it's based on nothing at all. But every group of people needs a
designated scapegoat, and families are no different.

You have to own what's yours. And that includes your mistakes. Otherwise, people use them

as weapons against you. If you're "the one who can't do anything right," it becomes a self-fulfilling
prophecy. But who can criticize you when you say "yes, that's right, I made a mistake. I fucked up, I
learned from it, and I'm moving on?"

That's entirely different.
I learned to chase after my instincts like a bull terrier, and never let go. People looked

askance - as I worked my way through a prestigious culinary academy washing dishes, hitchhiked my
way through France until I found a restaurant that would hire me under the table, finally got my work
visa, and just kept on climbing up - from dishwasher to waiter to line cook to chef, until I was
suddenly the one barking orders at wide-eyed, sweating teenagers.

Once I had my reputation, I came back to the States for a while. My parents smiled politely

when I told them about what I'd done. One of my sisters, you see, was studying to be a neurosurgeon -
and my mother simply didn't understand why I needed to "show off" by cooking for someone other
than family. I should get a nice stable job and find a nice girl, and cook for her. And of course, our
children.

I stayed for as long as I could stand it. There were a few good jobs in Boston, and a few bad

ones, but it was one of the bad ones where I met someone with deep enough pockets to finance my
first restaurant, back in London.

Much as I loved the city where I grew up, it was time to return to my roots.
I missed my father's funeral while I was opening my third restaurant, this one in Paris. My

mother didn't bother telling me until afterwards, and it took me years to forgive her. By the time
Beckett called me to tell me that she was in the hospital, I had six Michelin stars, and - if you believe
the industry articles - the world on a silver platter.

I got back to Boston in time to say goodbye, but barely.
After that, I spent some time drifting in the city, visiting some of the famous restaurants and

some of the not-so-famous ones. The first time I met Jillian I was angry, not at her, but at her
circumstances. I was angry at her boss and angry at the fact that he had no choice but to cut corners in
order to survive. I was angry at my mother. I was angry at myself.

It wasn't my best moment, but as always - I'll stand by what I said.

CHAPTER FIVE

Nouvelle Cuisine

While I don't favor slavish devotion to any one philosophy of food, the ideals of nouvelle

cuisine appeal to my sensibilities. Fresh, light, and simple, with an emphasis on attractive
presentation and letting the food be its own advocate. But at the same time, sometimes you simply
need a good cuisine classique staple. What would a lasagne be without béchamel? Innovation,
however, is always welcome in my kitchen.

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Jill

***

Unbelievable.
What an insane, arrogant psycho jerk. No, that didn't even cover it. I didn't even have words in

my vocabulary to describe the kind of man that Chef Dylan was.

And now you're working for him.
I fumed the whole ride home, but by the time I got there, either the passage of time or the slow

rocking of the train had lulled me into complacency.

I'd just walked in the door from walking Heidi, barely kicking the door closed, when my

phone rang.

"Ms. Brown? This is Lydia Allbright, I'm handling the hiring paperwork for Chef Dylan's

Trattoria. How are you doing this evening?"

"I'm great. Thank you." For some reason, I hadn't actually expected Chef to move this quickly.

"How are you?"

"Good, good." Her keyboard clacked in the background. "I just want to go over a few

preliminary things with you, and then I'll email you a few things to fill out and sign. This would be a
little easier in person, but I'm not going to be in the area for a few more weeks, and Chef made it very
clear that he wanted to fast-track you."

I wasn't quite sure what to make of that. "That's fine," I said. "I, uh, I don't have a scanner,

though."

"Oh, it's all electronic signatures. Don't worry about it." She made a few soft tsking noises.

"It'll just be a few minutes, this thing's still trying to load. Congratulations on the new job, by the way.
We were so close to opening I was starting to worry he wouldn't find anyone."

Flipping a pen around in my fingers, I tried to picture how some of the failed interviews might

have gone. Those poor people. Or maybe they were the lucky ones. "Were there a lot of applicants to
go through?"

"Oh, you have no idea." Lydia laughed. "I had to do the first round of screenings. I thought it

would never end. After he got ahold of your application, I don't know who was more excited - me, or
him. It was just one more position off the checklist, but it felt like a minor victory. I don't think I have
to explain why the positions working most closely with Chef can be the most difficult to fill."

"Sure, sure," I said. "Speaking of, do you have any idea what's going on with the sous chef

position? He didn't mention anything about it."

Lydia clicked her tongue. "I wish I could tell you - but he hasn't mentioned it to me, either. I've

learned by now not to question the way Chef Dylan goes about things, even if it doesn't seem to make
any sense."

I had a feeling that I was going to be following that principle quite a bit, whether I liked it or

not.

When she finally managed to pull up the files on her computer and started rattling off numbers

to me, my jaw dropped. Chef Dylan hadn't been kidding about his salaries being competitive. My
heart started beating faster at the mere thought of having a decent paycheck again. And really, this was
beyond decent. I'd be able to pay off those credit card bills. Get my cable turned back on. Maybe
even buy a TV that didn't have so many dead pixels that it looked like a half-finished jigsaw puzzle...

Assuming I survived my first week, of course.
"...and you should get your new ID cards and benefits booklet in the mail within a few

weeks." Lydia was still talking. I forced myself to pay attention, until she was done going through all
the important information. But my head was swimming. By the time we'd gone through it, all I wanted
to do was curl up into a ball, preferably in a hot bath.

"Anyway," said Lydia finally, "I think that's about the worst of it. Just get the forms emailed

back to me as soon as you can. And about your new position - let me just say, I've worked for Chef
for a very, very long time. I know you've probably got your concerns. Most people do, when they first
start. But Chef's not that difficult to work for, if you just pay attention. Keep your eyes open, and your
wits about you. You've already got past the hardest part. He liked you enough to hire you, now it's just
a matter of keeping it going."

"Uh huh," I said. Between the interview and this conversation, my brain was leaking out of my

ears. I had no idea what she was talking about. How was I supposed to stay in Chef Dylan's good
graces when his whims made about as much sense as Heidi chasing her own tail?

"And if you ever need anything, just call."
"Sure," I said. "Thank you."
I didn't really know what that meant either.

***

"So," said Shelly, popping the cork on my seven dollar bottle of sparkling wine. "Is he as hot

in real life as he is on TV?"

She'd insisted on celebrating, and I wasn't really in the mood to go out. Instead, we sat on my

sofa with some Thai takeout and turned on the American Horror Story marathon. But of course, she
wanted to know all the gory details about the interview. I normally told her everything, but for some
reason, I didn't really feel like rehashing the whole experience.

I shrugged. "Not really my type," I said. "But, I guess, no...he looks different."
"How does he compare to before, when you met him? Different worse?"
Different better. Much, much better.
Outwardly, I just shrugged again. "He wears cologne," I said. "Smells expensive."
"Of course it's expensive. The guy must be a billionaire."
"I don't know about that." I downed half my glass in one swallow.
"We'll see about that!" Shelly picked up her phone. "Siri, what is Maxwell Dylan's net

worth?"

The mechanical voice answered after a few moments. "Maxwell Dylan's net worth is one

billion, one hundred and thirty-three million, four hundred and eighty-nine thousand, one hundred and
two United States dollars."

Shelly smiled at me triumphantly.
"He made me cook for him," I said, unthinkingly.
"What, like an audition?" she asked, looking as confused as I was at the time.
"Yeah, kind of." I shrugged.
"What'd you make?"
"Just a pasta dish, with your favorite - scallops."
Shelly made a face. Growing up, her father was a fishmonger - still was, in fact - and I

theorized that excessive early exposure to seafood had caused her an aversion later in life.

"The point is, did he like it?" she wanted to know.
"Guess so." I shrugged.
"Whoa," she breathed, picking up the last egg roll. "You got to cook for Chef Dylan? And he

didn't scream at you? You're a rockstar."

I twirled the stem of my glass. "He was pretty intense. But no, he didn't scream at me."
"So he liked it. I mean, he must have. He hired you." She crunched a bite of egg roll,

thoughtfully.

"Sort of. He said my pasta was anemic."
Shelly's forehead creased. "I don't even know what that means."
"Yeah, well, I'm not sure I do either."

***

The next morning, I got to work half an hour early, wearing my own chef's coat this time. The

door was locked, but Chef Dylan came as soon as I rattled the handle.

"Come on," was his greeting to me. "Let's get started."
He seemed impatient, and irritated, but not at me. Still, the kitchen was tense and quiet as he

pulled down some pans and prepped a few ingredients. I assumed he was about to take me through the
menu, so I stood patiently by the stove and waited for his instruction.

"Are you planning to work anytime soon, or just stand there?"
He didn't even look at me when he said it. My ears burned.
"What would you like me to do?" was all I could think of to say.
He gestured impatiently towards the chicken breasts that he'd just laid out on the prep table.

"Pound those out," he snapped. "I hope I'm not going to have to hold your hand like this every day."

"Yes, chef." Fuming, I pulled the tenderizer down off the wall. Was I supposed to read his

mind? Thankfully, the cutlets took my abuse without complaint, and I was able to pound away my
frustrations until I felt calm enough to look at him again.

"I said pound them out," he muttered, when he came over to see my handiwork. "Not murder

them."

But he used the flattened cutlets without further complaint, which I considered to be a small

victory.

From my own research, I knew a little about Chef Dylan's vision for this restaurant. It would

be his first foray into Italian cuisine, inspired by the foods that his mother cooked when he was young.
Simple. Fresh. Bold flavors. A more casual experience, but still with that signature Chef Dylan flair.

After studying the culinary arts in France, and working in professional kitchens for almost a

decade, Chef Dylan had founded several Parisian-inspired restaurants in New York City. I'd heard
amazing things, but personally, I'd never been. Even when I was gainfully employed, I never felt like
spending a hundred and fifty dollars on a tasting menu. This place, his first restaurant in his old
hometown, was different. Much more my style. I didn't dislike French cuisine, exactly, but it didn't
really make my top favorites. Then again, I'd been known to eat boxed macaroni and cheese with the
nuclear-orange powder from time to time. So perhaps my taste shouldn't be trusted.

At work, though, I had higher standards.
Chef Dylan plopped a menu in my hand, then went back to laying out ingredients. My eyes

drifted over the paper, without really seeing any of the words - at first. But on the second or third
pass, something jumped out at me.

"What's..."
He looked up at me, holding something in his hand.
"...black garlic?" I finished. He plopped whatever-it-was onto the counter in front of me.
"It's that," he said. "Have you really never heard of it?"
I swallowed, feeling my face grow hot. Way to make a good impression on my first day. Well,

all I could do was play it cool.

"Not that I can recall," I said, picking up the bulb and examining it. I brought it up to my nose

and sniffed it carefully, same as I would any unfamiliar ingredient. It was richly fragrant, somewhat
like the garlic I knew, but without the acrid bite. The skin was brown and crinkly, almost as if it had
been roasted. When I peeled it back and plucked a clove free, I soon saw it was aptly-named. The
little nib was coal-black, and soft between my fingers.

"It's fermented," said Chef. "They've been using it for its medicinal properties in Korea and

Thailand for thousands of years. Just got popular around here a few years ago. I'm not much for fad
ingredients, but..." He drifted off. When I looked up from the clove, I saw he was staring at me.
"Well, try it," he said impatiently. "Are you just going to stare at it all day?"

Feeling particularly stupid, I popped it into my mouth. It all but melted on my tongue. The taste

was comfortingly familiar, like a perfectly roasted garlic, but with a sweet richness that reminded me
of molasses, or maybe a balsamic glaze. It had absolutely none of the bite of fresh garlic juice, but all
the good parts of the flavor had been enhanced by the fermentation process.

"Yes?" Chef said, watching my face.
"Yes," I agreed. It was perfect for the salad he'd selected, yet somehow completely

unexpected. I really shouldn't have been surprised.

The rest of the menu was like that. Simple food, but always with some decadent gourmet twist

that ensured his customers would never eat a meal quite like it anywhere else.

When he talked about the food, his eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas. A few minutes into his

rhapsodizing, I found myself wondering how he could be the same person who'd just snapped at me
about chicken cutlets. Obviously, the way to keep Chef calm and happy was to keep him talking about
his menus.

We started working through the dishes together. I expected him to have a small criticism, or at

least a correction, for every little action I took - but he didn't. Was he saving it all for the end? Should
I be bracing myself as I cooked?

He worked alongside me, occasionally talking me through what he was doing with the food. I

nodded along, saying "yes, Chef" whenever he paused and glanced at me. At times, it hardly seemed
like he was talking to me at all. I wondered if he'd forgotten where he was. Had he fallen into a
trance, thinking he was on one of his numerous TV shows?

Suddenly, in the midst of one of his explanations, there was a quiet rapping at the door frame.

I almost jumped out of my skin. The kitchen door was propped open, and in front of it, there was a
young man - couldn't have been more than nineteen, built like a string bean, sort of slouching against
the frame. Not so much out of disinterest or disrespect, I thought, but simply because he didn't know
how else to hold his body.

"Hey," he said. "Sorry I'm late."
Chef let out an irritated sigh, and I realized that was why he'd been so tense all morning. He

must have been expecting this new hire for ages. I braced myself.

"It's fine," said a voice that sounded remarkably like Chef Dylan's, and somehow coming out

of his mouth. "Just don't let it happen again."

I gaped at him. Was this real life? Could it possibly be? Granted, there were certainly parts of

Chef's personality I didn't know that well yet, but...

It's fine? On what planet, in what parallel universe, would any version of Chef Maxwell

Dylan ever say that to one of his employees who was inexplicably several hours late?

Well, okay, maybe there was a backstory I didn't know about. Maybe there was a train delay,

or the kid's car had broken down, or there was a death in the family. If I tried really hard, I could
almost picture Chef being a little sympathetic about something like that.

I breathed a little easier. The world was starting to make sense again. This had to be an

extenuating circumstance. But something about the kid's overall demeanor, a sort of practiced
sheepishness, that told me he was used to apologizing.

Whatever. I shook my head, turning back to the dish I was preparing. I had to stop worrying

about how Chef was treating other people, and focus on my own work.

As if on cue, Chef Dylan turned to me, presenting the kid. "Jillian, this is Aiden. Aiden,

Jillian, my sauté chef. She's the only other employee on staff at the moment. We're working on filling
out the rest of the ranks. Jillian, Aiden's going to be my head server."

Head server? Really?
I tried not to let my incredulity show. "That's fantastic," I said, extending my hand to shake

Aiden's. "It's very nice to meet you."

"Jillian, I'd appreciate it very much if you'd go over the menu with him. And Aiden, make sure

to taste everything. I'm afraid some of it's gone a little cold." Here, he made a slight face. "But you
should still get the gist of it."

Simultaneously training a new server, and testing my knowledge of his food. Quite clever,

Chef. But I was ready. I rattled off each dish as I pointed to it, explaining it using enough of my own
words that Chef Dylan knew I wasn't just parroting everything back. Aiden nodded, his eyes growing
bigger and bigger as I went on. When we got to the squid ink pasta Alfredo, I could see the aversion
on his face, and it almost made me chuckle. Black pasta? He'd never seen such a thing in his life. But
when he got up the courage to try a piece, his whole demeanor changed.

"This is awesome," he said, picking up the plate. "Is it okay if I finish this? I didn't get a

chance to have breakfast today."

My jaw nearly dropped, but I looked over at Chef, and he was nodding. "Sure, all right. Just

don't make a habit of grazing in the kitchen."

Holy crap. Did this kid have any idea who he was talking to?
More importantly, how did he get this job?
Maybe it was unfair, but I was getting the distinct impression that Aiden had never been a

head server anywhere. He might not have even been a server, period. Hell, he might not have ever
had a job. I mean - he was nice enough, and it seemed like he was trying to be polite, but he was so
uncomfortable and nervous and baffled by everything that was happening. I felt bad for him. At the
same time, I worried about the prospect of working with someone like him, in an environment like
this. It certainly wouldn't be the first time I had dealt with an inexperienced coworker, but with
someone like Chef Dylan in charge, I knew the kitchen and dining room would need to run like a
well-oiled machine. Otherwise, heads were gonna roll. And clearly, for whatever reason, Aiden
wasn't someone whose head Chef seemed likely to knock off.

It was certainly an uncharitable thought to have about a brand new coworker. I better not end

up carrying your dead weight or taking flack for your screw-ups, buddy. At least, to my credit, I
didn't show it.

After he was done with his impromptu meal, Chef had Aiden recite back what he'd learned

about the dishes. At first it was rote, until Chef encouraged him to add in his own opinions of the
dishes. Unfortunately, most of those simply boiled down to "it's really good." But Chef Dylan seemed
satisfied, so we moved on.

The rest of the day was a flurry of activity, and I barely had time to think about my own issues,

let alone Aiden. But when he finally left, and a strange quiet calm descended over the kitchen, I
realized how much his mere presence had been stressing me out.

"So," said Chef, picking up the dishes from our last menu experiment and piling them into the

sink. "What do you think of him?"

He was working hard to keep his face neutral, but I could tell how annoyed he was. What did

he want me to say? Did he want validation for his hiring decision, or did he want me to acknowledge
the obvious problems? I cleared my throat.

"It's very early," I said. "I only just met him today."
Chef chuckled a little, turning on the sprayer. "That's not an answer," he said, his voice raised

over the sound of the rushing water. "Don't be diplomatic."

"Well then, Chef, he seems a little..." I took a deep breath. "Inexperienced."
He just nodded, looking down at the sink.
"But, I mean, that's easily cured," I backpedaled. "And everybody has to start somewhere,

right?"

There was no answer. I wished I could see his face, but he was bent over his task. I wondered

why he hadn't asked Aiden to stay and help clean up. Like in most jobs, the kitchen pecking order
typically indicated that the least skilled, least experienced people did the majority of the grunt work.
It simply made good sense. Someone like Chef Dylan shouldn't be wasting his time with dishes.

"I like washing up," he said, suddenly. It was like he'd read my thoughts, but more likely, he'd

picked up on my staring at him awkwardly and wondering if I should help out. "Clears my head. Don't
worry, I'll have a proper dishwasher hired before we open."

That's not what I'm worried about, I wanted to say. But I bit my tongue.

CHAPTER SIX

Brule

Sometimes, in order to bring out the best flavor in a food, it needs to be burned. Just

enough to caramelize, to brule - to bring the natural sweetness to the surface.

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Max

***

When you're in the public eye, it's very easy for people to think they know you.
Yeah, yeah - no surprises there. We know how ridiculous it is, yet we all do it. We

psychoanalyze people we've never met. We speculate on their motivations, their character flaws, and
just generally behave as if they aren't real people.

Some of us blur the line. I'll grant you that. They have public personas that are carefully

constructed, over-the-top performances. A lot of people think that's true of me. But I swear to you, on
whatever you consider holy - it's not.

Of course, the version of me that you know isn't the whole picture. But that's a different story

altogether.

You learn to value the people who really know you, really understand you, and don't buy into

any of the bullshit. It's not just anyone who happened to know you before you were famous. As it
happens, it's really not uncommon for people to be swayed by public opinion. Even if they should
know better. Sometimes especially if they should know better.

There's just a few people in my life whose opinion I really value. Barbara is one of them.

She's an old friend from my dishwashing days, beautiful and self-assured, who's never once hesitated

to tell it like it is. When we met, she was engaged to be married. By the time she filed for divorce, I
was in a semi-serious relationship that - for some reason - I thought was actually going somewhere.

It went like that, for years and years, always just slightly out of sync. At a certain point I told

myself I'd given up on the possibility, but if I'm being honest...

Ah well, it would happen when it happened. If it happened.
I wondered what she would think of Jill. I often wondered what she would think - but for the

first time in a while, I found myself wondering what Jill would think of her.

***

"You're insane," Beckett told me, for the fiftieth time, as he dropped off his wine pairing list

for the charity dinner.

"You could just record a loop of you saying that," I pointed out, scanning over the names,

"along with 'you're a right bastard,' and you'd never have to talk to me again."

"I don't understand why you'd put yourself through all this stress a week before opening."

Beckett had his arms folded across his chest, and the slight frown on his face reminded me very much
of Mom. But for some reason, I didn't bother telling him.

"For charity, Beckett," I said. "It's for charity."
"Right," he said. "Of course. Here I was, thinking you were after publicity. How could I be so

cold?"

"Like I need it," I scoffed, setting the list down. "You know how much I love donating my

talents for the greater good."

"Almost as much as you love patting yourself on the back." Beckett was already turning to

leave. "You know these people are just in it for the tax write-off, they'd pay a thousand dollars a plate
for McDonald's."

"Thank you, and fuck off," I called after him as he walked away.
As far as I was concerned, there was no such thing as too much publicity with a new

restaurant opening. And yes, of course, it was nice to do things for charity. I didn't know why Beckett
felt the need to give me grief about it. Even the people who seem to give selflessly are just doing it to
make themselves feel better.

Peel back enough layers, and everyone's a selfish bastard.
Jillian got to work a little later. I still hadn't told her about the charity dinner. There were a lot

of things I hadn't gotten around to telling her yet. It was bizarre, but somehow I found it difficult to
talk to her. Not because she was judgmental, or awkward, or anything really in particular - she was
certainly intimidated by me, but that was hardly a new experience. Something about our dynamic was
just...skewed.

I wondered if it was just me. I couldn't remember the last time I really felt tongue-tied around

someone, and I didn't care to analyze why.

The point was, it made communication difficult. I'd have everything planned out, then I'd look

at her...eyes bright green and expectant, often with her hands clasped in front of her, often biting her
lower lip a little bit, which I assumed she didn't even notice...

I wouldn't describe it as nervousness, exactly, but that was the closest feeling to what I

experienced around her.

Maybe it was some residual sense of guilt for our first encounter. But really, that seemed as

unlikely as my actually feeling nervous around someone who had no power over me.

"What's this, Chef?" Jillian asked me, after we'd exchanged perfunctory greetings. She had

Beckett's wine list in her hand.

"Pairings," I said. Which would be obvious to anyone with eyeballs. What a stupid answer.

"For an event we've got this weekend."

"I thought we didn't open until next week." She set the list down, and went to her station. Even

though I supposed she didn't intend it that way, it sounded like a challenge.

"Well, yes, that's true. But I was offered the opportunity to cater this thing and since we're

ready - I figured, why not?"

"Yes, Chef," she said. I both loved and hated when she said those words to me. They could

mean all kinds of things - yes, Chef, I respect your authority or yes, Chef, I respect the hierarchy
but I think you're being a complete idiot. This time, I couldn't quite read between the lines.

"You have catering experience?" There was almost no chance she didn't, with her extensive

resume, but at least it was something to say.

"Yes, Chef."
"You don't have to answer every question like that," I said, before I could stop myself. She

looked up at me.

"Sorry," she said. "How would you prefer to be addressed, Chef?"
She was angry with me. I heard it now in her tone, though she'd been carefully suppressing it.

You didn't speak that way to someone unless you were on the verge of murdering them in their sleep.

I should know.
Shaking my head, I made a quick attempt to backpedal. "No, no, I just mean - there's no need

to be so formal all the time. Even when we're discussing work issues, you don't need to address me
like I'm the captain of the ship. Especially when it's just the two of us."

"All right," she said, after a moment's consideration. I half-expected her to spit out yes, Chef

in the same insolent tone, but she didn't. I wanted to really take her to task, to remind her that it didn't
matter how respectful your words were, if you spat them out like poison. But I couldn't bring myself
to do it.

I remember Giovanni's, and I couldn't.
There was nothing I wanted to do more than apologize. But I knew it didn't matter. Whatever

I'd said, I couldn't even remember now, whatever I'd made her feel - it was too late to take it back.
Much, much too late.

My mother had explained it to me once. Years later, I learned it was an old chestnut,

something she'd probably stolen out of whatever books were the hellish precursors to Chicken Soup
for the Soul. But at the time, I was just a kid, so I thought everything my mother said was pure
invention.

Break a plate on the floor.
Now, tell it you're sorry.
Is it still broken?
Now you understand.

As an adult, I wanted nothing more than to laugh at the overly-simplistic sentimentality.

People weren't plates. They grew back together in the places where they cracked. Stronger.

But then I looked at Jillian, and I still didn't know what to say.

***

"You're going to have to meet the donors," I said to Jillian, the day before the event. "So...you

know."

This was accompanied by a vague gesture in the facial region. I didn't even know what I was

talking about, but I knew it was a mistake as soon as I'd said it.

"Okay," she said, slowly. "So...what does that mean, exactly?"
"Nothing," I said. "I don't know. Just, uh, keep it in mind, yeah?"
She cleared her throat. "Chef, I'm afraid I really don't know what you mean. Is my appearance

not professional enough?"

"No," I said, quickly. "Absolutely not. I just...I didn't want it to take you by surprise, is all."
She cleared her throat, smoothing her hands down the front of her white jacket. "So, is there

something else you'd like me to wear? Or...?"

"Forget I mentioned it," I said. "Really, honestly, just...forget it."
She turned back to her station. Her hand was clenched around the handle of her knife in a way

that I didn't like at all.

"You must have brought it up for a reason," she said, quietly.
I almost wished she would stab me. This quiet tension was so much worse.
"You don't need to do anything differently," I said. "Just, your normal uniform, everything -

everything normal. Honestly. It's fine."

Fuck. Why had I opened my mouth?
Suddenly, the knife clattered onto the table. I jumped a little, but hid it well, I thought.
"If I'm doing something wrong, please, just tell me," she said. There was a slight quiver in her

voice, and her lower lip was firmly wedged between her teeth. The nibble would have been adorable
if she weren't so obviously pissed the fuck off. "I'm well aware that I'm out of my depth here, but I
think you'll find that I'm always willing to learn and improve myself."

It had the sound of a prepared speech, and I briefly wondered how long she'd been bottling up

that feeling of inadequacy.

"Jillian, listen to me." I had to gather my thoughts for a moment, and the look on her face

wasn't helping with that endeavor. "If there's a problem, ever, I promise I'll address it with you
directly. That's one thing you can count on. I never would have hired you if I wasn't confident that
you'll thrive here. I don't play games. I know this restaurant will succeed with you here. All right?"

She let out a long breath.
"Okay," she said. "Thank you, Chef."
It wasn't quite the reaction I'd hoped for, but at least she hadn't killed me.
Yet.

***

One thing I loved about charity dinners was the simplicity. When everyone was ordering

either "the chicken" or "the fish," it was hard to get things too muddled in the kitchen. Even without
my proper kitchen staff yet, we were more than able to handle all the orders with just me, Jillian, and
a prep cook borrowed from Chef Shaw. Aiden couldn't make it, but I counted that as a plus.

Jillian arrived looking fresh as a daisy, but I noticed her biting her lip more than usual even

during the simple tasks. I'd managed to make her feel self-conscious about something that really didn't
matter at all, and she had no reason to even think about.

Excellent.
It was my stupid instinct to try and guide her, to help her as much as I could. She couldn't

work under me forever. I hoped she'd be working for me for a very long time, but if I was eventually
able to promote her to head chef, she'd need to handle all these things on her own. Of course there
was a selfish impulse to mold her into someone who'd represent me well - but I also did care about
her. About her career.

In spite of appearances, I really did want the best for her.
When I talked to Barbara about this whole situation, she always developed this tolerant smile,

like she was just indulging me in some silly childish whim. And maybe that was all it was. I had a
feeling she was holding something back. I hated that, but I hated the idea of finding out what it was
even more.

I knew her well enough that I could imagine it, anyway. She's not a child, Max. You need to

start treating her like an equal, or she's going to resent you even more than she already does.

When the entrées were all out, we finally had a moment to breathe. Jillian immediately started

tucking her hair back under her hat, and trying to delicately dab the sweat off of her forehead.

"Think we should make an appearance," I said, a few minutes later.
"Do they even care about seeing me?" She leaned against the prep table. "Aren't you the main

attraction?"

"Come on," I said. "I can't talk to all of them at once."
She sighed, turning around and trying to peer at her reflection in one of the stainless steel

shelves.

Before I could stop myself, I said:
"You look beautiful."
Instantly, I froze. If there was anything less appropriate to say in this situation, to try and undo

the damage I did - well, I'd be hard-pressed to come up with it.

Jillian turned and stared at me, then bit her lip again, before swallowing reflexively. For just

a moment, my heart stopped beating.

And then, she smiled.

***

"Thank you so much, I appreciate it.....yes, next week....thank you, thank you....yes, it's one of

my favorites..."

I could hear snatches of Jillian's rapport with the customers as I conducted my own, and she

was doing quite well. I was distracted, but it hardly mattered. Every once in a while, I enjoyed the
opportunity to coast on reputation alone.

A few people wanted me to sign their cookbooks, and still a few more wanted to know some

obscure detail about an episode of one of my shows. All of this was normal, and I pretty much had a
script laid out for it.

By the time I'd made my way around most of the room, Jillian and I were just a table apart and

I was struggling to focus on my own conversation. I finally forced myself to tune out for a few
minutes, only to drift off at the end of one of my scripted answers. I shook my head to clear it, said a
polite goodbye to one table, and took a step back.

Then, I heard Jillian's voice.
"...and then - exactly, right? I was thinking it was complete bullshit. So I said..."
"Jillian!" I said, sharply, striding over to her and laying my hand on her arm. "Would you

come back to the kitchen, please? Right away."

The patron she'd been addressing looked taken aback. Well, what a fucking surprise. Even I

knew that you didn't talk to rich donors like that. Not at a fancy charity dinner. Not ever.

I'd made a mistake.
"I'm so sorry," I said, to the middle-aged man that was left slack-jawed by her familiarity.

"This will be dealt with immediately."

I strode off before he had a chance to say anything - perhaps a questionable move from a

customer service perspective, but I needed to find out what the hell Jillian was thinking.

"What's wrong?" she demanded, as soon as I walked into the kitchen. The anger was starting

to rise up in her again, and I could see the fire starting in her eyes.

"What's wrong? Really?" Normally I'd have taken her into my office, rather than hashing this

out in front of the temporary staff, but she started it. "You can't talk to people like that. Not customers,
not donors, ever - but especially not at an event like this. It doesn't just reflect poorly on this
restaurant, it reflects poorly on the charity as well."

Her face went bright pink, then chalky-pale. "What...what do you mean?" Her voice was

shaking a little. "I didn't...he...we were just talking, he..."

"You can't chat with customers like they're your friends from college." I was dimly aware that

everyone in the kitchen was staring at me, and maybe the sound of my voice could carry out into the
dining room - and really, that was worse than what she did - but at the moment, I didn't care. "That
might fly at the greasy spoons you used to work at, but not here. Never here. Understood?"

She was still pale and quivering, but at least partially with rage. I could feel my nostrils

flaring. I was practically daring her to defy me.

Finally, she spoke, in a voice like sharpened steel.
"Yes, Chef."
I walked back out to the dining room, intending to apologize properly to the man she'd

offended. There was a look of concern on his face. I crouched down by the table, speaking as quietly
as I could.

"Sir, I wanted to apologize for what happened a few moments ago."
He cut me off before I could get any further.
"I'm a little confused. Is something wrong? Is the chef all right?"
I blinked.
"Yes, sir," I said. "She's...she's fine. I'm very sorry if her behavior was crossing a line."
His forehead crinkled. "Not at all," he said. "She was hilarious. It turns out, I'm in business

with one of her cousins - don't ask me how that came up, but it's a small world, isn't it? I'd love to talk
to her again, if she can get away."

My heart froze in my chest, and then sank as low as it could possibly go.
"I'll just go and check," I said. "I'm very sorry for the misunderstanding."
When I returned to the kitchen, Jill was gone.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Demi-Glace

A rich, fragrant demi-glace is one of the most decadent sauces a chef can have in their

repertoire. Time and care must be taken for the proper result. If your intention is to cut corners,
it's best not to start at all.

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Jill

***

"You're not going to believe this!" I shrieked into my phone, loud enough that a few passersby

turned their heads.

Shelly took a moment to process this. "You, uh...okay, I've had a few drinks, I got nothing.

What happened?"

"I was standing there talking to one of the donors, and suddenly Chef Dylan comes up to me

and practically drags me into the kitchen to yell at me about how I was - I don't know, being too
familiar, I guess. The guy was friendly. I was just taking his lead. But I guess maybe I cursed..."

"What'd you say?"
"Bullshit."
Shelly snorted. "That doesn't even qualify nowadays. Did that really upset him? I've seen this

shows - I mean, talk about the pot and the kettle."

"It's different," I said. "Or, I guess, that's what he would say. He said it reflected poorly on his

restaurant and on the charity." I took a deep breath. "But I was just trying to make the guy comfortable.
He started it, he was talking that way and I just followed his lead. That's what you're supposed to do,

right?"

"I dunno." Shelly sounded like she was rummaging through a cabinet. "So did you get in

trouble, or what?"

"I guess. I don't know. He just scolded me, mostly. But he was fucking mad, I mean madder

than you've ever seen him on TV. It was awful."

"You gonna quit?"
I hadn't even considered that possibility.
"Can't afford to," I said, which was true. But it wasn't my only reason for staying. I felt

defiant. I felt, now more than ever, like I had something to prove.

***

The only way to move forward, I decided, was to apologize.
I still didn't feel like I'd done anything wrong, for the situation. But the more I thought about it,

the more I realized that I'd been taking a risk by talking like that. Anyone could have heard. And while
people don't generally bring kids to an expensive charity dinner, it still wasn't really appropriate for
the situation. The wording, the volume of my voice, the way I started laughing when the guy talked
about my cousin - I actually cringed a little, thinking back to it.

I just wasn't used to being in these situations. But, like I'd told Chef Dylan, I could learn.
That was all supposing he didn't fire me.
I got to work early. Chef wasn't in the kitchen, but I found my way to his office and tapped

lightly at the door.

"Come in," he said, after a moment's hesitation.
I stepped into the room, my heart thumping at a million beats per minute.
"I wanted to apologize for last night," I said, before he even looked up.
"Jillian," he said. "Sit down."
Oh, God.
I was starting to feel lightheaded. Was I going to lose my job over something so stupid? I

couldn't believe it. But at the same time, people had been fired for a lot less...

He didn't stay anything for a long moment. I finally found my voice again, and briefly debated

whether I'd just be digging myself in deeper if I kept talking. Eventually, I couldn't stand the silence
anymore.

"I understand that my behavior wasn't appropriate for the venue, and I'm very sorry. I got

carried away with the conversation I was having. But I can promise you that the patron in question
was not offended. And I promise I'll be more careful in the future."

Chef Dylan was looking at me searchingly, and I wondered if he was just trying to intimidate

me. He was never at a loss for words. So what else could it be?

"Thank you, Jillian," he said. "I appreciate that."
After that, he was silent for so long that I almost stood up to leave.
"I shouldn't have dressed you down in front of everyone," he said, finally. "Especially without

knowing the whole story. You're right, it wasn't appropriate. But I've done worse, in my time." He
smiled a little. "Just make sure it doesn't happen again."

"Yes, Chef," I said. "Thank you, Chef."

***

Working next to him wasn't as awkward as I expected, after that. I felt strangely calm. After

everything, I was okay. I was alive, and he didn't seem angry. Maybe that was the upside to his
impulsivity. Once the anger was vented, it was gone.

I could learn to live with that.
"Salt?" Chef barked at me, while I kneaded some dough.
"One second, Chef." Couldn't he see that I had my hands full?
"Never mind," he snapped. "I'll get it. Excuse me."
His body pressed against mine, flattening me against the counter. He was reaching for the

shelf right above my head, but I had to believe he could have done it a little less awkwardly.

"Excuse me," I muttered, trying to squirm away.
"Sorry," he muttered back, snatching the box of salt, but making no effort to give me more

room. I tensed, and then relaxed, feeling a hot prickling blush creep up the back of my neck.

His grip faltered and the box started to slip - right into me, and I grabbed for it, our arms

somehow intertwining as he fumbled. He let out a little snarl of frustration.

"I was going to get it in a second!" I snapped, before I could stop myself. His proximity was

making my skin tingle and I didn't want to know why, but fucked if it didn't make me angry.

I shoved the box towards him, and he had to hug it to his chest before it spilled all over the

floor. He was still just a few inches away.

"The fuck is wrong with you?" he demanded. "If I ask you for salt, give me the fucking salt!"
"I was busy!" The tension was crackling in the room, rising higher and higher. I felt like every

hair on my body was standing on end. I'd had enough. Enough of walking on eggshells, of being afraid
and intimidated all the time.

"Get this straight," he growled, slamming the box down on the counter. "You're never busy

when I ask you for something. Never. Do you understand? I ask you to jump while you're in the
middle of dismantling a nuclear bloody bomb, you say 'yes, Chef, how high?'"

"Are you trying to piss me off?" I demanded.
He threw his hands up in the air - literally. I wasn't sure I'd ever seen a person do that. "Am I

trying to piss you off!" he repeated. "Am I trying...fucking hell, Jillian, I really thought you were
smarter than that. Where would that get me? To piss you off? What do I accomplish by making you
angry? I'm trying to get your attention. I'm trying to teach you how to reach your potential. Fuck's
sake."

Chef was breathing hard, but his eyes softened as he said this. I swallowed hard, my hands

clenched into fists by my sides.

"No offense, Chef," I said, holding my venom back as much as I could. "But I've worked in

plenty of kitchens. I've been put through the ringer so many times, you don't even begin to scare me. If
you want to try and break me, like one of your students on TV, go ahead. But I won't roll over for it.
Not like you're used to."

He just stared at me. For the first few seconds, I was sure it was simply the calm before the

storm. But then, all he did was slowly raise his hand to his mouth, resting the side of his thumb against
his lips.

For another few minutes, he just stared, and I stared back. My heart was thumping like it might

leap out of my chest, but my gaze didn't waver.

And then, he just went back to his cooking.
What the hell just happened?

***

The following week, I made the mistake of mentioning to Shelly that I was going to be running

through the menu alone, a few hours before Chef Dylan got in. She immediately insisted on stopping
by, and wouldn't take "no" for an answer.

After everything that had happened between us recently, the last thing I wanted was for Chef

to see me palling around with my best friend in his kitchen. But as long as I could push her out the
door in plenty of time, it seemed like a minimal risk. And having someone to talk to would make the
prep work a lot less tedious.

"So," she said, leaning on the prep table with a conspiratorial smile on her face. "Are the

rumors true?"

I sighed. "Which ones?"
"You know. Chef Dylan, the heartbreaker. Didn't he once have a fight with the hostess that he

was fucking, in front of the customers? And it was so bad the restaurant eventually closed?"

"That was a coincidence," I insisted. "The restaurant closing, I mean. If anything, a scene like

that would make people more likely to come."

"True," Shelley conceded. "I'd basically go there every night just hoping for a repeat

performance. But really, I'm curious! You must have picked up something, working right next to the
guy."

"We don't exactly discuss his love life," I said. "And if you're asking me about right now,

well, no - he seems pretty single to me. But maybe he's just private about it."

She was pouting. "You're no fun. I want you to find out some juicy stuff for me, okay? That's

an order."

"Sure, I'll get right on that." I rolled my eyes. "You want to hand me that bowl?"
"I thought I wasn't supposed to be here."
"You're not, but if you're going to hang out, I'm putting you to work."
"Fair enough." She did as I asked. "But seriously, come on - you see his appeal, right?"
I shrugged. There was no sense in getting into a whole thing about it. What use was there in

confessing that the smell of his cologne made my mouth water, or that I sometimes stalled around his
office in hopes of seeing him changing into his coat? He never wore a shirt underneath, and he was
completely unselfconscious about it. Not that he had anything to be self-conscious about.

"I mean, just on paper," Shelly went on, "he's a celebrity, he's a chef, he's rich as hell, and he's

an athlete in his spare time. Have you seen the pictures of him at the triathlon? Holy shit, I almost
died."

"No," I lied. "I don't really go looking for that kind of stuff."
I mean, who on earth would want to see pictures of a guy like that, wearing tight athletic gear,

all his muscles straining, covered in sweat and mud? Basically just doing the manliest things on the
planet?

How silly.
"I don't buy it," said Shelly, with a dismissive gesture. "You're just in denial. I mean, isn't

there any part of you, like deep, deep down inside, buried under all the hate, where you just wanna sit
on his f-"

"Hello, Chef," I blurted out, as Chef Dylan burst into the room at the worst possible moment.

Shelly turned beet red.

"Everyone who doesn't work here, get out of my kitchen." Chef Dylan grabbed one of his

favorite knives and started sharpening it with quick, vicious movements. Shelly was gone before I had
a chance to turn around.

"I'm sorry, Chef," I said, hurrying to my station. "We were just catching up before I started my

shift."

"Don't apologize, just get to work." He glanced at me, then looked back down to his chopping.

His expression was unreadable. At least he didn't look angry.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Most likely a mortified, apologetic text from Shelly. I had no

idea how much Chef Dylan might have heard, but I certainly wasn't going to bring it up.

***

"Jillian, can I speak to you, please?"
Chef Dylan had popped out of his office just long enough to say this; a moment later, he'd

disappeared again.

Shit, shit, shit.
This whole thing was turning into a comedy of errors. Getting a talking-to about the charity

thing was bad enough, but now I was going to be held responsible for letting Shelly into the kitchen -
not to mention the intensely embarrassing thing she'd chosen to say as soon as he walked into the
room.

I took a deep breath, wiped my hands, and went into his office. He didn't look up until I sat

down.

For a while, he just met my eyes without speaking. Why does always do this? Just to make

me squirm? Because it's working.

In more ways than one.
His eyes could range from stormcloud-gray to a hard, glinting steel, but right now they were

somewhere in-between. I didn't know what it meant, but my heart was fluttering and it wasn't just
from nerves.

"You don't have to like me, Jillian," he said, finally. "All I need is for you to respect me."
"I do," I said, quickly. Too quickly. I could see that he didn't really believe me. But how could

you not respect a man like that, at least a little? Ten Michelin stars. Bad attitude or no bad attitude, he
was a force to be reckoned with.

"That's not what I meant," he said. "I don't want you to respect me as some kind of culinary

legend. I want you to respect me as a person. As your boss."

My face was turning bright red, despite my best efforts to stay calm. What could I possibly say

to convince him that I did, considering what he'd just walked into?

"Can I speak freely, Chef?"
His eyebrows raised a little. "I hope you always will," he said.
"I've never really believed that your method of dealing with people is the most effective," I

said. "Or the most fair. I won't pretend that we agree on that issue. But when it comes to you as a
businessman, and as a chef - I couldn't possibly have more respect for you. And I'm willing to learn
more about why you do the things you do, especially the things I don't understand."

A slow smile crept across his face.
"You're something else," he said. "You know that?"
I couldn't help but smile back. My heart flip-flopped in my chest. "I don't know what that

means," I said. "But, thank you."

"You've really mastered the art of being both honest and diplomatic," he said. "You know,

when most people say something like 'I disagree with you, but I respect your opinion' I know they're
completely full of shit. But you're not like that, are you? You really do want to learn why I do what I

do."

"Well, yes," I said, my face flushing. "Is that...weird?"
"It's wonderful," he said. "But it is...unusual, yes."
If only he knew how strong my opinions of him really were. But I was being honest about

learning his methods. I was curious, even if I could never be like that myself. I could certainly stand
to be tougher from time to time. Growing up, I'd mastered the art of diplomacy to try and keep the
peace between my parents. It never worked out, but the skills had carried me pretty well through my
adult life.

"I have a feeling we're going to get along just fine, you and I," Chef Dylan said. "Bumps in the

road notwithstanding."

I wished I could share his confidence. But still, I smiled, and there was a warm glow in my

chest.

"Thank you," I said. "I hope so too."
I cleared my throat, considering this for a moment. I'd been meaning to say something earlier.

Nobody called me "Jillian" unless they didn't know me. It felt very, very strange for him to keep
calling me by that name.

"Chef?"
He looked back up at me.
"Would you..." I cleared my throat again. "Most people just call me Jill."
"Of course," he said. "See you tomorrow, Jill."

***

It was our last day of work before officially opening. I could feel the buzz before I even

walked into the restaurant, and suddenly the place was crawling with activity - I'd grown so used to it
being mostly empty, most of the time, as we prepared.

There were a few people here that I hadn't met, including one who was standing in the corner

- I had to look twice, to make sure I wasn't going insane.

It wasn't quite like seeing double. He did look like Chef Dylan, but he was a little shorter, a

little smoother around the edges - younger, I judged, though not by much. He was dressed in a well-
pressed suit and basically looked like he belonged somewhere much fancier than a kitchen.

"You must be Jillian," he said, extending his hand. "I'm Beckett. Chef Dylan's brother."
"No kidding," I said, before I could stop myself. My face started going bright red, from my

chest to the roots of my hair, but Beckett just smiled. "I'm sorry," I said. "I don't know what came over
me. It's nice to meet you."

"Don't worry about it," he said. "I guess it is pretty obvious, isn't it?"
"Just a little bit." I held up my thumb and forefinger, a hair's width apart. "So, are you working

here too?"

"Sommelier." He jerked his head in the vague direction of the wine cellar.
"It's funny," I said, pulling down a sauté pan. "I never heard about Chef having a brother."
"I try to keep a low profile." Beckett grinned - the same infectious smile that his brother

displayed from time to time. "But I'm guessing this job isn't going to help too much with that."

"Just duck if you see any cameras. I'll help keep a lookout."
"I appreciate that," said Beckett, just as his brother swung the door open.
"Jill," said Chef Dylan, nodding at my prep work. "I see you've already met my brother. Good.

Could you take him through the menu for me? I need to conduct a few more interviews today."

"Don't make any hasty decisions," Beckett called after him, as his brother walked into the

office. "You've got at least twenty-four hours to staff the rest of this place, you know."

I grinned. I could already tell Beckett and I were going to get along famously.

***

The day went by in a flurry of preparation. After I spent the first few hours with Beckett, I

didn't see him again until it was time to leave. Just as I was reaching for my coat, I heard a soft
muttering noise coming from the back hallway between the kitchen and the dining room. I went to
investigate. Beckett was standing there, with a few large boxes and a pile of assorted furniture pieces,
staring at a piece of paper with a frown.

"What's this?" I nudged a box with my toe.
He started a little. "Oh. Jillian. I didn't see you there. Just a wine rack, thought I'd put one here

- easy to get to, customers will see it passing by, functional and attractive, you know? I might have
made a huge mistake."

"Having some trouble?" I smiled sympathetically. It had been a few years since the last time I

moved, but I could remember the "putting furniture together" saga like it was yesterday. "I'll help. My
train doesn't leave for another hour, anyway."

"Are you sure?" Beckett looked up.
"Course. This beats hanging out in South Station any day." I looked at the instructions, then

down at the pile of parts, then back up again. "I...what the hell is going on here?"

"If you figure it out, be sure to let me know."
I had to give Beckett credit for handling this better than his brother would. I couldn't help but

picture Chef Dylan trying to shout the furniture parts into submission, and I giggled a little.

"What's so funny?" Beckett blinked at me.
"Nothing," I said. "Nothing. I was just picturing your brother trying to put this together."
"Yeah, there's a reason this job fell to me."
"He'd probably just Hulk Smash it," I said, absently, picking up a piece and hefting it in my

hand, as if estimating the weight would get me somewhere. "He's got a lot of frustration stored up
from being so nice to Aiden. It's not really in his DNA to bite it back."

"Hmm," Beckett agreed, still staring at the stupid little line drawings that revealed nothing.
Something occurred to me. "Aiden's not - he's not your son, is he?"
Beckett shook his head. "No, no." He looked like he was on the verge of saying something

else, but he didn't.

"Oh." I didn't know why, but I was suddenly deathly curious about Chef Dylan's upbringing.

Until I'd met Beckett, I didn't even know he had any siblings. "So was it just the three of you, growing
up?"

He let out a little huff of laughter. "No, no, not even close. Seven of us, all told. Kids, I mean.

Nine total in the family."

"Wow," I said. Growing up an only child¸ I couldn't even imagine. Well, that wasn't true. I

could. Constant chaos. Never a moment of silence, never any privacy. Frequently overlooked. Having
to shout at the top of your lungs just to get noticed. I might not have grown up in a big family, but I
knew enough of them.

"Me and Max, we were the middle kids." Beckett picked up a bolt, examined it, and then put it

back down. It took me a full five seconds to realize who Max was. I'd never heard anyone call Chef
Dylan by his diminutive name. "We had to fight for attention a lot of the time. If I were a psychologist,

I'd speculate that's why Max is so shouty. But what do I know?"

"Huh," I said, staring at the incomprehensible cartoon in the instructions that was supposed to

tell us...something. The Ziggy-like figure was smiling in the first picture, but frowning in the second
one. Why? What did he know that I didn't?

"How about you?" Beckett fitted two pieces together, stared at them, and then shook his head.

"Any brothers or sisters?"

"Nope, just me. It turns out there's such a thing as too much attention." I grinned, as he

struggled to pull the two pieces apart. They were stubbornly wedged in the way only two wrong
pieces could be. "Would it kill them to put some words in here?" I waved the instruction booklet.

"Might cut into the profit margin," Beckett grunted. "This way, they can package it the same

for all of the eleventy-billion countries they sell this crap in, and they don't have to print a manual the
size of The Stand."

Eventually, through sheer luck and brute force, we got the thing together. It didn't immediately

collapse, so I considered it a job well done. All the while, I couldn't stop the images in my head of
young Max Dylan, a little towheaded boy trying to shout loud enough to drown out six other voices.
Struggling to prove his worth. To be noticed.

No wonder he was so driven. Like a shark, I thought. Stop moving forward for too long, and

you just waste away.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Entrée

The evolution of culinary terms is one of the more fascinating branches of language. In

North America, an entrée is the main course. In the rest of the English and French-speaking world,
it's what it sounds like: the first course, or appetizer. As eating habits changed, so did the
terminology. Some bemoan this sort of change, but I've never felt that language should be static.

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Max

***

Opening night was chaos. And not in a good way.
You expect a certain amount of things to go wrong, of course. That's just the way things are. A

perfectly-executed restaurant opening is impossible. There are simply too many variables.

One of my early mentors in the culinary business told me that the more disastrous the opening,

the more prosperous the restaurant.

I hoped he was right.
I got there obscenely early, before Beckett, before Jill, before Liam, the surly prep cook who

clearly thought this position beneath him. But options were limited, even for someone with his
experience, so I ignored his glowering and just appreciated the quality of his work. He'd be out the
door as soon as a better job came along, but that was a worry for another day.

For a while, I just walked around the dining room, closing my eyes for a moment and opening

them again, trying to see this already-familiar place through fresh eyes. What message would it send?
The contractors and decorators might hate me, but they didn't know what I knew. Every little piece of

this place would speak to my patrons, even if they didn't know it. The shade of the paint, the color of
the curtains, the shape of the light fixtures. People don't think they notice these things, but they do.

Every little thing plants a thought, a feeling. Yes, I feel comfortable here. Yes, I want to eat

here.

On that front, things were as good as they were going to get.
Then, the phone calls started coming in.
Aiden was going to be late. Surprise, surprise - on the one day it really mattered. Then, almost

as soon as I'd hung up, another call came in, this one from my seafood supplier.

They had a problem. No oysters tonight. No scallops. Limited lobster...
"I'm sorry," I said, over the ringing in my ears. "I'm having a bit of trouble hearing you."
I hung up.
Jill found me still sitting in my office, staring at the wall like I'd gone catatonic.
"...Chef Dylan?" she said, hesitantly, poking her head in like she expected a bomb to go off.
"No seafood," I said. It was the most explanation I could manage, at the moment.
"I'm...I'm sorry?" She stepped in, her confusion turning to genuine concern.
"The seafood supplier just called," I said, slowly, like I didn't quite believe my own

statement. "They've got...basically nothing for us. Some kind of screw-up. I don't know. I stopped
listening at some point." I shook my head, snapping back to reality. "Have to make some calls. See if
there's anyone who can supply us on short notice..."

Jill held up a single finger: Wait.
"I can handle that," she said. "How much of everything do you need?"
I blinked a few times, then handed her the copy of the purchase order. She scanned over it

briefly, then picked up the phone on my desk. "It'll be a very reasonable price," she said. "So don't
worry."

"I'm not worried," I said. "Just - I didn't know you had seafood connections."
She smiled as she tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder. "It's Boston, Chef.

Everybody knows somebody who knows somebody."

I wasn't sure that was strictly accurate, at least when it came to seafood. But I wasn't about to

question it.

"Mr. Lamott, hi. It's Jill Brown - Shelly's friend. I've just started working at a new

restaurant....yes....yeah, thank you. Here's the thing, though, we're supposed to open today and we ran
into a little hiccup....yeah, you guessed it....within a few hours?...oh, awesome. That's fantastic....yes,
thanks, I'll hold."

"He's transferring me to the warehouse," she mouthed, in my direction. I just nodded.
While she was reading off the order, I started to wonder what the hell was wrong with me. I'd

had vendors cancel on me plenty of times before. I'd dealt with missing orders, wrong orders, spoiled
orders...granted, I'd never had someone cancel on this short of a notice before, but I still should have
been able to handle it better than I did. I should have been on the phone immediately, not waiting for
Jill to come in and rescue me.

What was this woman doing to me?

***

"Uhhh, Chef?"
Aiden's eyes were huge. He was staring at me, that deer-in-the-headlights look that would

have brought out untold levels of rage in me - if only he wasn't family.

"Yes, Aiden," I said, as patiently as I could manage. The kitchen activity was starting to pick

up, the seafood had arrived just in the nick of time, and everything seemed to be running smoothly for
the time being. But I had a feeling that was about to change.

"I think I screwed up," he said. "I took some reservations, and...I think I took too many..."
"What? When?" My mind started racing. "You're not supposed to make any reservations,

Aiden. That's not your job. One is too many. Did you check Cat's book, at least?"

"....yeah," he said, drawing the word out slowly. "But I think I kind of...read it wrong..."
Moments later, Cat, the hostess, burst in.
"Chef," she said, urgently, looking almost as angry as she was terrified. "I don't know what

happened. I must have forgotten to switch it over to the messaging service before I went to lunch the
other day, and..." She glared over in Aiden's direction.

"I thought I was helping," Aiden insisted, turning to her. His voice was raised in a way I didn't

like.

"Hey!" I snapped. "Bickering doesn't help us now. What's the situation? How bad is it?"
Cat cleared her throat. "I think we're...I think we're double-booked until at least 8 o'clock."
"Christ." I pressed my fingertips into my closed eyes for a moment. "All right. Okay. Aiden,

get back to your customers. Cat, we'll just have to play this by ear. Some of these people won't show,
and some of the earlier ones won't stay as long as we planned. We'll manage. Right? And if anyone
gives you too much trouble, call me to the front. I'll deal with them."

She nodded, taking a deep breath and returning to her station. I felt for her more than anyone.

Worst case scenario, the bad press for this would still come off as "Chef Dylan's New Restaurant
Too Popular For Its Own Good." But she was on the front lines, and was almost guaranteed to take
the brunt of every inconvenienced diner's anger.

Aiden was a liability. I'd known that when I hired him. But I was enough of a black sheep in

my family already, without refusing to hire my nephew when he was in a rough spot. My sister
Megan, she begged, and she guilt-tripped, and she was practically a professional at that.

I hadn't spent much time with the kid since he was - well, a kid. But from what I remembered

he was always friendly and pleasant enough. Unfortunately, that didn't transfer to actual work skills.

Finally, I went back to my work, with only half of my concentration focused on the food. It

was early yet. Things wouldn't get hairy until later, when the restaurant began to grow crowded, and
we'd have to start turning people away - some of whom might actually have reservations.

What a clusterfuck.

***

"Excuse me. Excuse me." I could hear the man's voice echoing through the whole dining room,

even before I got close to the door. I picked up my pace, just as he began to bellow: "I want you to
explain to me why I, a paying customer with a reservation, have to stand here and explain to my wife
that we can't eat here tonight. She's been looking forward to this for months. Months!"

He was poking his finger dangerously close to Cat's chest. Swiftly, I stepped between them

and caused the man to step backwards without actually touching him.

"Sir," I said. "I'm very sorry for the inconvenience. We'll be happy to have you any other night

with openings still available, on the house. Tonight, unfortunately, things are very tight."

"But I have a reservation." The man was practically quivering with rage, and I found myself

wondering, as I had during many similar encounters in the past, where he found the energy. I could
understand a lot of emotions in conjunction with this situation, but pure, unadulterated fury?

Yes, yes, I know. Glass houses, throwing stones and all that.
But still, you have to conserve your energy for things that actually matter, don't you?
As I attempted to talk the man down, I had to fight the sinking realization that this was only the

first of many similar arguments I'd be having tonight.

Wonderful. Just wonderful.

***

"Well, we're all still alive."
Beckett was tossing a wine cork into the air and catching it, over and over again.

Maddeningly.

"What are you, a cat?" I snapped at him, lifting my head from where it was resting in my

hands. My elbows had slid so far on my desk that I was hardly upright anymore.

I'd had a more serious talk with Aiden once things slowed down, and I was now confident that

he wouldn't touch the reservation book again. So, that was a small win. But still, tomorrow morning
I'd just have to get up and do this all over again.

It was the best and worst thing about this business.
"Jill came through nicely for us," he pointed out, still tossing the cork in the air. "Lucky find,

that one."

Nodding, I perked up a little. "I had no idea," I said. "Couldn't have. It's not exactly something

you put on a resume, but it certainly did turn out to be useful."

Beckett was watching me, like he wanted to bring something up, but couldn't figure out how.
"Spit it out," I said.
"What is it about her?" he asked, finally.
My throat tightened.
"I don't know what you mean," I said, a little too forcefully.
"Thought you said you were going to be a priest," he pointed out, just softly enough that I

could have ignored it, if I wanted to.

"It's not like that," I said. "I don't know what it is about her. But it's not...like that."
"Ah. So you admit there's something." Beckett swiveled in his chair. "Had you ever met her

before the interview?"

"No," I said, not sure why I was bothering to lie. Beckett always knew.
"Bullshit," he said. "Was it really that bad?"
"Bad enough," I said. "I think she's only working for me because she's desperate."
"Well, that's true of plenty of people, isn't it?" He was grinning, but it wasn't really a joke.
"Could be," I said. "But this is different."
How, exactly, I didn't know. But thankfully, for once in his life, Beckett was content to let

things lie.

CHAPTER NINE

Portefeuille

The portefeuille family is a diverse one, ranging anywhere from omelets to chicken cordon

bleu. The basic principle is to fold, stuff, or place in layers, creating a delicious, unexpected
surprise somewhere hidden underneath the outermost layers.

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Jill

***

I could not figure this guy out.
Of course, I knew he was fond of mind games, bullying, manipulation, and pretty much

everything I couldn't stand. But I still had trouble reading Chef Dylan, and it was becoming a major
problem.

After opening night, I was feeling pretty good about saving the day. Shelly's father loved the

extra business, and was very pleased to be supplying such a famous chef. It was a win-win-win. Still,
though, I felt anxious about the whole thing. Had I overstepped my bounds? Was Chef going to see me
as a threat now, instead of an asset?

I had no idea. With an ego that big, there was simply no telling.
By the first day of our third week in business, my mind was swirling with so many

contradictory thoughts and feelings that it must have showed. On my lunch break, Beckett stopped in
the back to ask me if I was all right.

"Yeah, thanks," I said, putting on a brave smile. "Just...you know, it's always overwhelming,

getting back to work after a while."

He nodded sympathetically. "And with a boss like my brother, too."
I smiled. "I wasn't going to say anything, but...yeah."
"Let me tell you something about my brother," he said, pulling out a chair. "People always

think he's trying to trick them. They ascribe these evil genius motivations to him. But it's really very
simple. You've got to take what he says at face value. When he tells you something, believe him."

I do, I wanted to say, but I didn't. I was making the same assumption as everybody else, but I

didn't want to admit it.

"Nobody gets it, at first," Beckett went on. "You just kind of assume he's like everybody else,

you know? We all lie just to get through our day. A hundred times, probably. Or at least skirt the truth.
But he's different, and sure, it gets him into a lot of trouble. I'm not defending him. Lying is a social
nicety. I'm pretty sure it's in Miss Manners. But Max is unfiltered. No agenda. What you see is what
you get."

His voice was quieter than usual, but what clued me in was his staccato speech pattern: this

was hard for him to talk about. A lifetime of defending an indefensible man had clearly taken its toll.

It was interesting, the contrast between the two men. I'd seen Beckett's eyes flash when

someone said something he knew was wrong. I'd watched him carefully measure his words, coming
up with a diplomatic way to shoot down whatever he didn't like. Beckett, like his brother, was a man
of much experience and strong opinions to go along with it. But unlike Maxwell, he'd learned the fine
art of biting his tongue. I got the sense that it wasn't humility that made him do it. It was practicality.
He wanted the quickest, most effective path to getting things done his way. And for him, he'd found
that diplomacy worked best.

His brother had obviously come to a different conclusion.

***

"I'm sorry, Chef," Aiden was saying, for the fiftieth time this week. It was just a pitcher of

water spilled in the dining room, this time, but the cumulative effect of his fuck-ups qualified him as a
walking natural disaster.

"It's all right," said Chef Dylan, in the most exhausted voice I'd ever heard from him. "Just be

more careful in the future."

I was on the verge of asking him - what, exactly, I didn't know. There was no way to frame the

question so it wouldn't be insulting. Chef clearly had his reasons for hiring Aiden in the first place,
and most importantly, for not firing him. It would be straight-up rude for me to even ask him why,
because he clearly wasn't doing it on a lark. Failing to cut the biggest, most obvious dead weight in
his kitchen was a big risk. Even for a guy like Chef Dylan. Maybe especially for a guy like Chef
Dylan. Like all chefs, he had a reputation to protect. But unlike most of them, every misstep of his was
likely to draw media attention. They just loved kicking him while he was down. Not too long ago, I
used to think he deserved it.

But now, whether I liked it or not, I was playing on his team. More success for him meant

more success for me.

We had to do something about Aiden.
The opportunity finally presented itself a few days later, during a quiet period after the lunch

rush. After he'd satisfied himself that Liam had dinner prep going smoothly, he finally leaned against
the counter and swiped his big white sleeve across his forehead, letting out a massive sigh. His long,
lean body sagged a little, making him look astonishingly vulnerable. I waited until he opened his eyes
again, and then started to formulate an opener.

"What?" he said, before I had a chance to open my mouth. I realized that I was staring at him.
"Sorry." Immediately, my eyes snapped back to my table. There was a hot, prickling blush

creeping up the back of my neck. "I just wanted - there's something..."

"Yes?" he prodded, making a go on gesture with his hand.
"It's about Aiden," I said.
His mouth twitched, almost like he was suppressing a grimace. "What about him?"
"It's...he's..." All the times I'd practiced this conversation in my head, and I still couldn't spit it

out. Everything was harder with Chef staring me down. Those blue-gray eyes piercing right through
me, like I wasn't even there. I cleared my throat. "He really seems to be struggling," I said, at last. I
just couldn't bring myself to be too harsh on the kid, even though taking the diplomatic route meant
Chef Dylan would probably write me off as a pushover.

"I know," Chef said, his eyes still fixed mercilessly on me. "Do you have any suggestions?"
A genuine question, or a challenge? As usual, I couldn't be sure. I decided to proceed with

caution. "I think...I think he needs a lot of guidance," I said. "Plenty of feedback, both about the
positive things, and the areas where he really needs improvement. And then..." I bit my lower lip. "To
be honest, Chef, I don't know if he's going to be a good long-term fit. Not if he doesn't improve a lot,
and quickly."

Chef nodded, slowly, his gaze slightly distant now. He was now looking over me, rather than

through me, and I could almost sense the physical shift. I no longer felt like a butterfly pinned to a
card.

"I know," he said, finally. But it lacked the bite that I was expecting - the implication of how

could you be so stupid as to point out the obvious? And then, even more surprising: "Thank you for
being honest."

"Sure," I said. "Anytime."
He looked...troubled, in a way I'd never seen him before. If I didn't know better, I'd say he

was plagued by self-doubt. But not Chef Dylan. Surely, no.

"There's just a small problem with Aiden," he said, after a moment, startling me. I'd assumed

the conversation was over. "When I opened this restaurant, I promised his mother he'd always have a
job here. A good one. He needs it. He needs the structure, you know, something to keep him busy.
And he can't work just anywhere, because of the..." Chef cleared this throat. "But anyway. That
doesn't matter. What matters is, we need to find a way to make it work."

This was the answer I'd been fearing. I was going to have to find some way to compensate for

Aiden's shortcomings. We all would. And maybe we'd do all right. But I knew from personal
experience that nothing hobbled a business faster than an un-fireable employee. Aiden seemed good-
natured enough, but what incentive did he have to do better work if he knew he was protected?

But if I knew that, Chef Dylan knew it too. He had ten times the restaurant experience I did.
You must owe his mother one hell of a favor.
A thought occurred to me in a flash - he's your son. That would explain a hell of a lot. But no,

it wasn't quite right. It had to be something like that, but I wasn't quite on-target.

I realized Chef was still standing there, staring at the wall, like it contained the answers to all

of life's problems. "Well," I said, because it felt too awkward to say nothing. "I'm sure we can draw
up some kind of - you know, performance improvement plan. Maybe he just needs a little extra help
with things. Practice working under pressure. He'll improve. I can tell he wants to impress you."

"Of course he does," said Chef, his mouth drawn into a thin line. "Famous Uncle Max. Of

course he wants to impress me. But I don't know if that's enough."

Ah. Nephew. The pieces were falling into place.
"It could be," I said, my mind suddenly racing. "He wants your approval, but he's intimidated,

too, so that makes him nervous. And he doesn't have a lot of experience working through nerves. He
gets overwhelmed easily. Flustered. We can work on that." Now that I'd begun to accept Aiden as
non-negotiable, I was thinking more about his behavior, and all of his mistakes, and realizing that I'd
once been a bit like him. For a long time, I'd felt like a misfit in professional kitchens. Stupid, even.
Flawed. I'd considered quitting, until I realized that I just needed to cope with things a little
differently.

A lot of people who gravitate towards this field thrive on stress. Pressure makes them come

alive. I'd never been one of them, and as a result, I had to train myself on how to deal with the chaos.
I'd done a pretty good job, clearly. But Aiden didn't even know where to start.

"I hope so," said Chef, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "If you think you can help him,

be my guest."

"I know I can," I said, regretting the words as soon as they left my mouth. "Aiden, I think - I

think he's one of those people who does a lot better when he has just one thing to focus on, and lots of
time to figure out how to deal with it. Obviously that's pretty much the opposite of a restaurant, but he
can learn his own way of handling the stress. And I can help."

Chef smiled, finally - a tired smile, but it was a smile. "Don't tell me you used to be an

Aiden."

"Well," I said, feeling myself start to blush again. "Not exactly. No. But I do understand a

little bit of what he's going through."

"Well." Chef shook his head like he wanted to banish all his worries. "If you can turn him into

half as good of an employee as you are, I'll be forever in your debt."

My throat tightened, and I could feel my blush grow even hotter. "Thank you, Chef," I said,

quickly turning away before he could see my bright red face.

***

So Chef Dylan did have a soft spot. It made sense, but it wasn't a possibility I'd ever

considered before. Aiden was clearly important to him, so I took my responsibility with him
seriously. We had a good conversation after work, where he confessed how stressed and
overwhelmed he was feeling. Like I guessed, he had never actually worked in a restaurant before. I
told him that if he came in early the next day, I'd help him run through the same drills I'd once used on
myself, until he was comfortable handling anything.

He seemed very grateful for the opportunity. I was somewhat confident he'd actually show up.
After I'd jotted down a few notes for the following morning, I switched on the TV to unwind

before bed. There wasn't much on, a lot of reality show marathons and some live musical
performance that was being simulcast across a few networks. Until now, I'd almost forgotten that the
holiday season was rapidly approaching.

Ugh. Better not to think about that.
A familiar face flashed up on my screen. I paused, feeling my heart thump-thump traitorously

in my chest. It was an episode of one of Chef Dylan's many reality features, one of the competition
shows where he yelled at people for an hour straight. There was a time when I would have switched
it off in disgust, but...

He really did have a nice face.
Shelly had a point, after all.

My ears felt hot. Come on, Jill, get it together.
He wasn't yelling in this particular scene. He was speaking low and intently to the aspiring

chef across from him, very close, looking the young man right in the eyes.

"...and you have to trust those instincts, because they're never going to lead you wrong. I've

seen you made an incredible amount of progress since you first came here, and it's unbelievable. I
would have written you off in the first challenge. But you wouldn't let me. You kept on pushing
forward, and when it comes down to it, that's all that matters."

The guy had tears glistening in his eyes. "Thank you, Chef."
They hugged, and I tried desperately to convince myself that it was just a show of false

compassion for the cameras. But Chef's face showed nothing but genuine respect. He might be a hell
of an actor. I'd been fooled before.

But I had my doubts.

CHAPTER TEN

Blanch

When we blanch a vegetable by quickly plunging it into boiling water, then into an ice bath,

it cooks just enough to brighten the colors and flavors. Enough to make it better, but not enough to
make it limp. The idea is to shock the vegetables into life - nothing more.

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Max

***

"Okay. You have customers who've been waiting forty-five minutes for their entrées, and the

phone's ringing. You're the only one working the dining room. Go."

Aiden's eyes were bigger than I'd ever seen them before, which seemed impossible. Jill had

been running him through these hypothetical scenarios all morning, watching him discover and
develop this own coping mechanisms. It was a painfully slow process, but I never would have
guessed it was possible at all. Credit where credit was due - I would have given up on someone like
Aiden if he wasn't my nephew, but Jill clearly saw something that I couldn't.

She was watching him with a proud smile on her face.
"Good work," I muttered, as I watched Aiden mime a conversation with an empty table. "I

have to say, I'm impressed."

She glowed. "Thank you."
Head held high, with a smile and a flush of pride on her cheeks - she looked so happy, and

this was exactly what I wanted for her. She deserved to be proud. She deserved to be praised. She
deserved someone who could really appreciate her for everything and everyone that she was, and...

What the hell makes you think you're the first person in her life who can do that?
It was silly. It was presumptuous. I knew all that, but for some reason I couldn't shake the

feeling that she craved validation. And coming from me, the notorious perfectionist, it had to be worth
more than the average person - right?

I wasn't being conceited, I was just being honest.
"I think he's doing really well," she said, suddenly. I shook myself out of my thoughts.
"Remarkably well," I agreed. "Thanks for this, Jill. You're very selfless."
"Don't believe it," she said. "It benefits me as much as it does you."
"Well, that's as may be," I said. "But when you boil it down, isn't everything selfish?"
"I don't know," she said. "I think some people do things out of a pure sense of altruism."
"Isn't altruism just another word for self-gratification?" I watched Aiden zoom around the

tables and chairs, having a hard time believing this was the same kid I'd hired a few weeks ago.

She glanced at the floor, her arms folded across her chest. "I guess," she said. "I don't know. I

don't really think about it that way. Human nature is what it is, you know? It doesn't really matter how
you look at it, as long as it helps you understand it."

This immediately struck me as some Kumbaya bullshit, but I bit my tongue.
"Hmm," I said. "I suppose you're right."
She looked at me like she knew exactly what I was thinking. And that, really, was the most

unnerving thing that had happened to me in months.

"Can I ask you something about him?" she asked, softly. He was too absorbed to hear, but I

still kept my voice low.

"Shoot."
"You started to say something." She looked up at me. "When we talked about him - you said

he couldn't just work anywhere."

I nodded, slowly. This was one of those things that stayed inside the family, but Jill...she was

a special case. She deserved to know why he was here.

"He fell in with a bad crowd," I said. "Got into trouble with the law. Only did thirty days, out

for good behavior. But it's still on his record. It makes things hard, out in the workforce."

Jill nodded, slowly, her mouth curved into a slight O. "That makes sense."
"If you ask me, he didn't even..." My frustration was starting to seep through, raising the

volume of my voice. I tempered it. "My point is, he didn't hurt anyone. He didn't cause any harm. I
won't pretend like he didn't know what he was doing, but it was pot. For Christ's sake. Enough for a
trafficking charge, but if he didn't put it in his bag, somebody else would've smuggled it. What fucking
difference does it make? Is it worth ruining a kid's life over?"

I still got angry when I thought about it. Angry at Aiden, angry at his supposed friends who

dragged him into it - and angry at the system that felt the need to make an example of a stupid,
confused kid who just wanted to seem like a badass.

"That's awful," Jill murmured, still watching him. "Good job, Aiden!" she called out,

switching on a smile. "Let's run through it one more time."

***

I made the decision while she was running through the drill with him one more time, just

before lunch service. Once the afternoon lull settled in, I called her into my office.

"Yes, Chef?" She was wiping her hands on her apron, standing in my doorway.
"Please," I said, gesturing at the chair. "Sit down." I made sure to keep smiling, lest she think

this was something bad. Not that she seemed nervous to be talking to me. Not anymore.

"I'm sure you've noticed that I never got around to filling the sous chef position," I said. Her

mouth twitched, hesitantly, not quite sure if she should be smiling yet. "I know you're more than
qualified. It's just a question of whether you're interest, really. It means longer hours, more
responsibility. But you're halfway there as it is. Your work with Aiden - and just in general, really,
I'd be lucky to have you."

Her face broke into a grin.
"Of course," she enthused, jumping to her feet to shake my hand. "Thank you, Chef. Thank

you."

She bounced out of the room, and I could hear her whistling in the kitchen for a while

afterwards.

I'd done well with her.
No. You didn't. She did well with herself. You've got absolutely nothing to do with it.

***

We ran into each other at the wine shop again, which I supposed was inevitable. I expected

her to tense up when she saw me, hugging her bottles of Moscato protectively, but she just smiled. It
was her day off, and she was dressed in dark jeans and a deep purple sweater that clung to the shape
of her upper body. The chef's coats that I typically saw her in left nearly everything to the imagination.
But this - this was different. As she reached up to a high shelf, the sweater hitched upwards, revealing
just a hint of the creamy skin of her lower back before she hopped back down.

"Hi, Chef," she said, tilting her head in the direction of the bottles I had tucked under my arm.

"Business, or personal?"

"Personal," I said. "I'd buy this place out of business if I needed to supply the restaurant."
She nodded. "Of course. How stupid of me. Must be all that Moscato rotting my brain."
Taking my cue from her, I smiled. "You know you have a problem. Admitting it is the first

step."

"A delicious problem," she agreed, looking down at the bottles she was holding. "Have you

ever actually tried it, by the way? Or is it just beneath you?"

"Once," I said. "That was enough."
"Chef," she said, making a tsking noise. "You, of all people, should know better. Tasting just

one label is never enough. Ask your brother, he'll agree with me."

"Of course he will," I replied. "Any excuse to take someone else's side against me."
"One of these days," she said, turning to the cashier. "One of these days, you're going to taste

this, and you're going to love it. I promise you."

"I'm a bit frightened," I said. "I don't know if I want to be assimilated."
"It doesn't matter," she said. "See you tomorrow, Chef."
I couldn't wipe the smile off my face as I paid for my wine. Things were going so well

between us.

Naturally, that was the surest sign that everything was about to go horribly, spectacularly

wrong.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Mise en Place

A mise en place isn't just for photographing cookbooks. Measuring out your ingredients

and laying them out beforehand allows you to perfect your timing. And timing, my friends, is one
of the most crucial components that separates the gourmet from the merely adequate.

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Jill

***

Holly, one of the servers, was poking her head in the kitchen.
"Excuse me, Chef Jillian?"
I came forward, wiping my hands on a towel. "What's up?"
She cleared her throat, lowering her voice a little bit. Her eyes flicked towards Chef Dylan at

his station, and then back to me.

"There's a customer out there," she said. "Wants to meet him."
I chewed on my lower lip. "What kind of vibe are you getting? Does she want to meet the guy

who cooked her amazing food, or does she want an autograph session?"

"Neither," Holly muttered, glancing at Chef again.
"What? Is it bad?" My throat was starting to tighten. The last thing I wanted to witness tonight

- or ever - was a legendary fight between Chef Dylan and an irate customer.

"No," said Holly, quickly. "It's...it's good, I think, but...do you want to come talk to her?"
I smiled reassuringly. Holly was an experienced server, but she'd never worked for a

bonafide celebrity before. Then again, neither had I - but I felt like maybe I could fake it a little better.

"How's my hair?" I asked her.
She gave me a thumbs-up, and then led me out into the dining room, pointing to the table.
"There," she said.
The woman's eyes were practically glued to the kitchen door. Her face fell a little bit when

she saw me, but I kept my smile glued on as I walked towards her.

"Hello," I said. "I hope you're having a nice evening. I understand that you wanted to speak to

someone from the kitchen?"

"Chef Dylan," she said, a little louder than was strictly necessary. Someone from the next

table turned their head, just a little. "I want to meet Chef Dylan. It's why I came here."

"Well, I hope the meal was a nice bonus surprise," I said, with a joviality I didn't feel. "Chef

Dylan is very busy, but he usually comes out to the dining room to mingle whenever he has a chance."

She smiled humorlessly. "I'm only in town for tonight. I know he's here. I'm sure he can spare

five minutes, if you just ask him."

There was something in her eyes that made me very uneasy. I felt an absurd instinct to protect

Chef, somehow, but I knew I couldn't. The last thing we needed was a story circulating about how
Chef was too rude and stuck-up to meet with a fan in his restaurant.

"All right," I said, smile still pasted on firmly. "I'll see what I can do."
I felt ridiculously nervous, walking up to Chef. He was absorbed in his work and didn't seem

to notice me, so I stood behind him silently for a moment, trying to formulate what I was going to say.

"Well? You going to stand there all night?"
I almost jumped out of my skin. He hadn't turned around, but I should have guessed that he

knew I was there.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I know you're busy, but there's someone out there who wants to meet you."
"All right," he said. Without hesitation, he turned around and tossed away the kitchen rag that

was slung over his shoulder. "Keep an eye on all this? I'll just be a minute."

I nodded, picking up a spoon. Of course, this was no big deal to him. I felt stupid for

worrying, but still, the unpleasant feeling in my chest didn't go away. Once I was sure that the food
could go unwatched for a moment, I went over to the door, peeking through the tiny round window.

Chef had turned up the charm. Even from here, I was sure I could see the blush that was

blooming on the woman's cheeks, every time he smiled at her.

Ridiculous. Pathetic. She thinks she has a crush on him, because she saw him on TV once

or twice? Grow up.

An acrid smell was pricking at my nostrils. Had something bubbled over into the bottom of the

oven? What was that? I didn't hear anyone letting out a colorful volley of curses, so...

Shit, shit, shit.
I had completely forgotten about the food.
"Fucking cockbite!" I shouted, running back to the stove so fast I almost crashed into Liam,

carrying a bowl of pesto.

"What did you say?" somebody asked, but I was frantically trying to salvage the burning sauce

from the stove. Smoke was gathering in a thick cloud above me, and I waved my hand uselessly
against it.

"Somebody, get the smoke detector, please! Before it goes off!" I shouted, to no one in

particular. The line cooks stared at me, frozen. After a moment, Liam rolled his eyes, sighed hugely,
and lumbered off to take care of it.

"What the hell is going on in here?

I could hear Chef Dylan, but my eyes were watering and I couldn't quite see him. Still

coughing, I stepped out of the smoke and swiped my face across my sleeve.

"I'm so sorry," I started, babbling, because what else could I possibly do? "I'm sorry, Chef, I

don't know what happened, I just turned my head for a second-"

Obviously a lie. It might have felt like a second, but it must have been much longer. But what

else could I say?

Chef held up his hand to silence me. He was staring at the ruined mess on the stove, like he

didn't quite believe what he was seeing.

"I'm sorry," I heard myself saying again. Everyone was staring at me, and I could feel the

telepathic messages: shut up shut up shut up SHUT UP SHUT UP! But I ignored it. "I'll make it
again, just - just let me make it again. It'll only take a minute."

When I'd finally managed to stop babbling, silence reigned. For one, two, three seconds.
The three longest seconds of my life.
Finally, he turned to look at me. His eyes were veiled fury. I braced myself.
"Go home," he said.
My heart plummeted.
"Are you..." I managed to whisper.
"We'll talk about it tomorrow," he said, turning away from me. The conversation was clearly

over, and at least he wasn't firing me right now.

Some consolation.

***

Walking into the kitchen, I heard soft laughter coming from somewhere behind the heat shelf.

My stomach clenched like a fist.

A woman was leaning up against the prep table. No. That's not allowed. I actually had to bite

my tongue to stop myself from shouting at her to get off. Because Chef Dylan was standing right there,
smiling. Clearly, she was allowed.

And she was a tall, elegant blonde with perfectly sleek hair - the kind I could never maintain

in the kitchen, not without some kind of magical spell. Then again, she wasn't working. That was
obvious, from the way she was dressed.

What is she doing here?
I slipped into my prep corner. Not once, not even during my "audition" on my very first day

here, had I felt so unwelcome in this kitchen. They didn't even seem to notice that I'd walked in,
continuing to talk in hushed voices like they were sharing some kind of secret. I stole glances at her
while I gathered my supplies. Perfect pantyhose, sleek black skirt with a slit just long enough to show
some leg, and a crisp, lavender blouse.

All right, okay, deep breaths. I was being completely ridiculous. Acting like I'd walked in on

Chef Dylan fucking the woman, not just talking to her. Not that either one was any of my business. But
both seemed equally out of character. That was why the hairs on the back of my neck were standing
on end; this was some version of Chef Dylan I'd never seen, some warm, secret part of him that I'd
never been given access to. Halfway through chopping some vegetables, I realized why it was
bothering me so much.

And in that moment of utter, gut-wrenching humiliation, Chef Dylan finally decided to notice

that I was there.

"Jill," he said, suddenly, his voice lighter and more jovial than I'd ever heard it directed

towards me. "I didn't even hear you come in. Lost track of time."

"Hello, Chef," I said evenly, turning around and wiping my hands on my apron. I nodded in the

woman's direction. She had a smile frozen on her face.

"This is my friend Barbara," Chef Dylan said, laying his hand on her shoulder gently. She

advanced a step forward, sticking out her hand for me to shake. It was very cold.

"It's very nice to meet you," I said. "Sorry I didn't say anything earlier. I didn't want to

interrupt."

"Oh, don't worry about it. We were just chatting." Barbara had a pleasant, musical voice that

lilted up and down. Somewhere halfway between a newscaster and a professional singer.

"I should go," she added. "Don't want to keep you from your work any longer." Here, she

smiled at Chef Dylan.

"I didn't think anything could keep him from work," I heard myself quip, before turning back to

my prep area with a rapidly reddening face.

Barbara laughed. "See you soon, Max."
Max? Max?
I kept on chopping violently, feeling horrible and hating myself for feeling horrible. It was

ridiculous that I'd assumed Chef Dylan was incapable of being fun and casual with someone he cared
about. We'd been getting along so well in a professional venue, I had tricked myself into thinking that
he felt comfortable with me as a person. That the Chef Dylan I knew at work was the warmest,
friendliest Chef Dylan in existence. And seeing him act like an actual human being with someone -
someone who wasn't me - had been a shock to my system.

"Sorry about that," Chef Dylan said, over the clattering of some utensils. "Don't usually let

anyone wander around in my kitchen, as you know. But Barbara's..." He paused here for a moment,
seeming to consider his words carefully. "...I've known Barbara for a long time," he said, finally.

I swallowed. The vegetables were ready. I considered saying nothing, but finally decided that

would be a very strange reaction.

"It's just funny," I said, lightly. "Seeing you act like that with somebody."
"Well," he said, smiling. "I have a reputation to uphold with my staff. Friends are a different

matter."

I wondered if he'd forgotten about yesterday. It hardly seemed possible, but he was in such a

good mood, I almost considered it. I supposed I had Barbara to thank for that.

"Here," he said, gesturing towards a cutting board with some vegetables laid out near it. "Why

don't you get those chopped for the special, and when you're done, come meet me in my office. We
need to have a little chat."

No such luck.

***

I walked into Chef Dylan's office like I was walking into my own funeral. As usual, he didn't

even bother acknowledging me until I sat down.

"Jill," he said, in a calm, measured voice - this was clearly a rehearsed speech. "I understand

this is a high-pressure environment with a lot of stressors. But you've got enough kitchen experience
that I shouldn't have to worry about you burning a sauce, when I ask you to keep an eye on it. Do you
agree?"

There was nothing I could say to that. I hated the condescension in his tone, and the cool,

collected level of his voice. I wished he would just haul back and scream at me, like he would

anyone else. I didn't know what this meant, and it was horrible.

Finally, I just nodded.
"Don't take it personally," he said. "Just take it seriously."
Asshole.
I sat there fuming for a few moments, trying to think of something to say. Anything.
"Why don't you just talk to me like you talk to everyone else?" I asked, finally.
He looked up at me again, mildly confused. "What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean," I said, feeling the bitterness rise in my throat. "Why don't you just

yell and curse at me?"

Chef cleared his throat. "Is that what you want?"
"I don't know," I said, feeling tears threatening to gather. I had to keep it together. I should just

stand up and walk out now, but for some reason, I didn't. "I just don't want to be treated like a china
doll."

"That wasn't my intention," said Chef, carefully. "I apologize if that's how it came across."
He was still doing it. He was holding something back, and I had the insane urge to just scream

and throw things at him until I provoked an actual reaction. I had a feeling it wouldn't take much. He
was already on the verge of cracking.

"I thought you didn't like it when I was a bully," said Chef. Already, the hairline fractures

were starting - I could hear it in the raised tone of his voice. "No, before you point it out, those
weren't your exact words - but I can tell what you're thinking."

"I don't want special treatment," I said. "That's all. If you're going to bully everyone, then

bully me too." I paused. "Your words, not mine."

"I'm aware." His mouth was twisting into a bitter smile. "But you don't disagree, do you?"
Walk away. Just walk away.
"You know," I said, "you came on TV the other night. I actually watched it, unlike most of the

time. I saw you talking to someone like you actually cared, and I thought about it, and I realized
something. You only treat people that way because you demand the best of them. You want to shape
them into something better. It's a challenge. Right?"

He swallowed, visibly, and nodded. "That's how I've always thought of it," he said.
"But then I realized something else," I said. "It doesn't matter. I don't think you've figured that

out yet, Chef, to be perfectly honest. It doesn't matter, because the ends don't justify the means when
you're just being a bully."

A heavy silence fell over the room. Chef Dylan looked at me, and I expected to see something

in his face that would make me wince, but I didn't. He looked, in fact, like he didn't know what to say.

Finally, I got up and walked away, hating myself and every decision I'd ever made in my life.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Radicchio

One of the more complex lettuces you'll find in an ordinary kitchen, radicchio is a welcome

accent to any salad. At times, it is pleasant and mild; other times, it is bitter. But it always
complements its surroundings.

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Max

***

Under normal circumstances, I would have rather swallowed a box of tacks than ask Beckett

for advice about Jill. But a few beers in, as we lounged in my office, it started to seem like a very
good idea. I recounted the sauce-burning incident, as well as her strange behavior around Barbara -
not to mention her outburst in my office.

"Do I really have to spell it out for you?" Beckett stared at me in disbelief. "That's what

jealousy looks like."

I snorted. "You and your conspiracy theories."
"I don't think you know what the word 'conspiracy' even means."
"Well, I know you're wrong. Why the hell would Jill be jealous of my friend? It's not like

she..."

Slowly, I was beginning to second-guess myself. I set my beer down, carefully.
"Eh?" Beckett prodded, looking very pleased with himself. I ignored him, because now he

was just being annoying on purpose - but he did have a point. Jill was behaving the same way my
dates always did. Not that most of them ever met Barbara. But when they did...

Surely she wasn't jealous jealous. Not like that. But there was something about Barbara that

just made other women's hackles go up. I wasn't sure why, exactly. Certainly she was beautiful.
Certainly if I'd ever had a chance, if the stars had aligned, I would've jumped at the chance to put a
ring on her finger. But it wasn't meant to be, so we were friends.

Jill's just used to having all of your attention in the kitchen. Barbara threw off the balance.

That's all.

The alternative was too terrifying to contemplate.
"Do you think she'll be at work tomorrow?" Beckett asked.
I shrugged. Really, I had no idea. She didn't seem like the kind of person to just up and quit a

job without saying anything, even if she was having some kind of nervous breakdown.

"You're going to have to figure out how to deal with her, if she does," he pointed out. "There's

a power imbalance between you two, and it's not like you can just fix it. You're always going to be
her boss, and she's always going to be intimidated by you."

"I know that," I said. "But that's no different than anyone else who's worked for me, is it?"
"Except it is." Beckett pointed at me with the neck of his beer. "It is different, isn't it? Why? I

asked you a while ago, but you never came up with an answer."

I did know. But I didn't want to.
"It's just a strange dynamic between us," I said. "It always has been. From the first moment I

saw her, I wanted to...I don't know...I wanted to do something for her. I felt like she deserved
something better, and that I could give it to her."

Now that I'd stated it out loud, the truth was only becoming clearer. I dreaded what Beckett

was going to say next.

"So, you finally got the chance," he said. "But it wasn't quite what you expected."
"She's not helpless," I said. "She doesn't really need me. Which is fine."
"Is it?" Beckett cut in.
"It's fine," I insisted. "I can't stand people who refuse to help themselves. I appreciate that

she's much more self-driven and independent than I expected. She worked wonders with Aiden. I like
all that about her."

"But she wasn't how you expected her to be," he said. "And maybe - you weren't what she

expected, either."

I considered this for a moment. It was possible. When I dealt with her, I was over-

compensating. The thing was, I didn't know how to be both diplomatic and genuine. Whenever I tried
to be nice about something, I came across like a patronizing asshole. There was simply no way
around it.

No wonder she hated it. But I just couldn't treat her in the typical way. Something about being

in her presence just took all the wind out of my sails, and I found myself without the energy or the
inclination to sling arrows.

"I think you're right," I said. "She expected something, and it wasn't what she wanted, but at

least it was the devil she knew."

"There you go." Beckett tilted his beer in my direction again, this time as a sort of salute. "So

you've got this power imbalance, and neither one of you knows how to deal with each other - you feel
like you can't speak freely to her, and she knows she can't speak freely to you. So what can you do
about it?"

I considered this for a long while.
"I'm going to give her a chance to take a shot," I said. "That's the only solution, isn't it?"

Beckett just looked at me. "I'm afraid to ask what you mean."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Concasse

Distinct from other types of chopping or mincing, a concasse is roughly chopped in large

pieces. And sometimes, roughness is exactly what's called for.

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Jill

***

I almost didn't show up to work the next day.
Honestly, I expected to get a call from Lydia, or a pink slip delivered to my door. But I didn't

hear anything, so I assumed I still had a job, and my work ethic wouldn't let me blow it off. As badly
as I wanted to, I just couldn't.

It had been completely out of line, the way I'd talked to Chef Dylan. On paper, at least. But I

didn't really feel sorry. I knew it wouldn't really make a difference, but I felt like someone should
have said it a long time ago.

He called me into his office as soon as I got there. That was no surprise. But this time, he

spent even longer staring at his desk, gathering his words, than usual.

"I'm sorry about yesterday," I said, after I couldn't stand the silence anymore. "I was out of

line and I apologize."

Chef Dylan considered this for a while. "Jill, do you think we're going to be able to make this

work?" he asked, finally.

Wait - was he going to fire me after all? My heart plummeted into my stomach.
"I - I think so, Chef," I said. "I'm very adaptable."

He smiled, but he still wasn't looking at me. "I appreciate that," he said. "But are you only

saying that because you're desperate to keep this job? Or do you really, honestly think that we can
work well together?"

I bit my lip. "I don't really understand the point of that question, Chef."
He sighed. "I don't know. I like you, Jill. I want to keep you around here. I want to watch you

succeed, and I want to be a part of it. But I get this sense that you don't like me, and you never will.
That's not usually a problem for me, but for some reason..." Finally, finally, he looked up at me.
There was a shadow under his eyes that told me he'd missed a lot of sleep. I hoped I wasn't the cause.
Who was I kidding - I knew I was the cause, and deep down inside, I liked it.

"...for some reason," he continued, at last, "this is different."
What the hell could I possibly say to that?
"Chef, I appreciate your concern, and I know I haven't quite been myself lately. You've seen

my resume. You know I've been out of work for a while, and I think I just need to get back into the
swing of things. I know that's a poor excuse, but it's true. I'm not screwing up because I dislike you."

I'm screwing up because I like you. Way, way too much. Almost as much as I hate you.
"Objectively, I'm a bastard," he said. "But some people appreciate it more than others. I think

you'll always resent me, Jill. Am I wrong?"

I caught myself chewing on my lip again. "Since you're asking," I said, "it's not just the way

you treat people. That's the tip of the iceberg."

"Oh, is it?" he said, smiling humorlessly.
Ugh, why had I opened this can of worms again? What a terrible idea.
"I just appreciate people who are a little more humble," I said, fully aware of how horrifically

passive-aggressive I sounded. But it was the only way to soften what I wanted to say. "That's...that's
it. Really. I know that's not who you are, and it's fine."

He let out a derisive snort of laughter. "Humility's a fucking joke. You really think those

people don't give themselves every bit of credit they possibly can? You think they don't pat
themselves on the back when no one's looking? They know how to say what sounds good. I never had
that talent. Never cared to develop it. Everybody swoons when somebody says they saw further on
the shoulders of giants, but nobody's willing to admit they are a giant."

You're so full of shit.
I bit my tongue, and measured my words.
"Not everyone is like you," I said, as calmly as I could manage. "Some people happily share

credit for their success."

"I've never tried to take credit for something I didn't deserve." Chef's eyes flashed. I'd finally

pushed him too far; I could feel it in the air, crackling like a live wire. "I've always given back to
everyone who helped me, tenfold. I've always acknowledged it. But false humility? If that's what's
required to be a decent person, then I guess I never will be."

I didn't know what to say to that.
There was a strange noise coming from...somewhere beneath us, I thought. In the heavy

silence, it seemed to grow louder and louder, almost like a train was driving through our basement.
No, not a rumbling like a train - but a rushing sound -

A panicked yell echoed in the stairwell. Moments later, I heard footsteps thundering upwards,

and then Aiden came bursting into the office, his eyes wider than I'd ever seen - and that was saying
something, for him.

He panted incoherently for a moment, making little sounds that seemed like they wanted to be

words. Finally, Dylan snapped.

"What the fuck is it?"
I could tell by the way Aiden stepped back, cowed even in the midst of his panic, that he'd

never seen this side of good old Uncle Max before.

"The - the - the water," Aiden managed, finally. "Something's broken. It's all over."
Chef was halfway down the stairs before Aiden even finished speaking, pushing him aside to

get through the door and down into the basement. I followed on his heels, and the rushing noise grew
louder and louder. Before I knew it, I was standing in a half-inch of water, and rising. Instinctively, I
started splashing across the floor to look for the main water shutoff, but Chef was already cranking
the antique-looking red handle. I started looking around the room, trying to determine the source of the
leak, but I didn't see any water rushing directly from the pipes that ran through the room. It almost
seemed like it was coming through the walls, or the ceiling, or...

Chef hurried past me, sloshing the water high enough to splash into the tops of my shoes. I

winced at the cold sensation of it spreading on my socks, and cautiously followed him upstairs. He
was assuming the leak must be coming from the kitchen, or the bathroom, since it seemed to be above
us - but even so, it should have abated when he shut off our supply, and I could hear it rushing louder
than ever.

"What's going on?" Aiden didn't seem any less panicked than before, and the rest of the staff

was all gathered in the dining room, staring.

"Don't know," I said. "But I don't think it's coming from in here."
One of the neighbors? Or...
Maybe not. Maybe it was even bigger than that.
I ran outside, and my ears were immediately filled with an even louder rushing sound - I

realized it hadn't been coming from the basement after all, but from next to it. Hurrying around the
corner, I solved the mystery in an instant.

A geyser was leaping out of the street, in a surreal display that had caused pedestrians and

even drivers to slow down, stop and stare.

The water main.
When I turned around, the restaurant staff was all hovering behind me, Chef Dylan at their

head. He looked momentarily speechless. But only momentarily.

"Aiden," he said. "Get the rest of the servers to help you get everything out of the basement

that's not nailed down. Put it in the hallway, or the dining room, or wherever you have to. It doesn't
matter. Just get it somewhere dry and safe." He paused, waiting for Aiden to react. "Go!"

After a moment's hesitation, Aiden leapt into action.
"Beckett," Chef went on. "Call all the reservations we have on the books tonight. Everyone

who left a number. Tell them we have to close for the night, and suggest an alternative somewhere
else - the North End, maybe. There's no telling how much of this neighborhood's going to be knocked
out by this."

He glanced at me, and I braced myself for an order, but none came. He just turned and walked

back into the restaurant, so I did, too.

Chef Dylan stepped wordlessly into his office, taking out a sheet of paper and starting to write

on it. I stayed in the hallway, unsure of what was happening, or what he expected of me. Was he
making a sign for the door?

Abruptly, he turned to me. "Call the city," he said. "Find out everything you can. When you're

done, come meet me here."

He thrust the paper into my hand. There was an address scrawled on it. When I looked back

up, Chef was already halfway to the front door.

I was on the verge of chasing after him, when I realized that I had nothing to say.

***

While I was on hold with the city, one of the restaurant's cordless phones tucked between my

ear and shoulder, my curiosity got the better of me. I unfolded the piece of paper Chef had given me,
and typed the address into my phone.

RON'S GYM, said the Google Maps entry.
CLOSED, the Yelp entry noted.
Hmm. It would have almost sounded ominous, like an empty business front that the mob brings

people to "take care" of them. But Yelp had been wrong before.

I left the restaurant as soon as I could, curiosity eating away at me. It was halfway to the train

station, so I took my bag with me and said my goodbyes to the staff who hadn't wandered home yet.

Waiting at a crosswalk, I tried to picture the kind of gym where Chef Dylan would work out.

High ceilings, clanging weights, a lingering smell of body odor dating back to the mid-60s - I'd walk
in the door, and I'd almost certainly be the only woman there. Maybe the only woman who'd ever
been in there. There might be a few wilting plants by the window, but other than that, it would be
strictly business. No TVs, no fancy elliptical machines, no yoga mats.

Hurrying down the sidewalk with the crowd, I almost walked right past it. Doubling back, I

wanted to pat myself on the back. It looked exactly how I'd imagined. And, opening the door, yes -
there was that smell.

It wasn't as strong as I would have guessed, though.
The place felt even colder than it was outside. I drew my coat around me tightly, walking over

towards the boxing ring in the corner of the massive room. Under normal circumstances, I would have
felt self-conscious with the many sets of eyes following me curiously. I was right; I could almost hear
them wondering what the hell is SHE doing here?

But at the moment, all I could see was Chef.
It was just a friendly sparring match. That much was clear. Their hands were taped up, but

they wore no helmets, the sweat dripping freely from their hair as they circled each other. Just like in
the kitchen, Chef Dylan was in constant motion. His heels never seemed to touch the ground.
Captivated, I watched him move around the ring with a fluidity that seemed to contradict the tautness
of his body. Every muscle was poised for action, waiting, waiting, then SNAP! The action. And then
more waiting. His arm would lash out and return so quickly, I felt like I could blink and miss it.

His muscles rippled under his skin, under the sheen of sweat, and I felt something clench deep

inside me. He was pure raw power. Even under restraint, like he was now, like he was nearly
always, I could see it.

Feral.
His opponent's fist connected lightly with his ribs, and he snarled, actually baring his teeth as

he dodged just a split-second too late. The other man was already curling up before Chef had fully
regrouped, which only took a moment - protecting himself with his forearms in preparation to block
the counter-attack. It came with a fury, still connecting only with the lightest of touches, but with such
speed and precision that it was very clear who would win a real fight. I tried to imagine being Chef
Dylan's opponent.

A shiver ran through me, from head to toe. It wasn't fear, but it still left the hairs on the back of

my neck standing at attention.

It felt like I'd been standing there, watching him, for hours. But it must have only been a minute

or two. His eyes briefly flicked in my direction, breaking his single-minded concentration for just
long enough to notice me.

He raised his hand to his opponent, in a wordless gesture: stop.
The other man nodded, stepping back and out of the ring. Chef Dylan came towards me until

he reached the edge of the ring, leaning on the ropes. He gestured with his head - come here. Little
beads of sweat flew from the ends of his hair. Gross, I tried to convince myself. But it wasn't. It
really, really wasn't.

My legs felt like jelly as I walked towards him. There was still a hot, tight little knot of anger

in the pit of my stomach, but I couldn't quite access it. It was all I could do, really, to stay upright and
look him in the eyes. For the love of God, don't show your weakness. Don't let him see what kind of
effect he's having on you. It'll ruin everything.

He'd caught his breath by now, but he just pointed wordlessly off to the side of the room.

Following with my eyes, I saw a little side-room packed with surplus equipment and a broken, dirty
mirror.

"You can change in there," he said. "Then we'll go a few rounds."
The impulse to laugh was strong, but instead, I just choked a little. "Excuse me?"
"You heard what I said." He stepped back, sitting down on a stool in the corner and lifting a

water bottle to squirt some into his mouth; he swallowed, then swiped the excess off of his face,
ignoring the trickle that ran down the tightly-sculpted muscles of his chest.

But I didn't.
"You're kidding," I said. "I mean, it's obvious that you're kidding, but I don't know what your

point is."

"Do I look like I'm kidding?" He didn't. He looked like I'm fucking serious personified.
I lifted my lower jaw with an effort. "I've never..."
He snorted. "I'm not going to hit back," he said. "Obviously."
Obviously. My lips were suddenly very dry. I licked them, slowly. "So what's...what's the

point, exactly?"

"Does it matter?" He grinned, fiercely. "Employer-employee bonding. Get your frustrations

out. A chance to punch your fucking asshole boss without consequences, are you really going to look
that gift horse in the mouth?"

"I hate that saying," I said, forcing my wandering eyes back to his face. "If they had looked the

horse in the mouth, they would've known better than to let it into the gate, wouldn't they?"

"So much the pity for them," said Chef. "Go change. I know you've got your gym clothes in that

bag. You always go after work."

He was right, of course. Those sharp eyes didn't miss much. Under this lighting, they were the

most startling shade of slate blue.

"This is ridiculous," I said. Was it? I did want to hit him. Of course. Me and a thousand other

people. But why was I getting the chance to actually do it?

I remembered what Beckett had told me about his brother. People always think he's trying to

trick them. They ascribe these evil genius motivations to him. But it's really very simple. You've
got to take what he says at face value. When he tells you something, believe him.

So what had he said?
A chance to punch your fucking asshole boss without consequences.

Was this a way for him to work out his guilt? Did he think it was going to make me feel

better? In his mind, would this somehow solve the problem that we couldn't work together?

He closed his eyes, tilting his head back, and dumped the rest of the water bottle onto his hair.

It dripped down his face and body, a few thin streams tracing a pathway down his stomach to the
waistband of his shorts. As he blindly grabbed a towel and scrubbed himself dry, I clenched my fists
at my sides.

"Okay," I said, finally. He didn't even react. He'd known I would do it. Of course he'd known.

"Fine. But you better not hold a grudge against me if I accidentally hurt you."

To his credit, he didn't laugh. Didn't even crack a smile. He opened one eye, then the other,

fixing me with a sincere, artless gaze. "I won't," he said.

My heart was thudding against my ribs as I changed, hastily. The dusty bare bulb hanging from

the ceiling didn't give off much light, but it was enough to notice just how tightly my workout pants
hugged my hips. It wasn't something I'd given much thought to, before. They were purely pragmatic,
something I put on my body that would wick away the sweat and wouldn't flop around or get caught
on something. But holy shit were they tight.

And then there was the issue of my shirt. Specifically, that I didn't have one.
When I'd first started working out at my gym, I'd self-consciously worn a baggy workout shirt

for a few weeks. Then, I finally realized I was the only woman there who actually wore something on
top of her sports bra. Bare midriffs were in, and I looked like a refugee in someone's cast-off clothes.
After that, I never brought a shirt again.

Today, I wished I had anything else to wear. Even something stupid and embarrassing, if it

would just cover some skin. But I had no choice. I'd already said I would do it.

I couldn't back down, for the same reason I couldn't say no in the first place. If Chef Dylan

challenged me to something, I accepted. It was the only way to deal with him. I had to meet him, toe to
toe, eye to eye, whether it was in a kitchen or in a boxing ring. Otherwise, I'd never have his respect.

After a few deep breaths, I walked back out into the gym with my head held high.
If anyone but Chef looked at me, I didn't notice. I kept my eyes glued on his face, and he

matched my gaze without wandering down my body, which was both a relief and a disappointment.
He was holding a roll of tape in his hand, and there were two pairs of boxing gloves slung over the
ropes nearby. I climbed up and bounced a little on the floor, getting a feel for it beneath my feet.

"Here," said Chef, gesturing me over to his corner. "I'll wrap you. This fucker's all thumbs."

He jerked his head in the direction of the kid by the spit-bucket, who shrugged, mumbling:

"Whatever, man."
I stopped a few steps away from Chef, holding my hand out flat in front of me. Like a kid

waiting to get smacked with a ruler, I thought, smiling humorlessly. He didn't seem to notice as he
closed most of the distance between us, looking down at my hands instead of my eyes.

Now that I was up close, I could see him in all his glory, shining under the unforgiving

fluorescent lights. I must have looked like hell, but he could have been on the cover of Sports
Illustrated. A spicy, unmistakably masculine scent filled my nostrils.

When his hand closed around my wrist, I almost let out a gasp. I managed to make it a long,

shallow breath instead. A tingling heat, growing out from where we touched, traveled its way up my
arm.

He wrapped the tape around my hand with steady precision, while I tried to stay still, tried to

pretend I couldn't hear and feel his breath and that I wasn't right now, at this very moment, imagining
the salty taste of his skin on my tongue.

The surreality of standing mere inches from someone, while I shamelessly imagined such

things, wasn't lost on me. My head was buzzing. I felt like I couldn't hear myself think, but really, my
thoughts were even louder than the white noise. And they were practically sub-verbal, in the way that
only X-rated thoughts can be.

lick suck bite taste moan kiss tongue writhe grab stroke slide
fuck
Fuck. I couldn't afford this kind of distraction. With my free hand, I dug my nails deep into my

palm, until the sting was enough to shake me out of my fantasy world.

Right on cue, Chef finished with my right hand and reached for my left. He never turned it

over, so he couldn't see the marks in the soft flesh from my nails.

When he was done wrapping, he laced me into a pair of gloves.
Somebody rang a bell. It wasn't me, and it wasn't him. I didn't have eyes for anyone else in the

room. As far as I was concerned, we might as well be alone. A thousand miles from civilization.

The excuse that had been on the tip of my tongue - I've never sparred anyone before - wasn't

quite true. As a kid, I'd become briefly infatuated with karate and advanced quite a few ranks before I
lost interest. But I hadn't sparred in years, and I felt like a clumsy giraffe stumbling around the ring. I
tried to lunge in his direction, but it was laughable. He might as well have been moving at Mach 5.

"I'll admit," said Dylan, dodging me expertly, "when I first saw that pipe, I thought maybe

you'd pulled a Carrie White. Destroying plumbing with the raw, unadulterated power of your rage.
I've pushed a few buttons in my day, but that would have been my crowning glory for sure."

"You get off on it," I managed, between short breaths. I wasn't quite panting, not yet, but

getting there. "Getting an emotional reaction out of people, it's just a game to you, isn't it?"

His forehead crinkled a little, as he bounced around me, maddeningly just out of reach. "Not a

game," he said, his eyes darting from my hands to my feet, trying to gauge my next move. "Entertaining
sometimes, yes, but it's not a game. You make me sound like a psychopath."

I shook my head, gathering my breath to talk. "I don't know any psychopaths who yell as much

as you do."

Chef's eyebrows shot up. "How many do you know?"
I had to focus. He was trying to distract me, keeping a chatter going so I wouldn't be able to

pin him down. All I had to do was focus. Shut out the sound of his voice, the smell and the heat of
him, the thoughts of how badly I wanted him to throw me down on the floor and pin my arms in place
until he'd kissed the breath out of me -

STOP IT, JILLIAN.
With an effort, I reached deep down inside myself and felt that anger that had grown cool

when I first watched him fight. I tried to remember his biting words, his mocking laughter.

The fire was stoked - the right one, this time.
I might be a clumsy oaf compared to him in the ring, but I did have a few advantages. He was

tired already, and his body - while magnificent - STOP IT, JILLIAN - was much bulkier than mine.
Naturally. The man ran marathons in his sleep and probably benched four hundred. But if I could stop
tripping over my own feet, I could be fast. I could be faster than he was. I was lighter. It was pure
physics.

I took a deep breath, centering myself.
Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, motherfucker.
The fatigue was starting to affect his movements, noticeably. He was at an almost pitiful

disadvantage, on paper - especially with the self-imposed handicap of not hitting back - but like a

bullfighter, I was still cautious. Mindful of his raw power. He'd still have it, even at the brink of
exhaustion.

I have no idea what I'm doing.
Hell. If I couldn't even land a single tap, when he was practically handing it to me on a silver

platter, how sad would that be?

Maybe that was the point of this whole exercise. He was just finding another way to put me in

my place.

That's not it, and you know it's not.
I pushed the thoughts aside. It didn't matter. I could speculate for hours on his true motivations,

on whether I could take him at face value, the way Beckett assured me I could. Right now, my most
important task was to hit him. Just once, at least.

Moving forward, slowly but steadily, I made just enough sudden movements to keep him busy,

to keep him distracted, and with any luck he'd be too tired to notice that I wasn't really trying to
connect. I was just backing him into the corner.

In retrospect, I'd never know if he was letting me do it. The suspicion was there, planted in the

corner of my mind, but did it really matter? At best, I was outsmarting a man who was physically and
mentally exhausted.

A moment later, I saw my opening, and I took it.
Lashing forward, I landed a light connection on his torso, unprotected for a moment by his

arm. He jumped backwards, laughing, and I realized I didn't want to stop.

I lunged towards him, looking for another opening, so that he had to hold up his arms to shield

his body.

"All right, all right!" he shouted, finally, dodging away from me. "You've had your chance.

This isn't a fair fight."

"Maybe not," I said, continuing my pursuit. "But it was your idea."
Either I really had the best of him, in this moment - maybe just because he didn't expect it - or

he was letting me. Either way, I was intoxicated, and I couldn't help it. I had to take full advantage.

For a moment, just a moment, he left his face unprotected.
I lashed out. I lashed out, and I connected, right in his stupid, yammering, extremely strong

jaw.

To my utter shock, he actually stumbled back, losing his balance and having to catch himself

against the ropes. I felt some kind of twisted bloodlust coursing through my veins. Or maybe it was
just regular lust.

I couldn't be sure, anymore, with him.
"Good God," he said, dragging himself back to his feet. "Well, do you feel better now?"
"Absolutely," I said, watching him stretch his jaw experimentally. "How about you?"
He just smiled. Something between us had changed - and I felt it, almost palpable in the air,

but I couldn't quite explain what it was.

"Never been better," he said. "Will the main be fixed by tomorrow?"
"Late tonight, supposedly," I said, startled by the sudden return to practical shop talk. "Go

another round?" I waggled my eyebrows.

"Hell no," he said. "I'm not going up against you again until I've had a good rest."
I laughed, even as I felt myself blush.
He was heading towards the edge of the ring. "I'll see you tomorrow, Jill."
Feeling a bit disappointed, I headed back towards the closet. I could have used a few more

good hits.

As I went, I couldn't help but notice the "all thumbs" kid wrapping someone else's hands. I

was no expert, but he moved with the speed and efficiency of someone who knew exactly what he
was doing. No wonder he'd been annoyed at Chef Dylan's jab.

What an arrogant prick.
But I remembered the gentle brush of Chef's fingers against mine, the warmth of his hand on

my arm. How we stood so close, the electricity between us. The simple intimacy of the act. The time
he took to make sure I was safe, protected, so I wouldn't get hurt. And all so my anger would be
satisfied.

I was in trouble.
After changing quickly, I half expected Chef to be gone already. But he was lingering in the

ring, still, and he waved to me as I walked through the gym. When I was almost near the door, I heard
him call out to me.

"Oh, Jill?"
I stopped, then turned slowly on one heel. "Yes, Chef?"
He was smiling. "I appreciate the example you're setting in the kitchen, but when it's just the

two of us - please call me Max."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Mirepoix

Such a simple marriage of flavors, the mirepoix - celery, carrot, and onion. Almost

everyone who cooks has used it, even if they don't know what it's called. Each flavor is elevated by
its mates, to make something far greater than the sum of its parts.

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Max

***

Well, the boxing plan worked. Just...not exactly in the way I had envisioned. I had to cut it

short before things got out of control. She looked at me like she could absolutely devour me, in more
ways than one. It was terrifying and arousing. Terrifyingly arousing?

Ever since Beckett hinted at it, I'd been running from the possibility of Jill having some sort of

crush on me. It just seemed like a complication in my life that I absolutely didn't need to deal with,
even if it was the only explanation that covered all the facts.

But I couldn't ignore it anymore. Not with the way she'd been looking at me in that ring.
It was intoxicating, I had to admit. The way her lips parted when I touched her, a gesture as

simple as wrapping her hands in athletic tape making goosebumps rise all over her body. But there
was the small matter of that promise I'd made to myself before I came here - not to mention the fact
that any kind of romantic entanglement was guaranteed to ruin our working relationship. I was batting
a thousand on that one.

It was so awfully, awfully tempting.
I couldn't.

But what if I did?
She'd melt at my touch immediately, kiss like the world was about to end, hungry and giving

and wanting -

I was sure of this.
And that was why it could never, ever happen.

***

The Friday lunch rush was just dying down, and Jill was getting ready to leave.
She'd asked me, well in advance, if she could take a half day. I said yes without asking why,

which I think surprised her. But I expected it to be slow for a Friday, and anyway she had a solid
enough work ethic that I hardly worried about giving her special treatment every now and again.

She kept glancing at her phone as her shift started to wind down.
"Everything all right?" I asked.
"Just want to make sure I don't miss my train," she said. "I have a furniture delivery coming."
"Ah, lovely. I should get around to that sometime soon."
She gave me a look. "How long have you been living here?"
I judiciously avoided answering. "I wouldn't worry too much, if I were you. They're always

late."

"Yeah, unless you are. Then they're early." She sighed. "I still haven't figured out what to do

with the old couch. All the junk hauling places want, like, two hundred dollars just to take it away,
and I found out after I ordered the new one that this store isn't one of those places that gets rid of your
old shit as a courtesy."

"Two hundred...? That's ridiculous. I'll help you get rid of it."
I said this almost as a reflex, with no actual idea of how I could help. But the look on her face

made it worthwhile. She smiled, a little disbelieving at first, but then it just lit up.

"Really?" she said. "Are you sure?"
"Absolutely," I said, making a dismissive hand gesture. "It'll be no trouble at all."
"Well...thanks," she said, the confusion starting to temper her initial gratitude. "Just let me

know when you can come over."

"Tomorrow afternoon?" I suggested.
"That would be great," she said. "Thanks, again, really. I have to go - but thank you."
She hurried out the door. Back in his corner, Liam made a small, disapproving grunt.
"Liam, my man," I said, walking over to his station and clapping him on the shoulder. "Listen -

you wouldn't happen to have a pickup truck, would you?"

***

As it turned out, Liam did not have a pickup truck - but his brother did. I had to take him out

for drinks to ply it out of him, but it was a worthwhile endeavor.

I missed the turn to Jill's place about three or four times, cursing bitterly as I had to turn the

massive vehicle around in some poor person's driveway, trying not to knock over their mailbox and
flowerpots. And, ideally, not ruin the truck. Although from the state of it, I doubted that Liam's brother
would even notice.

Regardless, I would have to give Liam his pick of shifts and overtime for the next few months

to repay this favor. But, again - a worthwhile endeavor.

Jill lived in a bank of townhouses, painted in '70s beiges and browns. There was ample

parking, and I pulled up as close as I could, backing into the space so that the bed of the truck hung out
over the sidewalk.

When the doorbell echoed through the house, a loud, resonant barking came as the answer.
A few moments later, the door popped open.
Jill had her hair down, and she was smiling.
To say that I realized I'd never seen her like this would be an understatement. It was more

than that; it was that moment when you see someone you know, but can't immediately recognize them
because of some dramatic change in their appearance. Obviously I knew who she was. I knew what
she looked like. Logically, I understood that simply wearing her hair down couldn't possibly change
her appearance that much. It didn't justify the way my brain stuttered.

"Hi," she said, her voice softer and brighter than usual. Her mouth was still slightly open, like

she'd been planning to say something else, but her eyes were drawn to my arm - more specifically, the
ink markings on it. "Sorry," she said, after a moment, dragging her eyes back up to my face.

"It's all right," I said, amused by her sudden bashfulness. "You can look."
I stepped over the threshold, extending my arm to give her a better view. Some of it was an

abstract design that had been drawn by a girlfriend at the time - that was my compromise, for not
actually getting her name done, and it turned out to be a good decision on my part. The words had
been added later.

Ever tried, ever failed, no matter.
Try again, fail again, fail better.
Not the most original, but it had seemed profound at the time.
It had captivated Jill, though. Always supposing her interest wasn't just an excuse to stare at

my arm.

"I almost got that tattoo," she said. "The quote, I mean. In the end, I never got up the courage."
"Never been under the needle?"
She shook her head.
"Well," I said. "Don't believe the hype. It's not nearly as bad as people say. If you've been hurt

in a kitchen before, you've gone through much worse."

"Yeah, but that's different," she said. "You don't expect it. Isn't the anticipation the worst

part?"

"It is," I agreed. "But once you realize it's not as bad as you thought, everything gets easier."
Suddenly, she seemed to snap back to reality. "Oh, shit - I'm sorry, you're just standing there.

Come in, please. I don't know what's wrong with me. Thanks again for doing this."

"Please," I said, as she stepped away from the doorway to let me in. "Please don't be silly -

it's nothing."

"It's not nothing," she said, her eyes ducking down to the floor. "But I won't argue with you

over it."

I followed her inside, onto a wood laminate floor that was buckling slightly under my feet. It

was something to look at - something other than the sway of her hips. She was wearing jeans, had I
ever seen her wearing jeans before?

"I should warn you, I have a dog," Jill said, over her shoulder. "I promise she's friendly."
As if on cue, I immediately heard the click click click of canine nails on the floor.
"You don't say." I smiled as the mottled gray pit bull trotted up to me, tail swinging high, a

hundred and forty pounds if she was an ounce. She snuffled at my hand curiously, then sat down to
lick, her tail thumping on the floor.

"Go to your bed, Heidi," Jill said, after a moment, in a gently authoritative tone that Heidi

immediately responded to. She ran over to a bed in the corner and curled up, even as Jill
unnecessarily added "Stay. Good bed. Good stay." She glanced at me. "Don't want her underfoot
while we're moving heavy objects, trust me. She always thinks she's helping."

The old sofa was already pushed close to the door, with the new one in what I assumed was

its proper spot. It was still shrouded in plastic, but from what I could see, it was a definite upgrade.

"Here," I said, "I'll take the end by the door. I don't mind walking backwards."
"Fine with me," Jill said, letting out a puff of air in the direction of her forehead, which

carried an errant lock of hair out of her eyes. "Thank God we're on the first floor, at least."

She lifted her side without so much as furrowing her brow. I don't know why it surprised me;

I'd seen her heft heavy food crates and cases of wine without breaking a sweat. She was stronger than
she looked.

We had the sofa loaded in no time. Anti-climactic, overall, though I wasn't sure what I'd been

hoping for.

"You want a coffee, or something?" Jill asked, brushing her hands off.
"If you're having some anyway," I said. "Not if it's any trouble."
"Of course not."
I followed her back inside, and sat scratching Heidi behind the ears while Jill fiddled with the

coffeemaker. A warning bell was going off in the back of my head, but I stubbornly ignored it. We can
handle this. We're both adults.

She had to move a pile of junk mail from the other chair before she sat down.
"Thanks again for this," she said, looking at the mail, rather than at me. "I know, you keep

saying it's no big deal, but..."

I shrugged. "To be honest, I hoped it would work as an olive branch of sorts."
"I thought that was what the boxing match was for."
"Well." I smiled at her, and she smiled back. "I think that may have taken on a life of its own,

to be honest."

Jill blushed, the pink tinge on her cheeks making me wish I could throw caution to the winds.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said. "At all."

Careful, careful.
It always seems so innocent, that moment when two people suddenly acknowledge a mutual

attraction. Why hide it, after all? Why not just talk about the elephant in the room?

But after that, nothing's ever the same.
After that, things happen. It's unavoidable.
The silence was starting to stretch too long. I heard Heidi yawn in the corner, and took the

opportunity to ask about how Jill had found her. A rescue, it turned out, which didn't surprise me - she
had almost certainly saved the sweet-faced girl from a short, brutish life in the ring. She beamed with
pride when she talked about her dog, and I felt a little twinge of jealousy. Pets were one more thing
that my lifestyle simply didn't allow.

We talked for a long time, and I had a feeling she would have let me stay longer. But I had

work to do, and she probably had plans as well. But I didn't ask.

After we said goodbye, she stood in the doorway for a long time, watching me as I drove

away - and, I suspected, for some time after.

***

After I got home, I pulled out my phone, and finally started looking at all my notifications.

Barbara had texted me five or six times. I scrolled through them, leisurely, knowing she would have
called if it was something truly important. I was right. It was the usual stuff, some observations on
annoying people in line at the store, a funny picture of her cat...

Normally I would have answered as soon as I got them, but after I tapped my thumb in the

reply box, I realized that trying to think of a response was taxing. After a few minutes I set the phone
aside.

It could wait until tomorrow.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Risotto

Risotto is deceptively finicky for the impatient chef. Care must be taken to tend it

constantly, no matter how tedious.

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Jill

***

"How's your...headaches?" My new doctor was flicking her eyes up and down my chart,

looking for anything that stood out, I suppose.

I cleared my throat. "Actually," I said, "I haven't had one in a while."
"Well, that's good news." She smiled distractedly, flipping a page. "Did you work on

your...uh, stress management?"

In my mind's eye, I saw Max pitching backwards after I'd punched him right in the face. I saw

the sheen of his skin, accenting every muscle in his body, and the snaking tattoo that I didn't dare look
at for long enough to understand.

"Yeah," I said. "I guess you could say that."
"Great." She smiled. "Well, whatever it is, keep it up."

***

Before I even walked into the kitchen, I knew something was wrong.
At first I couldn't place it, but then I realized. Max's coat was still hanging up by the door. And

sure enough, when I walked in, he was nowhere to be found. Liam was dutifully chopping his

vegetables in the corner.

"Hey," I said, going over to my station. "Chef's not here yet?"
Liam just shrugged.
"Okay then," I muttered, pulling my phone out of my pocket. No missed calls. But it was

absolutely unheard-of for him to be missing this close to lunch service. Something had to be wrong.

It was likely to be a quiet day, so we could limp along without him if we needed to. If I was

being honest, that wasn't really what worried me. Unless he was lying dead in a ditch, I couldn't
imagine why we'd be in this situation in the first place.

As I did my prep work, I kept imagining that I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket. But every

time I checked it - nothing. If Max were here, he'd snap at me for even keeping it in my pocket. Oh, the
irony.

Twenty minutes later, it was time to admit to myself that I was really worried.
Finding a good stopping place, I stepped away from my work to call Lydia. I figured if anyone

knew what was going on, she would. But if she knew, wouldn't she have called already? I chewed my
bottom lip while her phone rang and rang.

She finally answered. "Hello, this is Lydia."
"Hi, it's Jillian Brown. I'm at the Trattoria and it's almost time to open up, but Chef's not here.

Have you heard anything from him lately?"

"Not since yesterday morning," she said, her tone instantly worried. "That's not like him at all.

Have you asked the others?"

"Well, the prep cook doesn't know anything - hold on, some of the servers just walked in." I

turned the mouthpiece towards my shoulder. Aiden, Holly and Cat were all crowding in towards the
back room. "Have you guys heard anything from Chef Dylan?"

They all shook their heads.
"He's not here?" Aiden asked, disbelieving.
I shook my own head in response, going back to the phone. "No, nobody's heard a damn thing.

This is...concerning, right? What should we do?"

"I'm calling his mobile on my other line right now," Lydia said. "No answer. Listen - I'm going

to hang up with you and call Beckett, maybe he knows something we don't. In the meantime, if you
hear anything at all, please let me know."

"Will do. Thanks, Lydia."
"Man," said Aiden, still staring at me, wide-eyed, his bistro apron in hand. "What are we

gonna do?"

I looked around the kitchen. All the servers and Liam had stopped what they were doing, and

were just staring. Looking to me. Looking to me, of all people. For guidance.

"We're going to open the restaurant," I said, firmly. "Cat, please go unlock the door. Nothing

needs to change just because Chef's absent. Okay?"

"Okay," said Cat. "Sounds good."
The rest of them filtered out to the dining room. So that was taken care of. I went over to

Liam's area, where he was hunched over the meat grinder.

"Hey," I said. "Listen. I know this is kind of..." I sighed. There was no use beating around the

bush with him. "I know you've never been happy with this position, and you only took it because you
needed the job. I know how that feels. I used to be a sous chef before I started working here. Tonight's
your chance to prove that you're more than just a prep cook. I'm going to need your help. Can I count
on you?"

After a painfully long silence, he finally looked up at me - making sustained eye contact, I

thought, for the first time since we'd met.

"Okay," he said. He wasn't even scowling.
I allowed myself to bask in my triumph for just a moment, before I remembered why I was in

this situation in the first place. I glanced at my phone again, compulsively. Did Max even have my
number? It was far more likely he'd call the restaurant itself, if he even knew that number off the top
of his head.

Or he might call Lydia first, in which case I'd be hearing from her on my cell.
I checked it once more, for good measure.
Aiden came bursting into the kitchen like his hair was on fire. "I've got the first ticket!" he

nearly shouted, waving it at me.

"All right, calm down," I said. "That was fast."
"I know." His eyes were like saucers. "They're in a hurry. They need to get across town for a

show."

"At eleven o'clock in the morning?" I stared at the order. It was relatively simple, thank God.
Aiden shrugged. "That's what they told me."
"All right. Okay. Doesn't matter. I'll have it out as fast as I can, okay? Make sure they get some

bread if they want it, and the dipping oil."

Forcing myself to switch off any thoughts of what had happened to Max, I focused on getting

the entrées prepared as quickly as possible. Before I knew it, I'd slipped comfortably into a slightly
supercharged version of my normal routine. The undercurrent of worry was still there, but whatever
was happening, the best thing I could do for him was keep the restaurant going.

Time started to slip by, quicker and quicker, and before I knew it, we were comfortably in the

pre-dinner lull. Just then, my phone started to ring.

"Lydia? What's going on?"
"Well," she said, "first of all, take a deep breath, everything's fine. I finally got through. He's

got a little bit of a fever, I think, but nothing too serious. He ended up sleeping most of the day without
even realizing it, and I managed to convince him that he absolutely is not allowed to come in to work.
You're doing just fine without him. Am I right?"

"Of course," I said, feeling hours of tension melt out of my body. "You're sure he's okay?"
"He's coherent, he's not hallucinating, and he's keeping down fluids. I don't think there's

anything to be seriously concerned about. He managed to take his temperature, and it's back down to
normal, but he's still got the shakes and feels like he got run over with a truck. Knowing him, he'll
wake up absolutely fine tomorrow."

I sucked in a breath through my teeth. It was pretty funny to imagine the great Maxwell Dylan

down for the count thanks to a mere virus, but at the same time, I hated the thought of him being sick
and alone, and no doubt worried about how the restaurant was faring without him.

Lydia had been delayed more than she expected getting into town, but surely someone could

go make sure he was still alive.

"Can Beckett check on him before he comes in?"
I could almost hear Lydia's shrug. "Apparently when he called, Chef absolutely forbade him to

come over. Said it was more important for him to get to work. I don't think his brother wanted to
argue it."

Right on cue, Beckett came through the door. I gave him a thumbs-up to indicate everything

was going okay on my end, then turned my attention back to Lydia.

"Well, okay. If you talk to him again, just let him know we're doing great, and we all hope that

he feels better soon."

"Will do. Thanks for taking care of this, Jillian. It means a lot to him, having someone around

he can trust."

Out of everything that went on between Max and me, "trust" wasn't really the first word that

came to mind. But Lydia probably knew him as well as anyone did, so she must be on to something.

"Just doing my job," I said, because I didn't know what else to say.
Beckett was surveying the kitchen when I hung up.
"Like a Swiss watch," he said, nodding approvingly. "I knew Max was onto something with

you."

I was getting more complements from people on Max's behalf than he'd ever given me to my

face. Trying hard not to blush, I went back to my station.

"I do my best," I said, starting on the first ticket that came through. "Did he really tell you not

to come over?"

Beckett rolled his eyes. "Threatened me with violence, actually. I'm sure I could take him, in

his current state - but you have to pick your battles."

Didn't I know.
Still, as the night wore on, I couldn't stop thinking about him. Someone should stop by, just to

make sure he was all right. I kept thinking of all the stories you hear about someone who felt "under
the weather" and ended up dead the next morning, from some mutant form of pneumonia or a brain
aneurism or...

He was fine. Of course he was fine. Suffering a little, but he was fine.
But would I ever forgive myself if no one checked up on him, and it turned out that he wasn't?
So Beckett was a lost cause. Understandable, but even with everything that had gone on

between me and Max, we didn't have nearly the amount of baggage he must have with his siblings. If I
showed up at his door, he'd almost certainly forgive me.

Right?
I let my mind run through the possible scenarios as I worked. He might be angry, he might be

grateful, or he might be too out of it to care - whatever it was, I'd feel much better about the whole
situation if I saw him with my own eyes.

There was just one tiny obstacle, but I knew how to solve that.
Or, at least I thought I did.
Though I didn't know the address of Max's place in Boston off the top of my head, I knew it

was written all over some of the paperwork in his office. There was only one problem - when I tried
the door, it was locked. I immediately felt stupid. Obviously, he wouldn't just leave his office open
for anyone to wander into whenever he was gone.

Asking Beckett for his address directly was out of the question. He'd want to know why, he'd

probably advise me not to go, and more than that, I had a feeling he was starting to clue into
the...emotional developments between me and Max. I felt embarrassed just thinking about the way
he'd look at me when I confessed I was worried about his brother.

Thankfully, there was another option. And all it involved was a little white lie.
"Beckett," I said, as we passed each other in the back hallway at quitting time, "you don't

happen to have a key to the office, do you?"

"I do," he said, reaching into his pocket without hesitation. "Everything okay?"
"Oh, yeah, yeah," I said, in the most casual tone I could manage. "But I really need to update

my W-2 before he sends them back on Monday, and I'm not working then. If I don't do it now, I'm
definitely gonna forget."

It didn't make any damn sense, but I was banking on the fact that Beckett wouldn't question it,

so long as I sounded sincere.

"Sure," he said, sliding the key into the handle. "I don't know where he keeps anything,

though."

"Don't worry, I've got it," I said. "You can go home if you want. I'll lock up behind me."
"All right," he said. "Cheers."
Beckett left me alone in the office. The hardest part was over.
It only took me a few minutes to find a form that referenced his local address. I punched it into

my phone, and found it was just a few T stops away.

On my way to catch the subway, I stopped at the CVS and grabbed an assortment of juice,

tissues, cough drops and aspirin. I figured it was likely he didn't even have basic things around,
judging how little time he seemed to spend at home. He probably wasn't even completely unpacked
yet.

I didn't really start to question myself until I was standing in front of his door.
Too late to turn back now.
I pressed the buzzer.
It was chilly outside, and I started to shiver as I stood on the front porch. The buzzer was loud

enough for me to hear, and probably some of his neighbors, too. It was late. Hopefully they wouldn't
hate me.

Against my better judgment, I buzzed again.
The cold had officially seeped through my coat, and I was seriously thinking about just

hanging the CVS bag on his doorknob, when I suddenly heard it rattle.

My heart jumped into my throat as the door slowly opened.
He looked like hell.
Pale as a ghost, with dark circles under his eyes and his hair sticking up in all directions...I

wondered if it had actually taken him this entire time to shuffle to the door.

"I brought you some things," I said, shoving the bag towards him. "I just...Lydia said nobody

had checked on you, so I wanted to make sure you were okay."

He looked at me with dull eyes.
"I've been better," he half-whispered.
Sense of humor intact. Well, that was a good sign.
He wasn't taking the bag, though, and the cold air was seeping into his apartment, which

couldn't be good for him. I stepped inside and shut the door behind me, which didn't seem to faze him
at all.

"Really," he said, still standing in the same spot, but swaying a little. "I'm...I'm fine."
"Go get back in bed," I said. "I'll just, uh...I'll just leave this stuff somewhere."
"Can't," he said, his voice growing a little fainter with each word. "Sheets are...too sweaty."
I couldn't hold back a snort of laughter at that.
"Okay," I said. "So lie down on the..." I scanned the dimly lit room, looking for a sofa, or an

armchair, or...anything...

"Uh," I said, "okay, new plan. Just...sit down on something for a minute, okay?"
He wandered over to the wall, leaned up against it, and then slowly sank down to the floor.

None of it seemed deliberate, but it worked out all right.

It was a small place, so finding the bedroom was a simple enough task. He wasn't kidding

about the sheets. I remembered the last time I'd woken up with a fever in a pool of my own sweat, and
felt a stab of sympathy for the guy who was currently curled up on his own bare living room floor,
amongst a lot of open cardboard boxes.

I stripped the sheets carefully, tossing them in a pile on the floor temporarily while I searched

for replacements. By the time I'd found the linen box and re-made the bed, carrying the lump of old
sheets under my arm back into the living room, Max was asleep on the floor.

Please let there be in-unit laundry.
I peeked into the small room off the entryway hall - score. It was a tiny washer and dryer, but

it was enough.

After I started a load with the sheets, I went over to Max and shook him on the shoulder,

gently.

"Come on," I whispered. "The bed's ready. You can't sleep here all night."
He groaned, but with me urging him up by the arm, he was able to pull himself upright and

stagger into the bedroom. He collapsed on the bed, seemingly without looking - it was a miracle he
hit it - and I covered him with the blanket before making him drink a little of the juice.

"Have you taken anything recently?" I asked him.
He shook his head.
"Want an aspirin?"
He nodded."
I helped him prop his head up a little to swallow the pill. By the time I let him back down, I

was pretty sure he was already asleep.

"Goodnight," I whispered. "Feel better."
As I closed the door, I heard him murmur something, but it didn't sound like actual words.

Most likely a dream, I thought.

He wouldn't even remember this.

***

The next morning, on my day off, I got a phone call from the restaurant. I'd half-expected this,

so I didn't let myself get too disappointed. It wasn't like I had any plans.

"Jill." It was Max himself, sounding a little hoarse. "Can you come in today?"
"Absolutely," I said. "Feeling a little better?"
"A little," he said. "But I can't be around the food if I'm contagious. I'm quarantined in my

office. I need someone to run the kitchen."

"Be there in a bit."
I hurried to catch the next train, and jumped into work as soon as I arrived, not bothering to

stop into the office and see if he even remembered my visit. Lunch service had to get off the ground.

In the first lull, I went to the back hallway and tapped on his door.
"Come in," he called out. "But keep your distance."
"Don't worry," I said, opening the door. "I'll sanitize myself before I go back into the kitchen."
He smiled. He was still looking a little ghostly, but certainly not like last night. I sat down in a

chair in the corner, honoring his wishes to stay as far away from him as possible.

"Why are you even here?" I wondered aloud, as he huddled deeper inside the fleece he was

wearing.

He shrugged. "Better than not being here," he said. "At least, I feel better being here."

"Well, okay," I said. "But if you need to go home, it's fine."
"I know," he said. "Thank you for handling everything yesterday."
"Of course," I said, unsure if he was just talking about the restaurant.
We were both quiet for a few minutes.
"I suppose this is the downside of the culinary business," he said, glancing longingly towards

the door. "Garbage collectors don't have to worry about spreading germs."

I laughed. "I think there are a few other downsides," I said. "But maybe not if you're a

workaholic."

"And none of them were enough to stop me," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Is

'stubbornness' a positive personality trait, do you think?"

"It is if you call it 'determination,'" I pointed out. "Did you always want to be a chef?"
He nodded. "Long as I can remember. Everybody I grew up with wanted to be a firefighter or

a cop, and then there was me."

"Anybody ever make fun of you for it?"
"A bit," he admitted, smiling. "But you learn to ignore it."
He was putting a brave face on it now, but I wondered how much it had bothered him at the

time.

"I suppose I was meant to feel intimidated that it's 'women's work,'" he went on. "But my

mother commanded her kitchen like a four-star general. I'd love to see anyone try to tell her that
handling knives and open flames is a position of weakness." He was grinning, but I could see the hint
of sadness in his eyes. He still missed her. Of course he did. Both his parents had passed away, his
mother most recently - just a few years ago, if I recalled correctly.

"She must've been very proud of you," I said, instantly hating how cliché it sounded. I'd never

been good with grief.

Max nodded, chuckling a little. "Yeah - not of the profanity, so much, or the yelling. But she

always understood where it came from. We spoke the same language, in a lot of ways. She was even
more passionate about food than I am. It was almost spiritual for her."

"Not really so much for the 'spiritual' part, are you?" I was stifling a laugh. It was such a funny

idea, Chef Dylan voluntarily admitting to a supreme being other than himself.

"No," he said, looking more serious than I expected. "No, I was never blessed with the gift of

being able to believe in the unseen. My mother prayed on her rosary every night, but she spent Sunday
mornings in the kitchen. I think for her, it was a sort of replacement, when she lost faith in the church.
But I never had that, so for me - it was different."

There was a loud rapping at the door.
"Jillian?" It was Liam. "Tickets."
Well, that lull went by in a hurry.

***

"You know," said Shelly around a mouthful of tortilla chips, "he's not going to stay here

forever."

We were at our favorite Mexican restaurant again, catching up. I'd been absorbed at work and

she was in her busy season, or something - it had been too long since we giggled over margaritas and
bottomless free chips.

I considered her statement for a moment. She was right, of course. What with his other

restaurants, his hectic TV filming schedule, and all his other obligations, Max wasn't going to stay

head chef of the Trattoria for very long. Somehow, that thought hadn't occurred to me. All his other
restaurants had a head chef that he'd hand-picked to run the show whenever he couldn't be there -
which was most of the time.

"I don't know if I like what you're implying," I told her, seeing the sly grin on her face.
"Come on," she said. "You said he seems impressed with you so far, right?"
I'd told her about the broad strokes of his illness, leaving out the part where I showed up at his

door like a creepy stalker. "Yeah, but-"

"And," she went on, holding up her hand to stop me from demurring, "he picked you in the first

place, right? And then he promoted you to sous chef right after you opened? Didn't that surprise you?"

"Well, yes, but Shelly-"
"And he hasn't even looked for a head chef yet. Doesn't that strike you as a little suspicious?"
"Yeah, yeah, okay!" I threw my hands up. "All right, Mr. Columbo, you've made your case.

But I can't let myself think that way. I've got to focus on what my job actually is, right now. It's
distracting enough, just working for a guy like Chef Dylan. I don't need to be thinking ten steps ahead."

"But you need to be prepared." Shelly shoved another handful of chip crumbs into her mouth.

Crunch, crunch, crunch. "What if he offers you the head chef job? Will you say yes? All that
pressure?"

Of course I didn't have an answer for her. How could I? Sure, like every kid in culinary

school I'd dreamed of one day heading a restaurant like his. Something that would be a big deal,
something you could really write home about. Yes, there'd be pressure, but on the flip side...running a
restaurant of Chef Dylan's was the kind of career move you could live on forever. Nobody would turn
you away, with that on your résumé.

Then again, being his sous chef was nothing to sneeze at, either.
"Seriously," I said to Shelly, who was still staring at me with a questioning smile on her face.

"Stop it. How would you feel if I started cross-examining you about...whatever it is that accountants
aspire to be in their wildest dreams?"

"Well, it's not as sexy as working for a celebrity chef, that's for damn sure." Shelly polished

off her margarita. "You need to think about these things, Jilly. Doesn't he seem like the kind of guy
who'd be offended if you wanted a week to think about it?"

"He'd be offended if I turned it down, too, so I might as well just say yes." I shook my head.

"Why am I even considering this? You have got to stop. You're going to drive me nuts with this."

"Fine, but don't come crying to me when you get blindsided by a job offer you didn't expect,"

Shelly said, breezily. "Again."

Maybe she had a point. A teeny, tiny, infinitely small point. I mean - I still couldn't really

explain why he'd hired me in the first place. Clearly, Max wasn't as predictable as I liked to pretend
he was. He trusted me. He relied on me enough that he didn't feel he needed to look for a head chef
right now. That felt...okay, that felt pretty good.

But I wasn't at the Trattoria to have my ego stroked. I was there to earn a living. I couldn't let

myself lose sight of that in crazy ambitions that would probably never come to pass.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Apéritif

The purpose of an apéritif is to relax before dinner, to open the senses in preparation for

the flavors. Any sort of alcoholic drink may be served, though champagne is often chosen for its
lightness on the palate. A small amount of alcohol warms the stomach, heightening anticipation
for the coming attraction.

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Max

***

There's a lot of rumors about me. Some of them are true. Some are just mostly true. Some, of

course, are made up completely - but not as many as I'd like.

Yes, I once challenged a food critic to a boxing match. He put up a valiant fight, but I won.

And yes, it's true that beating him doesn't prove that my food isn't "pretentious, bland and overpriced,"
but it felt damn good anyway.

Yes, I once made the evening news because I fought with the hostess of a five-star restaurant

in front of customers. Yes, it made the evening news. No, nobody was hurt. Every once in a while, I
still run into a fan who thanks me for the night of entertainment, but I'm not particularly proud of it.

Yes, I made Chef Sully DePalma cry. He had it coming.
About the "trail of broken hearts" thing. I don't know that I'd use such a melodramatic term, but

I won't play dumb. I know where the rumor comes from. I'm always on the move, going from one city
to the next, meeting new women all the time, and most of them - yes, most of them - actually like me. I
don't mind saying it. I'm not boasting, it's just a fact. Entanglements happen. I've said it before, and I'll

say it again: I have a hard time keeping it casual. Things tend to spiral out of control.

I resent the implication that it was something I did on purpose.
Notice I said "was."
Because that's the only choice, really, when you realize there's something in your life that you

can't control. If I was an alcoholic, I'd stop drinking. If I was a gambling addict, I wouldn't even touch
a crane game at the mall. But my vice is relationships, so there's only one clear solution.

Stay away. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.
Someday I'll try again. Someday, maybe when I have enough of a nest egg and my career is

waning and I can actually focus on being there for another person. Someday, maybe, when I'm less of
a selfish piece of shit.

I'm almost sure that day will come.

***

It was only a matter of time before Beckett caught us flirting.
Harmless, I kept telling myself, over and over again until I almost believed it. Harmless. It's

harmless. She hates you, really, and when push comes to shove, that'll override everything else.

As usual, it took someone from the outside to see things clearly.
Once Jill had left the room, her cheeks pink and a smile playing on her lips, Beckett caught my

eyes with an expression that said it all.

"Don't start," I said.
He shook his head. "What happened to the whole..." He made a vague gesture around his neck,

which I supposed was meant to be a reference to a priest's collar, or a rosary, or something. He
always was shit at charades.

"It's nothing," I said. "We're just getting along better, that's all. It only seems like something

more, because we were always on the verge of killing each other before."

"Uh huh," said Beckett, studying his fingernails. "Okay, sure."
I fumed quietly, focusing on my work, but I could feel Beckett's eyes on me for a long time.
Later on, after closing time, he managed to corner me in my office before I could pretend to be

on the phone, or busy with the numbers.

"The only reason I'm doing this," he said, dragging out a chair, "is that when things go pear-

shaped, which you know is going to happen, because it happens every time - you're going to knock
down my door and demand to know why I didn't stop you. Trust me. I'd be more than happy to let you
self-destruct for the five-hundredth time, but not if it's going to become my fault."

"It won't," I muttered, knowing that I couldn't possibly make that promise.
"Ah," said Beckett, plopping his feet up on my desk. "So you admit there is something going

on."

"Absolutely not," I said. "We're talking in purely theoretical terms, little brother."
He wanted to get a rise out of me, but the feet-on-the-desk thing wasn't working - so he sat up

and started drumming his fingers on the polished wood surface, instead.

"You know what," he said, finally. "You're right. I guess I'm just picking up on something

that's not there. She's nothing special, right?"

My jaw clenched, involuntarily. "Subtle," I said. "Have you considered going into work as a

police interrogator?"

Beckett sighed, dropping his head back on the chair. "Max, just stop. You're not fooling

anybody, least of all yourself. The one way to guarantee that this goes horribly, horribly wrong is to

keep pretending that it's not happening."

"Fine," I snapped, slamming my hand down on the desk, hard enough to make him jump a

little. "So let's pretend it's happening. Let's pretend it's completely out of my control. What the hell do
you suggest that I do, then?"

Beckett steepled his fingers. "Stop pretending it's out of your control," he said. "That's step

one."

I didn't have a snappy response to that - and he knew it.
"Honestly," he went on, ignoring the murderous glare that I was throwing his way. "How long

have you been using that excuse? It's ridiculous, and you know it."

He was right, and I knew he was right, and that was the most infuriating thing about it. I'd

always known in the back of my mind, in that way you can know something even as you desperately
pretend it isn't true.

I stood up.
"Good night, Beckett."
He watched me leave, but he didn't try to say anything else.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Liaison

Liaison is such a salacious word for an ordinary thing: any sort of binding agent that helps

a mixture become something entirely new.

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Jill

***

On Thursday, Max asked me to come in early the following day. He didn't say why, and I

didn't ask. I had to catch a train that got me there even earlier, and I spent my morning sitting in the
little waterfront park where people bring their dogs to play. Even if I hadn't been going straight to
work, Heidi was simply not an option - I couldn't trust her not to run into traffic.

When I got to the Trattoria, Max was already absorbed in some task. He didn't seem to notice

I was there, until I was standing right next to him.

"You know how to throw pizza dough?"
By now, I was used to him greeting me with a question every day.
"Not...really," I said. "I mean, I could probably throw it, but the landing might run into some

issues."

"Watch me," he said. "You'll learn. But for now we'll do it assembly-line. You handle the

sauce and toppings."

He already had a ball of dough out on the counter.
"All right," I said.
"Big catering order," he added. I just nodded, unable to shake the feeling that I'd successfully

passed some sort of test by never asking "why" until he was ready to tell me.

"Sounds like my kind of party," I said, mouth already watering at the thought of an endless

supply of Max's pizzas. He didn't make them often, as they weren't a regular menu item, but they were
honestly some of the best I'd ever eaten.

"Wedding," he said. "Second time, for both of them, which I assume explains why they've

gotten the 'proper' formal stuff out of their systems by now, and they just want food they can actually
enjoy. I hear the bride's wearing purple."

I laughed, although the thought of weddings still send a little twinge through my chest. Talk of

catering and taffeta and flower arrangements never failed to remind me of the time I'd been planning
my own "happily ever after," not too long ago.

Spoiler alert: the ending wasn't so happy, after all.
"They sound like fun," I said, wondering if he'd be able to detect the false cheerfulness in my

voice. If he'd even care.

"It takes balls to break with tradition, on something like this especially," Max said. "I have to

admire them."

"Hmm," I agreed. I'd been planning to wear red.
"Not much for weddings?" He glanced at me.
"I guess you could say that." I chopped some mushrooms vigorously. "Had a bad experience."
"Ah," said Max, quietly. "Well - I'll shut up, then."
He was true to his word, and I let a few minutes pass in silence.
"Five years," I heard myself blurt out, suddenly. Max glanced at me briefly, then back down at

his dough. I cleared my throat. "I was with this guy Eric for five years, engaged for two," I clarified.
"Midway through planning the wedding, I logged into his Facebook to find some contact information
for a venue or something - he'd forgotten to send it to me so I figured what's the harm, right? I knew
all his passwords and he knew mine. We were in it for the long haul. We didn't keep any secrets. And
I saw he'd been messaging back and forth with a girl from work a lot, which I thought was weird.
He'd only ever mentioned her in passing. I guess I don't even have to tell you what I saw when I
started scrolling."

I paused, swallowed hard, and set down my knife. Even remembering it now, my heart started

beating a little faster.

"Idiot," Maxwell said. He glanced at me again. "Him, of course. Not you."
A laugh bubbled up, and I was helpless to stop it. "Yeah," I said. "Right under my nose. I

guess he thought I'd never look. And he could have been right, you know, I had no reason to check up
on him. Never suspected a thing. He could have gotten away with it for our entire lives."

"Dodged a bullet." Max plopped a rolled-out dough in front of me.
"Yeah," I said. "Didn't feel like it at the time, though. Felt more like getting hit with a bullet-

proof vest on." I ladled on some sauce and spread it around, carefully. "Bruised, maybe some broken
ribs, but still alive."

"That's much more accurate," he agreed. My eyes flicked over to his workstation as I spread

my slices of buffalo mozzarella, and I was briefly mesmerized by the muscles and tendons in his arms
as he pressed down on the dough. There was a light dusting of flour on his forearms, where he'd
rolled up his sleeves to work.

"The worst part," I said, adding the sausage slices, "is that even after everything, after he'd

proven himself to be the exact opposite of who I thought he was - I was still convinced he'd come
crawling back to me. I was so sure of it. I had my whole speech planned out, the one I'd give while he

was lying on the floor, clinging to my ankle. But he never did. He left the day I found out, and I never
heard from him again."

I paused, taking a long breath. I waited for Max to change the subject, or indicate that he was

tired of hearing about my pathetic life, but he just looked at me expectantly.

"And that's the whole sad story," I said. "It was surreal. Like somebody slammed the brakes

on my life and threw it into reverse. I had a whole ten-year plan mapped out, but it was all predicated
on my relationship with Eric. He was my first boyfriend. I moved out of my college apartment and
right in with him. For a while, I felt like I didn't even know how to be a grown-up without him."

"It often feels that way, the first time." Maxwell looked a little distant. Try as I might, I

couldn't imagine him ever having been young and fragile, feeling lost in the world without his
soulmate. I wasn't sure whether the thought made me want to giggle, or tear up a little.

"Oh, yeah?" I said, picking up the peel and heading to the oven. "You been dumped a lot?"
He let out a bark of laughter. "What do you think?"
"I dunno," I said. "Guys like you, sometimes they have a surprisingly easy time of it."
"Hm." He tossed another circle of dough in the air. "Well, there's the people you think you

want to be with, and then there's the people you can actually live with." Laying the stretched dough
down in front of me, he glanced at my face, smiling a little. "Which one do you think I am?"

"Well," I said. "I thought Eric was the guy I wanted to live with, so maybe my judgment's a

little off."

"I was a serial monogamist, at least," he said. "I never did have the stomach for betrayal. But I

could never keep anything going for longer than five months, let alone five years."

"Always the past tense," I pointed out.
He just smiled, pressing another ball of dough flat onto the counter.
"I never even met the girl," I said. "Don't even know if they're still together."
"Doubt it." Chef pounded down his dough. "They always trade down. You were too strong for

him, so he picked off someone else who was limping behind the rest of the herd. I'm sure the charm
wore off right quick."

I laughed. "Thanks," I said. "But who knows, really?"
"Trust me," he said, seriously. "When people are unhappy with themselves, they want to feel

needed in a way that only another deeply unhappy person can make them feel."

As I spread the mozzarella, I thought about the genesis of my relationship with Eric. How he'd

"rescued" me from an unhappy home. A knight in shining white armor. I always knew this dynamic
had gratified something in him, but I never suspected he'd need it over and over again, for the rest of
his life.

I thought back to the months leading up to our not-wedding. I was happier than I'd ever been,

my career was flourishing...

"Shit," I said, loudly. Max stared at me, like he was expecting to find that I'd cut off a finger or

something.

"Sorry," I said, looking back down at the pizza. "It's just - you're right."
"I know," he said, grinning. "Was there ever really any doubt?"
"Oh, my God." I rolled my eyes, reaching for the pizza peel. "You're a piece of work, you

know that?"

"Indeed," he said. "But at least I'm not Eric."
"No," I agreed, smiling at him. There was a sparkle in his eyes. "No, you most certainly are

not."

***

"Let me guess," said Max, after the dinner rush had started to die down. "This Eric person -

really nice guy, yes? Never an unkind word for anyone."

"Of course," I said. "Not to their face, anyway."
I didn't know why he was bringing up my ex, out of the blue, hours after our initial

conversation. But I didn't mind. Honestly, it was somewhat of a relief to talk about him again, which I
hadn't expected. My friends had long ago grown tired of the discussion, and I couldn't speak to my
family about it. My mom persisted in her belief that we should have "worked things out" - as if I had a
choice - and my stepdad voiced what they were both thinking: it was, somehow, my fault.

"It's what I've always believed," Max said, wiping down one of his frighteningly large knives.

"You can't trust nice people. They're always hiding something."

I snickered. "Not always," I said. "I like to think I'm pretty nice."
"Yes, but you're an oddity," he said. "And I mean that as a compliment."
"Of course you do."
"In my experience, most 'nice' people are just afraid of confrontation. They have the same

cruel, uncharitable thoughts as anyone else - they just don't voice them."

"But that's not a bad thing," I cut in. "I mean, if you have negative thoughts about somebody

and never tell them, then they never know. Their feelings never get hurt."

"Things need to be aired out," he said, folding his arms across his chest. "Everybody walking

around, never saying what's on their mind - what kind of world is that?"

"Well, thankfully we have people like you to balance the scales," I said. He was smiling. Any

other time, this might have spiraled into a fight. Any other time, I would have been worried. But
today, something was different. There was definitely a kind of tension between us, but it wasn't the
same as before.

He was standing very close to me, I realized, and we were alone in the kitchen. My tongue

flicked out to wet my lips, and I could feel my pulse start to flutter.

Just then, he took a step closer. Slowly, almost as if he was testing my limits. I was up against

the counter. There was nowhere else for me to go. His eyes were locked with mine, dark and growing
darker, a smile still playing on his lips.

I was trapped. I couldn't move. And I didn't want to.
I took in a deep, shaky breath. The massive kitchen suddenly felt very small - too small to

hold this moment, and everything unspoken that was hanging there, suspended in the tiny space
between our bodies.

This is what he does. He breaks hearts.
But the look in his eyes, no, that wasn't the look of a man who ever wanted to break

somebody's heart.

I felt like I was on the verge of shattering, bursting into a thousand pieces. The conflict, the

confusion - it was too much. It was much too much. My resentment hadn't gone away. It was stronger
than ever. But my feelings for Max were stronger still, and growing stronger with every moment
while he was poised there, a breath away from kissing me.

All of a sudden, I couldn't bite my tongue anymore.
"Do you even remember?" I whispered. I did mean for it to come out full-volume, or at least

half, but my voice wasn't cooperating.

He looked confused.

"Giovanni's," I clarified. "When you first came back to Boston. I made you salmon and

spinach, and you practically..." His face was already falling, so there was no need to continue, but I
did anyway. "...spat it out on my shoes."

He looked down at the floor for a moment. Swallowed. I watched his Adam's apple bob up

and down. "Of course I remember," he said, his voice a little rough. "The look on your face, you think
I could forget something like that?"

Was he trying to guilt-trip me? Oh, hell no.
"That bad, huh?" I said, my voice cold and brittle.
"I thought if you hadn't forgiven me by now, you never would have taken this job." He blinked

a few times. "I...obviously I was wrong." He was pulling back, barely noticeably, but I could no
longer feel the heat of his skin.

"I didn't really have a choice," I said, flatly. He'd pulled away completely now, turning back

to his station and leaving me alone there, still pressed up against the counter.

I stayed there silently until he'd finished up, and was heading for the door. He stopped before

he go there, turning around to look at me. My heart thumped like it wanted to jump free of my chest.

He was still smiling, a little, but there was something else in his face.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Jill."

***

After work, I went over to Shelly's to try and focus on anything but obsessive thoughts about

me, and Max, and whatever the hell was happening between us. She was on a health food kick,
preemptively trying to undo some of the damage of the upcoming holiday season, so we ate bite-sized
vegetables and talked about nothing, while she occasionally broke off to yell at the Bachelor
contestants on TV.

"So how's work going?" she asked me, after a while. "You seem a lot less...nervous

breakdown-y."

I snorted. "Well, I guess that's one way to put it."
"I'm serious!" Shelly was gesturing emphatically with a carrot stick. "You and Chef Dylan

must have come to some sort of understanding, or..." Her mouth dropped open. "Oh my God. Are you
fucking him?"

My face colored bright red. "No!" I exclaimed, smacking her lightly on the arm.
"Ow! Asshole!" She recoiled, sucking air in through her teeth. "I just got my flu shot!"
"Well, then, don't insinuate that I'm sleeping my way to the top."
"I didn't say that." She rubbed her arm and winced. "I just thought maybe you found a non-

verbal way to work out your disagreements."

"Of course not." Ugh. I was still blushing. "That sounds like a terrible idea."
"Does it?" She bit the tip off her carrot stick, and grinned. "If you can't beat 'em, beat 'em off -

don't you dare!" She shrank away when I raised my hand, semi-threateningly. "Not on the puncture
wound! If you absolutely need to smack me, at least let me give you my good side."

"You're such a child." I got up to get another drink.
"I'm the child? You're the one who won't solve your workplace problems with sex. That's the

go-to solution for today's forward-thinking professional, haven't you heard?"

"You know Beautiful Bastard isn't a how-to book, right?"
She rolled her eyes at me. "I guess you would know, Miss Seven Habits of Highly Effective

Teens."

I threw a celery stick at her head, which she dodged, laughing. She hadn't stopped making fun

of me for that since she saw it on my shelf. I'd been given a copy for my high school graduation, years
ago, and I always thought it had some good tips in it. I certainly wasn't going to throw it away just
because I was allegedly a grown-up now.

"Seriously, though, kudos for figuring out a way to work with him. Lesser people than you

have tried and failed." Shelly had, in that inimitable way of hers, stumbled across a good point. My
gut was telling me that I needed to pull back from Chef, before my feelings ran away with me. But my
gut had been wrong before, hadn't it? I was pretty sure it must have been, even if I couldn't remember
any specific instance. Nobody's gut had that good of a track record.

We were all adults here. I could keep my feelings in check. If I got too cold or withdrew too

far, I risked losing the level of comfort that he'd inexplicably developed with me. And that seemed
crucial to our future workplace harmony.

I just had to be careful.

***

Just as I was about to close my computer that night, I heard the soft ding of an incoming email.

It was my Google news alert for Max, which I'd set up just as Lydia suggested. So far it hadn't yielded
much, and the whole exercise did seem a bit silly - especially now, that we were actually on friendly
terms. I just hadn't bothered to turn it off yet.

But this one was a doozy. In amongst the scattered blog posts, op-ed pieces, and TV show

episode recaps from some Food Network marathon, there was a handful of stories about one of Max's
restaurants losing its Michelin stars.

My jaw dropped.
I called Shelly immediately.
"You're not going to believe this," I said, when she answered.
"Try me." The TV was blaring in the background, and her two Pomeranians immediately

started barking at the sound of her voice.

"One of Chef Dylan's restaurants lots its Michelin stars."
"Its what?"
I could hear her wandering to a slightly quieter room. "Its stars," I said. "In the Michelin

travel guide. It's like...look, just trust me, it's a big deal."

"The tire company?" Shelly was skeptical.
"They're not just a tire company," I said. "They're a travel company. They issue these guides

every year, and they review only the very best of the best restaurants. It's just a few cities that they
even bother with. London, New York, Paris...to even be in the guide at all is a huge deal, but then you
get between one and three stars ranking on top of that. They re-rank every time they do a new guide,
and this one...well, it's pretty harsh to lose stars. It means the quality of the place has slipped a whole
hell of a lot. It's a big deal for Chef's reputation."

Shelly sucked in a breath through her teeth. "Want to call in sick tomorrow?"
"Trust me, I'm thinking about it." I realized I was gnawing on the end of a pencil.
"That completely blows," she said. "I'm guessing some heads are gonna roll at that place,

huh?"

"Most likely. I guess I should just be grateful that I don't have to be around to see that."
Shelly chuckled. "Oh my God, can you imagine? I bet he'll bring a film crew with him. That's

some must-see TV right there."

I managed a small laugh, but I actually felt terrible for him. I couldn't even imagine what it

must feel like, to have such a remarkable accomplishment, only to have it snatched away. As much of
a media whore as he might be, I knew there was no chance he'd commit that to film.

Max's reputation meant everything to him. That much, to me, was obvious. Losing a few of his

stars was like losing a piece of himself.

After hanging up with Shelly, I glanced over the articles, even though I knew exactly what

they'd say. He should have been more hands-on. He should have hired more reliable staff. If only he'd
had a more experienced head chef, a better manager, this would have never...

I finally shut my computer, once and for all.

***

Max was deep in thought. I supposed that was better than a lot of the alternatives. He didn't

even say hello when I walked in, and I decided it was best to follow his lead.

He didn't speak to me until we were midway through dinner service.
"Jill, do you have any plans for Thanksgiving?" His tone was calm, but obviously restrained.
I hesitated. As usual, I couldn't tell if it was a casual, friendly question, or some kind of test.

"Not really," I said, finally. I assumed my mom was going to call in a few days and halfheartedly
remind me that I was always welcome. I'd always say thank you, but I just couldn't get away from
work. Truth was, if I wanted to eat stringy turkey and dry stuffing with sad slices of jellied cranberry
sauce that still bore impressions from the sides of the can, I could do it alone, without my stepfather
Ron glaring at me from across the table.

"How does a working holiday sound?" Max glance at me just long enough to get a reaction,

then turned back to his pie crust.

I wasn't sure how that sounded. Better than another Thanksgiving alone with a bottle of wine, I

supposed.

"Do I have a choice?" I half-joked.
Max shrugged. I didn't know what that meant. "We have to whip the New York crew back into

shape. The holiday week's the absolute best time to shut the restaurant down for re-training, it'll be
dead anyway. I thought - if you didn't have any plans, I'd like you as my backup. But I'd understand if
you can't get away."

"No, I don't see why not." A free trip to New York - even if it meant eighteen-hour days of

yelling at an under-motivated staff - sounded like a pretty good idea right now. Despite what I'd said
to Shelly about not wanting to witness the sure-to-be-epic takedown.

"Excellent," he said. "So that's settled."
We didn't talk about the trip again until he handed me my plane ticket, a few weeks later. I'd

just finished brushing flour off of my hands at the end of my shift, and was headed into the back to
change into my street clothes. It took me a moment to process what I was looking at.

"We fly out tomorrow night," he said. "I'll send a town car for you three hours before flight

time."

I nodded, tucking the ticket into my pocket. "Sounds good," I said, since it seemed like he was

waiting for a verbal acknowledgement.

Clearly, he wanted to say something else. It was on the tip of his tongue, but for whatever

reason, he couldn't quite form the words. This was hilariously unlike him. I hid a smile.

"Don't be late," he said, finally, turning back to the sink.
Really? That was it?

Have I ever been late? was what I wanted to say. Instead, I just nodded again, even though he

couldn't see me. There was simply no use in replying indignantly to Max.

***

Jostling through the crowds at JFK, I felt like I was in a waking dream. It was a short flight,

but I'd drifted off into enough of a nap that I felt like I'd been transported into a different world. If I
didn't work hard at keeping my vision focused, the harsh fluorescent lights, seemingly miles and miles
above my head, appeared to swim in circles.

I was following Max as he powered his way through the crowd, and it took me a while to

realize why he wasn't simply taking the opportunity of the many open spots in the herds that
periodically opened. As long as he was shielded by other travelers, the paparazzi couldn't get a clear
shot.

At first it was difficult for me to distinguish them from any other tourist with a giant camera

around their neck, but I soon realized what was going on. A few spotted him and started calling out.
They were trying to lure him into a clear shot, into interacting with them in some way - positive,
negative, it didn't matter. A few snapped their pictures anyway, even though they were mostly getting
blurry shots of the anonymous crowds that surrounded him. And, my foggy brain realized belatedly,
some shots of me.

What an odd feeling. I didn't think an airport appearance by Chef Dylan rated much more than

simply appearing on one of TMZ's side blogs, but still...

I smirked, suddenly imagining myself being referred to as a mystery woman or something

equally ridiculous. The more I thought about it, the more I realized this was quite likely to command
at least a mini-feature of some kind. After all, it wouldn't take Sherlock Holmes to piece the situation
together. Shortly after losing his Michelin stars at his New York restaurant, Chef Dylan flies to New
York. Drama ahoy!

Somehow, even as Max powered through the crowd like a locomotive, I managed not to lose

him. There was a town car waiting to whisk us away to our hotel - well, "crawl" rather than "whisk,"
really, but that was hardly the driver's fault.

I was surprised when we pulled up to the curb of a pretty ordinary-looking chain hotel. Not

that I'd been expecting The Plaza or anything, but didn't this guy have some serious money to burn?
Maybe he was just tired of luxury hotels. I tried to imagine what that would feel like, and came up
blank.

Mine and Max's rooms were directly next to each other. He gave me what I assumed was a

"goodnight" nod just before disappearing behind his door, and I nodded back.

Well. The room, I had to admit, was pretty nice.
There was a chilled bottle of Evian on the coffee table - no doubt, cracking the seal would

mean a $5 charge to the room - and they had switched on some of the lower lights in anticipation of
my arrival. A card on the pillow let me know about the twice-daily maid service and how I shouldn't
hesitate to call the front desk if I needed anything at all.

Okay, so it wasn't The Plaza, but it was definitely a few steps up from the budget business

traveler places that Eric always booked for our trips together. I had to admit that.

And, the hell with it - Max was picking up the tab. I grabbed the bottle of Evian, unscrewed

the lid, and took a sizeable swig.

I was working for a celebrity, wasn't I? It was high time I started acting like it.
I flopped down on the bed, sinking into the plush duvet and the completely unnecessary

pillows. My thoughts drifted to Max, probably just a few feet away from me right now. Unpacking,
perhaps, or undressing for a quick shower before bed.

A deep blush spread across my face and neck. What a ridiculous thing to even think about. I'd

seen him change for the kitchen enough times that I knew exactly what he looked like from the waist
up - and okay, sure, I was curious about the rest. Wouldn't anyone be?

His legs, of course, would be as muscular as the rest of him. I had an idea of that, from our

boxing match, but I hadn't seen everything. Not nearly as much as I wanted. My Google news alerts
had informed me that somehow, with everything else he had on his plate, Max also managed to
squeeze in some athletic training. He'd just run a marathon a few months ago, and made good time,
too. I had to admit it was impressive. And it made his body look pretty impressive, too.

Now I was really blushing.
I knew it was just one of those inevitable workplace crushes that happen when you have to

spend so much time around someone. Look at anybody for long enough, and you're bound to find
something you like. And really, with Max - so long as he didn't open his mouth too much - it was
pretty easy.

Shelly was right. He had a certain roughness to him that was very appealing. He looked more

like a construction worker than a professional chef. Hell, for all I knew, he did build houses in his
spare time. At this point, it wouldn't have surprised me. He looked perpetually sunburned, and really,
as we plunged headlong into a northeastern winter, I couldn't explain that at all.

His colder, more distant attitude since the Michelin star debacle was almost a relief. I missed

our friendly banter, on one hand - but on the other hand, when he acted like this, I felt like I knew
where I stood.

Despite what Beckett had told me about taking him at face value, I still felt like we were

constantly embroiled in some kind of elaborate cat-and-mouse game. And the worst part was, I wasn't
sure if I was the mouse, or the cat.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Bouchée

Bouchées are small puff pastries, stuffed with a savory filling. They are a wonderfully

indulgent hors d'oeuvre for almost any occasion, and are seldom as difficult to prepare as they
might seem. Consider serving them to add richness to an otherwise light and healthful meal. There
is nothing quite so important as building expectations for the main course. A crispy, delicious
morsel will make your guests salivate with anticipation.

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Max

***

I got the news at three o'clock in the morning. Fucking Europe. Fucking France. Fucking time

zones. Lydia called me, because she knew I'd be even angrier if I woke up and found out later.

Thing was, I knew I'd been neglecting New York. I hadn't been back in far too long. By now,

in this stage of opening the Trattoria, I should have had things well settled enough to take a quick trip
over and check up on things. But I'd let myself become obsessed with the idea of grooming Jill for
head chef, rather than actually filling the positions that needed to be filled. Hence, I felt like I couldn't
get away.

Hence, reputation ruined.
Okay. So that's a little melodramatic. But for fuck's sake, to lose Michelin stars...
There was a time when even earning them in the first place was just a distant dream. But now

that I had them, this felt like a slap in the face.

And it was, really. For once in my life, I knew without a doubt that I deserved every single

criticism. Every blog article, every magazine headline, everything.

I'd done it again. And this time, it wasn't a silly bump in the road, like a public fight that just

drummed up more business for the restaurant that immediately fired me anyway. This time, I had
risked my career.

And for what? For a woman who hated me, no matter how much she wanted to get me in bed.
No, I wasn't stupid. I might have been deluding myself a little bit, for a while, but I wasn't

stupid. Jill still resented me and she always would. She was returning my friendly overtures because
she wanted to keep the peace, and she wanted to keep her job.

I didn't blame her. It probably wasn't calculated, she just instinctively tried to match my

moods and act the way she thought I wanted her to act. Because I was her egotistical, asshole,
impossible-to-please boss. She'd stand on her head if she thought it would make me happy. As long as
I kept signing those paychecks.

Beckett was fucking naive. In general, but particularly in this instance. He thought she returned

my feelings because that was his experience with women; they had no reason to play games with him,
because he was easy. Not like me.

Nothing could ever be easy with me.
This had to stop, and it had to stop now. No matter how much Jill simpered and smiled and

admired my tattoos, no matter how sweet she'd been stopping by my house when I was insane with a
fever - no matter how much my heart ached at the thought of closing off to her, I had to. There was
absolutely nothing else to be done.

There was nothing really between us. Nothing at all.
She was never mine to lose.
So why did it feel like I'd lost everything?

***

Lydia met us at the restaurant, and pulled me into a warm hug the instant she saw me.
"Everything's gonna be great, Max," she whispered, near my ear. "You're gonna turn these

lemons into lemonade, same way you always do."

After she pulled away, she went to shake Jill's hand. "It's so nice to meet you, finally. But I'm

sorry you have to spend your holiday working."

Jill shrugged. "I like to stay busy," she said. "It's very nice to meet you, too."
Lydia, bless her, had already taken care of the most urgent housecleaning before we arrived.

The staff who were deemed most responsible had been dismissed, leaving a core crew who needed
to be re-trained before I could fill the leadership roles. Going through a hiring process again, so soon
after Trattoria, was a nightmare scenario - but this was New York, so I'd have applications for miles
and miles. It was just a matter of picking and choosing from some of the best chefs in the country.

Maybe I could convince one of them to come back to Boston and be Jill's second-in-

command.

I was still planning on promoting her, eventually. My personal feelings didn't enter into that

equation.

What was left of the staff lined up to meet me in the empty dining room, and I'd soon made a

passable snap judgment on each and every one of them. Most were competent but confused, and a
little frustrated. A few of them were sweetly slow, but I could work with that. Then there was Tom,
the floor manager, who seemed like he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I couldn't blame
him, not in the least, but I wondered if his psyche was too shattered to contribute to a healthy

workplace.

"I knew things were fucked up," he told me, without prompting, his eyes darting wildly from

me, to Lydia, to Jill, and back to me again. "I knew things were fucked up, but I can only do so much,
you know? I can only manage the front of the house so well when everything else is falling down
around my ears. I tried, you know? I tried."

"Relax," I commanded him. It didn't really work, but it did get him to shut up for a while,

which was all I needed.

Lydia had already filled me in on the results of her audit. It was exactly the problems I would

have guessed. Too many egos, too many corners cut, all the usual subtle problems that would pass at
most restaurants. But not this one.

I'd finished a walkthrough, making sure the kitchen was clean, at least, and none of the food in

the walk-ins was rotting, when I heard a tiny ahem from several feet away. I turned towards it.

The soft-spoken hostess was standing in the doorway, staring at me. "Umm, Mr. Chef?"
Good Christ.
"Just Chef is fine," I said. "Or Chef Dylan if you need to get my attention in a crowd. What is

it?"

"Mr. Thorne just called."
I nodded, slowly, waiting for her to explain what the hell that meant.
"He doesn't know who that is, Melissa," Tom the floor manager cut in. "Daniel Thorne, Chef -

he hired us to cater an event for him, months ago, before all this shit happened."

"Daniel...really? Why didn't I know about this?"
Melissa and Tom shrugged simultaneously.
"Fuck's sake...all right, do you know why he called?"
"He said he wants to stop by today," Melissa said, her eyes huge. It was like dealing with

Aiden all over again. "Wants to talk to us."

"About what?" I demanded.
"I have no idea," she said. "He didn't say. I guess if he wanted to cancel, he would've just

done it over the phone, right?"

"Fucked if I know," Tom grumbled.
Good. Great. So one of the world's biggest tech mogul billionaires was just dropping in,

while I was in the midst of cleaning up the rubble, and he wanted to have a chat. What could possibly
go wrong?

"I don't know if I can handle another stuffed shirt," said Tom, raking his fingers through his

hair. "I just...I just don't know. I think I'll go out for a smoke break when he shows up."

"That might be for the best," I said.
"From what I hear, he's not that much of a stuffed shirt," Lydia piped up.
"Oh, right," said Tom, his voice growing louder. "He's just eccentric. A nice way of saying

filthy rich with a social disorder."

"I don't collect my fingernails," said a voice from the doorway. "If that helps."
We all turned, slowly, and the blood drained from Tom's face.
"When I said I was coming right over, I really did mean 'right over,'" Daniel Thorne said, with

a little quirk at the corner of his mouth. "Just wanted to tweak the menu a little bit."

"I'm..." Tom started to say, but Thorne silenced him with a raised hand.
"I've heard much worse," he said. "Let's forget about it and start over. I didn't know you had a

celebrity guest."

I realized, belatedly, that he was talking about me.
"Just visiting," I said, stepping forward to shake his hand. "But hopefully I can be of some

help."

Thorne looked around the room. "I was working with Chef Andrew," he said. "Is he not in

today?"

"We've had some staff changes," I said smoothly, stepping forward and leading Thorne into

the back office area. "Chef Andrew has moved on. But I'll be happy to take over where he left off."

"I see." Thorne nodded, slowly, like he was taking his time processing this information. It was

funny - I'd seen a thousand pictures of the man, and I had a device he'd invented in my pocket. But I'd
never given him much thought before. Not as a person. I'm as guilty of that as the rest of the world,
sometimes, I suppose.

He was handsome, if you liked that sort of thing - features that were sharp but almost boyish. I

felt like his face would light up if I started talking about Nintendo games. And there was something
else, too, under the surface. A low level of discomfort. He was encountering something unexpected,
and his programming had to take a moment to adjust. To find a new protocol.

"Jill," I called out, and she came over quickly, holding her face in a very neutral smile.

"Would you please start going over my new menu with the staff while I work with Mr. Thorne here?"

She nodded, and left. I forced myself to turn my attention back to the man who was laying out

thousands of dollars for our catering services.

"I have to admit," Thorne was saying, "it's...somewhat of a relief that you're here. I wasn't..."

He paused, considering his words for a moment. "I wasn't blown away by Chef Andrew's menu."

"I'm very sorry to hear that," I said. "I'm here to whip this place into shape, if I'm being

perfectly honest, Mr. Thorne. I'm sure you heard the news."

"I did indeed." He nodded, that hint of a smile coming back. "My wife is a fan of yours."
His wife - I remembered when all that happened, a few years back. She was a former

employee of his, who married him after a hasty courtship among many rumors of gold-digging and his
questionable citizenry.

"Please, do tell her to come down and say hello if she'd like," I said.
"She'd be far too nervous," said Thorne. "And anyway, is that really in my best interests,

Chef?"

He was still smiling, but fixing me with an unnervingly steady gaze.
I took a risk by laughing. Thankfully, he laughed too, a small soft chuckle that broke the

tension.

"Sorry," he said. "That was a bad joke."
"Don't worry about it," I said. "Do you have a copy of the menu?"
He produced it from his coat pocket, and we went to work.

***

"Can I ask you a personal question?"
Thorne glanced at me. "You can," he said. "I might tell you to fuck off, though."
Things were going well. I'd expected to lock horns with him, always assuming he was a nerd

with a complex and a constant need for macho posturing to remind himself of his value in the world.
But my armchair analysis failed me, and I found he was friendly and honest, with a touch of something
wicked underneath the surface.

I liked him.

"Fair enough," I said, speaking a little more quietly. We were separate from the rest of the

staff, but still close enough that I was mindful. "You married an employee, didn't you?" Don't glance
at Jill, don't glance at Jill, DON'T GLANCE AT JILL.

"How'd you know?" he said, dryly. "Lower your voice, there might be some un-contacted

tribes in Peru who haven't heard the news."

"All right, all right." I considered my next question carefully. "But did you...I mean, how did

you handle the backlash?"

Thorne crossed his arms, still with that slight smile. "I suspect you know at least as much

about negative press as I do," he said. "If not more. What are you really asking?"

I really didn't know.
"I mean, are you happy?" The words came out in a rush, before I had a chance to filter them.
"That is a personal question," said Thorne. "But I think I know what you mean. Is it

worthwhile? Do I feel guilty for having dragged her into this life? Do I lose sleep at night? Do I ever
wish I could recover my reputation from before people thought I was being taken in by a gold-digger,
or taking advantage of an employee? Do I ever think about how things could have gone differently?"

I nodded, slowly. Yes. That was it. That was exactly it.
"I think about a lot of things," he said. "That's always been my gift and my curse. I never stop

thinking. You know, the limbic part of your brain - where the fight or fight instinct is, that part of your
brain doesn't understand levels of danger. It only knows 'good' and 'bad.' As far as it's concerned, if
you're having an anxiety attack, you might as well be running from a bear. If my stocks plummet, my
lizard brain thinks I'm about to die." He paused, glancing around the room. "So I worry," he said. "I
spend a lot of time worrying about things that don't matter. I worry about things that have already
happened, that I can't change."

He let out a long breath. "There was a time when I thought the money was all she really

wanted," he said. "Not in a cold way, not that she realized it - you see, I thought I knew her feelings
better than she did. And that's a terrible kind of judgment to make about someone. You're almost never
right."

"But the thing is," he went on, "I'd be happy with her if we had to live in a one-bedroom

shithole across the water. I've realized that now. And once you can realize something like that, you
stop worrying so much about everything else."

Daniel Thorne, a romantic. Who would have guessed?

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Fondue

Few meals are simpler, or more decadent, than a traditional cheese fondue. Save it for a

special occasion. A fresh, crusty bread is perfect for dipping, alternated with seasonal vegetables
to cut the richness. To make sure the cheese stays perfectly melted, take care not to smother the
flame, but do not let it burn too high.

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Jill

***

Two days into our kitchen boot camp, everyone was responding remarkably well. With one

notable exception.

Tom, the floor manager, seemed even worse than when we arrived. Between his constant

smoke breaks and his compulsive need to sarcastically comment on everything, I wondered if he was
absorbing a single useful tidbit from all our efforts.

After the tenth or twelfth time he stormed out, Max sidled up behind me, and said the first

words he'd spoken to me voluntarily in days.

"You know what that man needs?"
I couldn't even venture a guess.
"He needs a stiff drink," Max said. "Tonight? We're taking him out."
"We?" I repeated, turning to look at him.
He nodded, smiling. Actually smiling at me, for the first time since he'd lost his stars. My

heart flip-flopped.

"Unless you have plans," he said.
At that, I just laughed.
When Tom finally sulked back in, Max took him aside. The floor manager went white as a

sheet; his fear of being fired was driving most of his actions, I realized, and now he thought for sure
that the time had come. But all he was getting was a friendly invitation. He still looked wary once
Max walked away, but some of the color had returned to his face.

When the day's work was done, and we'd changed out of our "kitchen chic," Max led me and

Tom outside and down the bustling sidewalk, towards a bar that had a crowd of people milling
around outside. Max pressed through them without hesitation, speaking to the bouncer in low tones
until he cleared a space for us, and someone inside led us to a sequestered corner, behind a few sets
of curtains, where it became clear that we could have as much privacy and prompt bottle service as
we desired.

This was, I realized, quite normal for a man like Max. I considered looking the club up on my

phone, to find out how hard it was to get into, exactly. But I was afraid the information would just
psych me out. Plus, I couldn't remember seeing a sign at the door.

Tom was nursing his first whiskey when a statuesque blonde came wafting over to invite him

to dance. This was clearly a new experience for him, but he took it gracefully, following her out onto
the floor.

Max and I were tucked into the less visible corner of the seating area, which was fine by me.
"No paparazzi in here, I guess?" I ventured, clutching a designer martini that seemed too

beautiful to drink.

Max shook his head. "They can't allow it, or this kind of clientele would never show up."
"I can't imagine," I said. "Dealing with that all the time."
He shrugged.
"I know you must get used to it," I said. "But I can't imagine just ignoring them."
"They're very skilled," said Max, leaning back in his seat. "Manipulative as fuck. You can

beat them at their own game, but only one way - by not playing. If you say nothing, eventually they
stop chasing. They won't waste their time."

"Easier said than done, I guess."
"At first," he said. "And they'll always pop back up when there's something juicy. But you just

have to remember, if you say anything, they win. Even if you think you're not giving them what they
want, you are. All they want is a reaction. When they're buzzing in your ear, just remind yourself what
they are. They're flies. Just brush them off."

I had to smile, but I was still incredulous. How long could you possibly ignore that kind of

obnoxious, invasive behavior? I suddenly had a lot of sympathy for every celebrity who'd been
accused of punching a photographer in the face, or breaking their camera, or...

"Jillian," said Chef, snapping me out of my train of thought. He had that look in his eyes.
"Yes, Chef," I said, automatically.
"Speaking as your boss. You're forbidden to talk to these people. Do you understand?"
I swallowed thickly. "Yes," I said. "Of course."
His eyes flickered, as if acknowledging the sudden switch between friendly conversation and

Chef Dylan's Orders™. Did I see a hint of...self-doubt? No, surely not. He cleared his throat and
glanced at the floor briefly before looking back at my face.

"My reputation's on the line," he said. "Everything you do, and say, reflects on me. For as long

as you work for me, you just can't engage with them."

"I understand." My heart throbbed in my chest. I felt ashamed, scolded, like a little kid who'd

done something bad, just because they didn't know any better.

***

"That is one thing I'll always appreciate about this city over Boston," said Max, finishing his

umpteenth vodka tonic. "Bars closing at two o'clock? What kind of nonsense is that? God bless New
York."

"Come on," I said, eyeing my latest designer martini with suspicion. Would this be the drink

that finally came back to bite me? I was fast approaching the "one drink too many" line, but I hadn't
crossed it yet. "Has anything good ever happened in a bar after two A.M.?"

"Plenty," said Max, grinning. I wasn't sure when it happened, but he was splayed out far

enough on the lounge that his leg was pressed up against mine. And I wasn't making any concerted
effort to move it.

In my knee-length cocktail dress and black tights, I felt sadly underdressed compared to the

V.I.P.s I saw milling around us. But Max was looking at me like I was the best thing he'd ever seen,
and really, that was enough.

"This, for instance," he said, still looking at me. "This is good."
"I don't think it's after two," I said. "I mean, I'm pretty sure."
"But how sure you can you be?" His mouth, I couldn't stop staring it, and the tip of his tongue

flicked out, going for the tiny straw in his glass - God. A sudden wave of arousal crashed through me,
and thanks to the alcohol, I was powerless to stop it. I shuddered a little, feeling a slow, steady ache
set in between my thighs.

This is ridiculous. Stop it, Jill. Stop it.
But I couldn't stop it, and I couldn't help but remember every time we'd touched or almost

touched, and when he'd invited me into the ring, his muscles so taut and strong, a body that could
easily hold me down until I begged for mercy.

How drunk was he? If I put his hand between my legs, right now, in this bar - what would he

do?

My lips were parted as I struggled to catch my breath, and I realized he was staring at me. In

the low light, would he be able to see how flushed my skin was? How dark my eyes had gotten?

I didn't know if he could or not, but he looked a little breathless too.
Our mouths crashed together a second later - who started it, I couldn't be sure, but his tongue

slipped hot and wet into my mouth and I moaned, muffled, against him. All I wanted was to climb
onto his lap and grind down on him, until he understood what he'd done to me - what his ridiculous,
sexy, infuriating self had inspired - but I wasn't sure I had the coordination.

He broke away, panting.
"No," he said, shaking his head, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "You're..."
"Drunk," I supplied. "So are you. But I know what I'm doing."
He hesitated long enough for me to kiss him again, sliding my hand around the back of his

neck, reaching for the arm that was closest to me, and bringing it...closer...

He broke away, one more time, and I knew. I knew it was over.
"We can't," he murmured, his eyes opening slowly. "Jill, we..."
He didn't sound entirely convincing, probably because he didn't sound entirely convinced.

Yet. He was still caught up in the moment, but he was grasping for something.

Please don't find it. Please just let me have this.

But it was already too late. He was pulling away. Not far, but far enough to say what he

couldn't quite but into words.

My hands were trembling. I clasped them in front of me, awkwardly, anything to stop the

shaking. I tasted blood and realized I was biting my lip.

"I'm sorry," he said, softly. He wasn't bullshitting me. Sorry was written across his face, and

not just because he was walking away from an easy lay. He was Chef Maxwell Dylan, for fuck's sake.
He could get any woman, any time he wanted.

But he wouldn't take me. Not even when I was practically serving myself up, on a silver

platter.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Entremet

An entremet is something sweet, a palate cleanser served between courses. Sometimes it

refers to a dessert served afterwards, to clear the savory richness of the main dish. As much as we
all love salt and garlic, no one wants to leave the table with the taste still in their mouth.

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Max

***

"Melissa! Answer the phone, for fuck's sake!"
People were staring. I hadn't been in full Drill Sergeant Mode since I arrived, but things were

going to be different now. No more Mr. Nice Chef.

It was the hangover, I told myself, the lack of sleep - certainly not because Jill had gotten

smashed on thirty-dollar drinks and thrown herself at my feet. Certainly not because I had to turn her
away, for her sake and for mine. Certainly not because she was all I wanted anymore.

Certainly not that.
Thorne's words had lodged in the back of my mind. It was so simplistic, and so clichéd, but I

was beginning to suspect it was true. Find someone you're happy with, and you stop worrying about
the rest.

It was half-right, anyway. If I could give up all my Michelin stars to make Jill love me, I

would have done it.

For God's sake. How hard would Beckett laugh at me now?
"Chef?" came a quiet voice from my elbow.

"WHAT?" I whirled around, only to see Lydia standing there, her mouth drawn to a thin line.
"Your first interview is here," she said, her eyes hard as flint. Lydia had slipped into Survival

Mode. I knew it well, and it was a sign that I was officially out of control. But at the moment, I didn't
care.

Before I knew what was happening, I found myself seated across from someone with their

resume in front of my face, and it looked impressive, and they looked impressive enough - not
twitching or sweating profusely or chewing their lip or anything like that.

"You like cooking?" I demanded, staring them down, as if any professional chef with ten years

of experience could possibly answer "no."

"Is that a trick question?" he asked, calmly.
"Yes," I said. "No. It doesn't matter. When can you start?"
He blinked.
"Today, I guess."
"Then I guess you'd better get into the kitchen." I snapped my fingers. "Chop chop."
Lydia was lurking by the doorway, of course, and rapped lightly on the wood with her

knuckles.

"Maybe we'd better go over just a few practical things first, Chef," she said.
I waved my hand dismissively, and stormed out of the room.

***

"We need to talk."
Jill said this, without much conviction. I had a feeling Lydia was behind this.
"Fine," I said, gesturing towards the chair in the mess of an office that my erstwhile staff had

left behind. "Sit."

She cleared her throat, and began what sounded remarkably like a prepared speech. "I'm very

sorry for last night," she said. "It won't happen again."

I was trying to keep as stoic as possible, but no - I couldn't sit here and listen to her take

responsibility for what I'd allowed to happen.

"Please," I said. "Don't apologize. You didn't do anything wrong."
My voice came out much softer than I intended, and when she looked up at me, I swore that

her eyes were starting to redden. Of all the indignities Jill had suffered at my hands, this was the
absolute worst.

"I don't..." Her voice was starting to quiver. "I don't know what came over me. The drinking's

no excuse. I never..."

"Jill, please," I practically begged, my arm instinctively stretching across the table as if I

could reach her hand. "Please stop, please don't. The whole thing was a massive lapse in judgment on
my part. I take full responsibility. I never should have put you in that position. I know sometimes
it's...." I took a deep breath. "...difficult. Lines can get blurred. You have nothing to apologize for."

"Thank you," she said, managing a little smile. "For saying that."
Pull back, man. You're in too deep.
"I don't want you to think this will change anything," I said. "Just - you have a bright future

ahead of you, and I want nothing more than to see you succeed. That's been true since the first day I
met you."

Her cheeks went pink, and she smiled, hesitantly.
"I know it doesn't always seem like it," I said. "And I'm not trying to make excuses, but all I

ever wanted was for you to be happy."

My hungover brain was just beginning to catch up to what I'd actually said, enough to begin to

regret it - but I was immediately distracted by the look on her face. Once again, just like when I'd
called her beautiful in the kitchen, before the charity dinner where I immediately fucked everything up
again - once again, her reaction wasn't even close to appropriate for the situation. She should have
been taken aback, weirded out, and quite frankly terrified of my bizarre behavior.

Instead, her smile only grew.
Her face was shining with admiration and gratitude and I was almost entirely sure that I

wasn't just seeing things.

What if she doesn't, in fact, hate you?
What's your contingency plan for that?
"I..." She started, then paused, her eyes darting around the room as if to find the right words.

"I'm not sure what to say, Max."

"Don't, then," I said, making a valiant effort to gather the shreds of my dignity around me. "Just

get back to work."

I could still feel the warmth of her smile, long after she was gone.

***

The days in New York ran together, one leading into the next, until it was almost time for us to

leave, and I didn't even realize what had happened. I took a moment, that last morning, to just stand in
the kitchen and watch the staff - a mixture of new and old, fueled by the fear of my wrath and
disappointment - go about their business. When I heard Tom repeating one of my orders to a server, I
had to smile.

I'd done good work here. In spite of everything, the restaurant was going to be all right.
Jill and I were too busy to talk, most of the time, but I caught her watching me more than usual.

It seemed like she was trying to...figure something out, or crack some kind of mystery. Could I
possibly have feelings for this man?

I hoped she didn't. I really, really did.
I'd done enough damage in her life already. The last thing she needed was to love me.
Yet at the same time, the mere possibility of it made my chest constrict, almost painfully -
Please don't love me. But if you do, please don't tell me.
But if you do, please don't take no for an answer.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Flambé

Everyone knows flambé, but few people know the proper application of it. My

recommendation: if you haven't been taught how, don't even try. You'll singe your eyebrows off.

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Jill

***

I was back home in Boston, and I couldn't sleep.
Max was becoming a problem.
A mutual attraction was one thing. Harmless, really. People are attracted to each other all the

time, and it doesn't always result in disaster. But then, feelings get involved.

Feelings. The absolute last thing I needed to be dealing with, right now.
I mean, actual feelings - not "I'd sure like him to touch me in all kinds of places" feelings, or

"he makes me light-headed" feelings. Real actual feelings with implications that I hadn't experienced
in so, so long.

Maybe not ever. Maybe not like this.
I had to stop this. I had to squash them, flatten them down, lock them up in a box in the deepest

corner of my mind where they could starve out, and die the death they deserved. The little bastards.

I couldn't fall in love with Chef Maxwell Dylan.
But he said...
Yeah, he'd said a lot of things. They all did. They always said whatever they thought you

wanted to hear, and maybe even believed it, at the time. But when the passion started to fade, none of

it was worth a damn.

He'd even told me, once, that he couldn't make a relationship last more than a couple months.

Was I insane for even thinking about the possibility of being with him? What the hell was wrong with
me?

I knew the answer. Subconsciously, from the very first day I met him, I'd been building him up

in my head as someone completely unlike Eric. And superficially, at least, I was right. Eric would
never be caught dead yelling at someone. He was a nice guy. Calm, respectful, polite, thoughtful,
good work ethic...

...and completely and utterly capable of destroying my life without a hint of remorse.
Whenever I told someone The Breakup Story, I always left out certain parts. I didn't tell them

how I clung to his arm and begged him to stay. I let them believe I didn't hesitate, throwing him out on
his ass just as soon as he told me that he loved somebody else. But that wasn't how it happened.

Late at night, when I couldn't sleep, I'd still think back to how I behaved back then. I could see

myself, I could remember the things that I said. The indignity. Shame would creep through my body
like I'd been poisoned with it. I wanted to rewrite my own history, so that my righteous indignation
burned with the fire of a thousand suns, and I never once told him I couldn't live without him. So that I
never told him I could be anything he wanted me to be. So that I never asked him what I had to do, to
make him love me again.

Nobody knew. Nobody knew, except him and me.
And long ago, I'd promised myself I would never let it happen again.
Never, ever again would I humiliate myself like that. Not for a man. Not for anyone.
Nobody could have that power over me, especially not the likes of Maxwell Dylan.
Suddenly furious, I shot up out of bed and punched my pillow several times. Heidi started,

then lifted her head up and stared at me.

"I'm fine," I grumbled at her confused expression. "Go back to sleep."
She sighed, and laid her head back down.
I was wide awake. It was just like in the months after Eric left, when I'd drag myself through

my days, exhausted, and then snap into full alertness as soon as my head hit the pillow. I'd stubbornly
refused to take any time off work, even though dark spots swam in front of my eyes most of the time.

The quality of my cooking didn't suffer, as far as I could tell. But when a roll of industrial-

sized aluminum foil started to tumble from a high shelf, I did the thing that you never, ever do in the
kitchen - I reached out to grab it.

In a professional food setting, you don't catch anything. You just get out of the way. Too many

things are scalding hot or fatally sharp, and while the food and equipment are easily replaceable, you
might not be. I'd known this since I was a kid, yet somehow, in that moment, I forgot.

The whole thing landed cutting-side-down, right on my hands. Unlike the friendlier household

version, this particular roll had a vicious line of jagged teeth, well equipped to slice right through to
the bone. Combined with the velocity of the fall, well...

You can imagine.
I still have the scars on my palms, an everlasting monument to my stupidity. My boss at the

time sent me a "get well" card, in which he semi-sarcastically thanked me for providing such a
valuable lesson to the less-experienced staff members. And it was an important lesson for me, too.
Because it's one thing to be told not to do something, and entirely different to actually do it, and look
down and see the blood all over your hands because of your mistake.

You'll never, ever let yourself get hurt like that again.

***

Lydia had returned with us to Boston. It was somewhat of a relief to know she was around. In

a way, she felt like a buffer between me and Max, even though she wasn't always physically in the
restaurant. She handled a lot of the paperwork side of things, which did keep Max around the kitchen
more - but I just put my blinders on and pretended he wasn't there.

It got easier and easier, with each passing day.
I'd become so adept at ignoring his presence that he had to clear his throat a few times, after

dinner shift, to get my attention.

"Sorry," I said, looking up at him, without really seeing him. "What's up?"
"It's a bit complicated," he said. "Can you step into the office for a bit?"
I shrugged, hoping this was strictly business-related. Whenever Max started talking about me

personally, I couldn't control my reactions. Hard as I tried, the glow that I felt when he paid me a
compliment just couldn't be suppressed.

It was fucking annoying.
To my relief, Lydia was already in the office. So it was business. I told myself I wasn't even

slightly disappointed by this.

"Well," she exhaled, looking up at me. "First off, I want to say that you absolutely shouldn't

feel obligated to say 'yes' to this. Okay? Your first knee-jerk instinct is going to be either 'hell yes' or
'hell no,' but you can take your time deciding. The network will try to rush a decision, but they always
do."

The network?
I clasped my hands in front of me. "Okay, so what is it?"
"They want to film a big special," Lydia said. "Reality show style, you know, but it's not a full

season so it's a pretty small time commitment. They're filming in Los Angeles after the holidays. It's
going to be a rapid elimination-style competition between restaurant owners, for a cash prize. Pretty
simple, with Chef hosting -" she gestured at Max, as if she could be talking about anyone else "- and I
guess they've got room for one more. They're hoping for someone to 'soften' the whole thing. And your
name came up."

"Just 'came up,' huh?" I said, glancing at Max. He was looking at the floor.
"The compensation is pretty generous, and of course they'll cover your meals and travel."

Lydia pushed a piece of paper across the desk, in my direction. "Again, take your time. All the
information is in this contract. Just remember, once you've done something like this, you can never
undo it. You'll be in reruns on every cooking channel until the end of time."

"Is it okay if I talk this over with Chef first?" I asked her, while Max continued to study his

shoes.

"Absolutely," she said, getting up and heading for the door. "I'll be just down the hall if you

need me."

Once the door clicked, I turned to him, clearing my throat. He finally looked up.
"So," I said. "What's this all about?"
He shrugged. Was his face actually pink? What was I seeing? "I thought it might be...fun for

you," he said, without conviction.

"Who's going to run the restaurant?"
"Don't worry about that," he said. "I'll make arrangements."
"This is nuts," I said, waving the paper. "You could have mentioned something to me first."

"It all happened very quickly," he said, swallowing audibly between speaking. "They pitched

me the idea, then they immediately started asking me about someone I might recommend...you know,
someone I could get along with, someone I trust. They've given up on casting those roles themselves."

"I can't imagine why," I said, staring down at the contract. It was a pretty generous

compensation, and even though I'd managed to pay down my debts with my Trattoria earnings, the
idea of this payday still made me salivate a little. Maybe I could even move into a nicer place, with
windows that actually kept the drafts out...

I'd heard rumors about how poorly reality TV actually pays, especially for first-timers, and I

was certain that Max had lobbied for me. Which was nice, but...

I wished he would stop this kind of shit. I didn't want him making decisions for me. Deciding

what was best for me, on my behalf. I'd had enough.

"The filming schedules can get a little hectic," he was saying. "But it's not so bad, and you'll

still get some downtime in LA during one of the slowest tourist seasons."

"What are you, Fodor's?" I snapped, louder than I meant to.
Max's head jerked up.
His eyes had hardened, and I couldn't remember the last time I saw him looking at me like

this. Even in New York, when he'd been snarling at everyone, he still avoided eye contact with me.

I shivered.
"Don't speak to me that way," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "Please."
My throat tightened. "I don't get you," I said. "I really don't get you, Max. Do you want to be

friends, or do you want to be my asshole boss? Your words, not mine."

Max took in a deep breath, and let it out through his nose. "I've allowed a certain level of

familiarity between us, Jill," he said. "I think it's good for the restaurant if we can get along. But I
can't tolerate that disrespectful tone anymore. If you want to do this job, then just say 'yes, thank you.'
If you don't, then say 'no, thank you.' But I don't need you questioning my decisions."

I could feel my jaw muscles twitching, as I clenched my teeth.
"We had a good thing going, you know," I said, managing to keep my voice fairly steady. Red

was creeping into the corners of my vision. "We really did. I almost forgave you for everything. I
almost believed you, when you said that you wanted me to be happy. But all you want is for me to
happy on your terms. That's all anyone ever wants."

I was chewing on my lip, a nervous tic that I hated in myself, but at the moment I didn't care.

"You know, Chef, you were right about something. Everybody is selfish. I'm finally starting to figure
that out."

He didn't say anything to that.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Dégorger

When dealing with meats or seafoods that have a particular strong taste, you may wish to

dégorger, or extract some of the liquid from the meat using a saltwater mixture. This can also be
used on exceedingly bitter vegetables, to make them more mild and palatable.

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Max

***

"I don't understand, Beckett. I don't understand why she's so angry."
He steepled his fingers - God, but I could smack him across the face every time he did that.
"Coming to me for advice," he said. "Willingly. Well, well. The shoe's on the other foot now,

isn't it?"

I squeezed my eyes shut, tightly, leaning my head in my hands. "That's not...that doesn't even

make sense."

"How the tables have turned."
"Would you shut up?"
His eyes glittered with amusement. "All right, all right," he said, sitting up straight. "I find it

hard to believe you can't figure this out yourself, but here we are. She feels disrespected. It's not
about the reality show, obviously. It's about a pattern of you making decisions on her behalf. 'For her
own good.' She hates it when people do that, as most everyone does, but she might have a particular
reason for hating it. A lot of women do, because a lot of women have dealt with a lot of bastards like
yourself."

I opened my eyes, slowly, blinking until I could see straight again.
"You're not even arguing with me," Beckett said. "This is bad, isn't it?"
I didn't answer.
"You hired her because you thought she needed your help. Imagine how that would feel -

accepting what's essentially a charity offer from someone who once stomped all over your dignity,
and now feels bad about it."

My hackles rose at the very thought. I hadn't looked at it that way.
"You'd never do it. She only did it because she was pushed to the brink of desperation, and

maybe because she felt she had something to prove. She wants you to trust and respect her as an
equal. But you don't really trust anybody, or think anyone's your equal - which just makes the idea of
winning you over even more attractive."

"You're full of shit," I muttered, even as the obvious truth of his words began to sink in.
"Damn," said Beckett. "I really thought I had it this time."
I was staring at the floor, gripping handfuls of my own hair. Why the hell did I have to be like

this? Why the hell did she have to be like this?

I was never going to be the person she wanted me to be. She had to know that by now.
So why didn't she just give up?

***

Jill came to my office the next day, with her eyes cast down towards the floor.
I wanted to shout at her, for absolutely no reason, so she'd just leave - so she'd finally stop

trying to reach some part of me that didn't really exist. I was sick of it. I was sick of disappointing
her, sick of the way she made me feel.

But I didn't.
"I'll do it," she said, placing the signed contract on my desk. "Let me know if you need

anything else."

"Thank you, Jill," I said.
She stood there for a while, not speaking.
"I want to apologize, again," she said, finally. "For what happened in New York. And

everything else." She cleared her throat, looking up to meet my eyes. "I know it's not 'my fault,' but
this...this isn't me. I don't act like this. It's just strange, because of...you know, because of my history,
and...everything else." She blinked a few times, and hesitated again. "It's very unprofessional, the way
I've been acting, and I'm very sorry."

I kept my fists clenched at my sides, under the desk. "Let's not do this again," I said. "Trying to

lob blame back and forth. Let's just make an effort to be civil to each other, hmm?"

Her face went pale, and she stood up a little straighter. "All right, then," she said. "Sounds

good to me."

***

Christmas came on fast, as it always does, and rush of tourist business along with it. We had a

few weeks that were busy enough that I barely had to speak to anyone, unless it was about something
practical and urgent. We stayed open late for a New Year's toast, and two days later, the worst
snowstorm in a decade swept through the city.

The forecast came in the night before, but I insisted we'd stay open. Half the staff didn't bother

showing, regardless. The worst of it was supposed to hit in the afternoon, and I suppose they didn't

want to be stranded at work. I could hardly blame them.

We had exactly one customer, and then the white-out came.
"Something tells me I won't be leaving on time," said Jill, with her face pressed up against the

window. The drifts were coming halfway up the side of the building.

"Should've closed," I admitted, as the lights flickered. "Don't know what I was thinking."
"You were thinking the weather guys were full of shit," she said, charitably, throwing her

jacket over one of the dining room chairs. At least the heat was still working. "Which was a pretty
good bet, honestly."

The tension was still there, and I was beginning to realize it always would be. But we'd found

a way to work together. To be civil. Friendly, even. Soon enough I'd find a way to promote her, and
we wouldn't have to see each other all that often. I'd allow myself to forget the way she made me feel.

The lights flickered again, and then went out.
"Shit," said Jill and I, simultaneously.
"That's it," Liam said, back in the kitchen. "I'm going home."
The snow would be past his knees, but he didn't have far to walk, and I knew it was useless to

argue with him.

Jill was using her keyring light to rummage for something in the kitchen. Matches, presumably.

I was proven right when she returned to the dining room and started lighting a few of the candles, until
one corner of the dining room was filled with warm, flickering light.

"Can't even see the ceiling," she said, tilting her head back. I glanced up, and she was right.

Just endless darkness.

I sat down across from her and we stayed here in a silence that felt just as endless, stretching

between us for miles and miles. Things I couldn't say. Things she never would.

And it didn't matter, really. If she loved me or she hated me, and I now suspected it was both -

either way, there was no future for us.

I knew this, and I accepted it, for so many reasons.
But looking at her face in the candlelight, it would have been all too easy to forget.
"Do you ever wonder," she said, her knees curled up to her chest, "what would have happened

if we'd never met at Giovanni's?"

I didn't want to go down this road.
"No," I said. "I don't suppose it ever occurred to me."
"Sometimes I do," she said, simply. "But I don't suppose you would have hired me."
"I might've."
She raised an eyebrow.
"I might've," I repeated, stubbornly.
"I don't know why I ever thought you'd forgotten me," she sighed. "Like it was some random

happenstance, me ending up here."

"I hired you because you're talented," I said. "Driven. You think I hire everyone whose

feelings I've hurt?"

"No," she said. "Maybe just the ones you feel bad about."
The lights flickered abruptly, and she let out a little gasp.
"Shit." She was laughing. "You'd think I would have been prepared for that."
One more time, and then they stayed on. For one minute. Two.
Outside, I heard the massive metal groan and scrape of a snow plow. Before long, there

would be no excuse to stay here any longer. I felt desperate to make some kind of point, to make her

understand - something. But I didn't know what.

***

Before I knew it, Lydia was handing us our tickets for Los Angeles.
"Phil says six more weeks of winter," she said, cheerily. "So you're getting out just in time."
"What have I told you about referencing superstition in my presence?" I grumbled, unfolding

the envelope. Six a.m. flight. Fantastic.

"The one thing I don't get about that whole thing," Jill was saying, "is why six weeks?

Specifically? Why is that his only unit of measurement for the seasons? You would think a psychic
groundhog would be a little more range-y."

"Precognitive," I said, purely to be an asshole. "He doesn't read minds."
"Well he doesn't predict the weather, either, but as long as we're just accepting the basic

premise." Jill squinted at her ticket. "Six a.m.? Seriously?"

Lydia shrugged. "It was that, or a three-hour layover in Chicago."
"Oh, well," said Jill. "I guess it could be worse."
It got worse.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Rechauffer

Everything sounds better when you say it in French. Don't just reheat cooked food;

rechauffer. But if you can avoid it, don't reheat cooked food at all.

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Jill

***

When we arrived at LAX, it was pouring down rain. "Pissing down," as Max so charmingly

put it.

"Aren't we filming a bunch of outdoor stuff tomorrow?" I asked him, as we huddled

underneath the shelter by the passenger pickup area.

"Perhaps not," he said.
As it turned out, that should have been the least of my worries.

***

After two straight weeks of spending the first forty-five minutes of your day sitting in a

makeup chair, it actually starts to seem normal.

My makeup artist was named Una and she told me her life story over the period of several

days, to the point where I felt fully qualified to write her autobiography. I thought I looked eerie,
staring at myself in the mirror - my skin too smooth and plasticine - but on T.V. it was necessary.

Max told me this, and I didn't argue with him.
We filmed a lot of things separately, and in such a piecemeal fashion that it was hard for me to

follow the narrative of the competition. I got to know a few of the restaurant owners fairly well, but a
few of them kept blending together in my mind, to the point where I didn't dare attempt to call anyone
by name.

The weather never turned on us again. The ground was a little soggy the first day, but after

that, everything was beautiful.

Our final few days of filming involved a big group shoot with members of the general public.

The crew looked about as apprehensive as if they'd been asked to herd actual cats.

Really, though - once everyone had been pulled together and organized - I thought the crowd

was remarkably docile. They followed all their queues perfectly, and only screamed and cheered
when they were told.

I let my eyes scan over the multitudes, quietly amused at how many of the native Californians

were bundled in coats and hats because it had dipped below sixty degrees.

And then I saw him.
A face. A face in the crowd that was all too familiar to me, even after all the time that had

passed - and it really wasn't that long, was it?

We were breaking for lunch, a distant voice informed me, over the ringing in my ears. The

crowd started to disperse, and one of them started to move towards me. He didn't stop until he was a
few feet away.

"Hey," he said. He sounded the same, yet somehow, very different.
My throat had closed up. I worked my mouth soundlessly a few times before I managed to

answer him.

"Hello, Eric."

***

I'm still not sure how I ended up sitting across from Eric at one of the picnic tables. All

around us, cast and crew happily ate their lunch, chattering around mouthfuls of poached salmon and
grilled vegetables. I couldn't even see straight. I kept blinking, sure that he'd disappear and I'd wake
up back in bed.

"Jillian," he said. "Look at me. Please."
"I am looking at you," I muttered, glancing down at the plate of food in front of me. How had

that gotten there?

"You're not," he said. "You're looking through me. And I know - look, I'm not stupid, I know

that's what I deserve. But I came all the way over here to see you. Had to sell my dirt bike to get the
tickets."

I closed my eyes tightly for a moment, then opened them again. "What do you want, Eric?"
He swallowed hard, and his eyes said everything. I didn't want to hear it, but I felt paralyzed.

Rooted to the spot, my feet heavy as lead, sinking into the plastic bench.

"Jill, I fucked up. I know I fucked up. You probably..." He raked his hands through his hair,

laughing a little. "God knows what you think. I can't even imagine. As soon as I walked out the door, I
wanted to turn around and come back. At least to explain myself. I used to sit there with my phone in
my hand for hours, about to call you, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I knew it would hurt you
more. And, okay, I was a coward."

I could feel my mouth growing thinner by the second. A white noise was growing in my head,

louder and louder, a dull roar that somehow didn't drown out the sound of his voice, or the sounds of
the people around me. Their chatter seemed to grow louder and louder, almost deafening me, and I

wanted nothing more than to shut my eyes and clamp my hands over my ears and scream.

Instead, I just looked at him.
"There's nothing I can say to change your mind about me now," Eric was saying. "I know that.

But if there's any part of you...if you remember how things used to be, and I know you do, because I
do - I think about it every day, Jillian. I swear I do."

God damn him, he was right. How could I forget? Five years of my life, right out of college,

and still some of the happiest times I'd ever had. I had built a new life without him. I was glad he was
gone. But that didn't erase the memories.

Our last anniversary together, we spent in the city, the same weekend as the World Series

parade. It was the first time in a hundred years that the Sox had won at Fenway, and even though we
were miles away from the festivities, little pieces of ticker tape still fluttered down from the sky and
landed at our feet. We walked along the harbor with our fingers interlaced.

Later, I'd learn that when he stepped away to "check his work messages" or "call the boarding

kennel and see how Heidi's doing," he was really calling his new girlfriend. I remember the pit in my
stomach when I got home and picked Heidi up, and apologized for all the phone calls from my
worrying fiancé. And the owner gave me a blank look, saying they'd received no such calls.

Right then, in that moment, I should have known. Or at least suspected. But I wrote it off as a

mistake or a miscommunication. Someone else must have answered the phone. There had to be some
explanation other than Eric lying about something so silly, so mundane.

A week later, I was swimming in tears while he stormed out the door.
"Jill," he said, snapping me back to the present. "Come on, baby. Tell me what you're

thinking."

"I was thinking about our anniversary weekend," I told him, before I could stop myself.
"At the Harbor Hotel." He smiled, and it lit up his face the way it always had. Just the way I

remembered. "You know, I dream about that weekend a lot. It's a little bit like living it over and over
again. But then I wake up, and it's gone."

I knew how he felt, but I wasn't about to admit it.
He reached across the table and laid his hand over mine. I wanted to jerk it away, but I didn't.
"Jill," he said. "You know, in my dreams, we're still together."
And what about when we were together? Did you dream about her?
"Jillian!" A voice cut through the fog, jerking me away from this moment, from the strange

spell that Eric had somehow placed me under. It was Max.

I looked up, slowly. Max was walking towards me, quickly, and as he drew closer I saw his

brow furrow. He must have seen something in my face - but what, I couldn't imagine. I had no idea
how much of my maelstrom of emotions was actually showing. To my surprise, I didn't feel any tears
gathering.

Then, I realized that Eric was still holding my hand.
"Is everything okay?" Max glanced down at our hands on the table, then back up at my face.

"We need you back on camera in five."

Suddenly, I felt the weight of Max's hand resting on my shoulder. It was nothing more than a

friendly gesture, and certainly wouldn't be interpreted any other way. But as I felt the warmth of his
skin seeping through me, I remembered who I was now. What I was doing here. I was no longer Eric's
faithful, adoring girlfriend - and more than that, I was no longer the person who could play that role.

"Yes," I said, swallowing with an effort. I finally yanked my hand away from Eric.

"Absolutely great. I'll be right over."

"So that's your big bad boss, huh?" Eric observed as Max walked out of earshot. "I gotta say,

when I heard that you were working for him, I was pretty shocked. He doesn't really seem like your
style."

"Yeah, well," I said, finally standing up on unsteady legs. "People change."
I already had my back to him, and was several paces away, before he spoke again.
"Jill, wait."
Despite my better judgment, I stopped. But I didn't turn around.
"Please, can I see you again? I just want to talk some more. I miss you so much."
It was a strange, parallel universe echo of the things I'd said to him when he first left. Begging

for just one more moment. Desperate for any conversation, even if I knew it would never satisfy me.

"Please," he said again, when I didn't answer. "I'm not the same person I was two years ago.

It's like you said. People change."

I turned my head, just enough to get a sidelong look at him.
"I'm so sorry," he said, tears gathering in his eyes. "I don't even know how to tell you. I'm so

sorry, baby, for everything. Just give me a chance to show you how much."

Over by the stage, Max was frantically waving me over. I started walking again.
"I have to get back to work," I said. But it wasn't no. It wasn't no, and Eric knew that was well

as I did.

God damn it.

***

Right after the filming wrapped, the last time they called "CUT!" and we all broke into cheers,

I saw Eric's face again. I'd forced myself to focus on anything but him, losing myself in the surreality
of the filming process until it was over. But now, I couldn't ignore him anymore.

He pushed his way through the teeming masses, right towards me. He had a bouquet of white

daisies. Where had that come from?

"Congratulations, Jill," he said, his eyes sparkling just like the night I fell in love with him.

"You were great."

All around me, people were laughing and high-fiving and hugging. Friends and family were

gathering around. Instinctively, I looked for Max, but he had somehow slipped away in the midst of
the chaos.

"Come on," said Eric, reaching out to touch my arm. "Let's go have some drinks. Celebrate

properly."

"I don't know if I should..." But really, I didn't have an excuse. The day's work was done. Max

clearly didn't need me, or he would have said something before he vanished.

"Just one drink," said Eric. "Maybe two."
I had to laugh at that. "I've heard that before."
"Yeah, well." He came around and stood next to me, laying his hand on my back to steer me

forward. Just like he always used to do. But instead of feeling comforted, I bristled a little.

"Where are we going?"
"Don't worry about it," he said. "You'll love it there."
He had changed. I couldn't picture the Eric that I dated being so decisive, and so confident

like this.

Wait, wait, wait. What was I doing? Was I even thinking about the possibility of...
No. It was just a few drinks, for old time's sake. Eric was a nice guy, after all. Fun to hang out

with. Always had been. One night of booze and conversation wasn't going to send me into a tailspin, I
was stronger than that now.

***

The candles on the bar flickered gently as I waited for my vodka cranberry. It was a drink I

hadn't tasted since Eric left. More specifically, since our fifth anniversary. The second night.

Not that I was dwelling on my memories, or anything like that.
It was a drink I never thought I'd order again, as simple and innocuous as it seemed. Things

were easier, I found, when I eliminated any tastes, smells, sights or sounds that reminded me of my
life with him. But now that we were sitting side by side, in a Los Angeles sushi bar that I suspected
was going to be even more expensive than it looked, I figured it was time to get a little nostalgic.

"This is nice," Eric said, smiling at me. It was that warm, disarming smile that I remembered.

So that was one thing that hadn't changed. He was still every bit as cute as the day we met, but I
couldn't imagine him igniting the same fire that Max did. Back then, I'd been happy with our mild,
comfortable, unchallenging brand of love. It was nice. Everything was nice. But now...I could never
got back to something like that.

"Yeah," I said, as the bartender pushed my drink across the polished wood. "It is pretty nice."
"This your first time in L.A.?"
The strangeness of the question - him casually asking me about my life, like we were

strangers, lodged an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. "Yeah," I said. "Just for the filming. I
haven't really had any time to look around, though."

"Oh, that's too bad. You're leaving tomorrow?" He sipped his gin and tonic.
"Yeah."
"You should really hike out in Runyon Canyon if you get a chance. It's beautiful. But hey,

you'll probably be coming back sometime, right? Working for a world-famous chef and all that. I
never told you congratulations, did I?"

I shook my head. When would he have? And more importantly, since when did he hike?
"Congratulations," he said, lifting his glass. As he took a sip, his face changed a little. "Listen,

Jill, I just want to have fun tonight. And I guess you do too, or you wouldn't have agreed to come out
with me. So I'm not going to bring up anything unpleasant. But I just want to say, you know, again - I'm
sorry.

"I know there's nothing I can say that really makes a difference, but I want to try anyway. I'm

so sorry, and if there's ever a way for me to make it up to you, I will. I never should have done what I
did. I was childish, and stupid, and selfish. I knew all that back then, but it didn't sink in at first. It
took a long time. I've missed you every day, and even though I know we can't repair what we used to
have, I want to have you in my life. Even if we're just friends."

I swallowed. My throat was suddenly dry. My drink didn't look too appetizing, but I took a sip

anyway, enough so that I could talk. "Okay," I said.

"I'm sorry." He raised his palms in a gesture of surrender. "I'm sorry, really, I won't bring it up

again. At least not tonight. But if there's anything you want to talk about, anything you want to know,
just ask."

A million questions swirled around in my head, but I knew better than to think he'd have any

answers. Even if his attitude had changed, his excuses hadn't. I was stupid. I was selfish. I just
wanted to do what would make me happy.

I was tired of hearing them, but I knew he didn't have anything else to say to me. What could

possibly justify what he did? He hadn't had a nervous breakdown, he wasn't a raging alcoholic, he
hadn't been abducted by aliens or possessed by a demon. He was just being a human being, doing
what humans do.

Selfish. That was the word.
Eric swirled his drink. "Penny for your thoughts," he said.
I smiled. "I dunno," I said. "Nothing, really. Just letting my mind wander."
"Well, come back down to earth," he said. "Tell me about your life lately. Tell me what

you've been up to. How'd you end up working for Chef Dylan, anyway? I thought you used to hate that
guy."

Shrugging, I looked down at the bar for a moment, blinking a few times to clear my head of all

the ugly thoughts and memories. "He just called me out of the blue one day. I had applications in all
over town, and I guess somebody passed mine along to him. I never would have gone out for it on
purpose, but I needed a job and he liked me."

"Course he did." Eric grinned, gesturing to the bartender. "You want another? Looks like

you're taking your time on that one."

"Yeah, no, I'm okay. Just pacing myself." The menu didn't even have prices for mixed drinks,

so I knew I was in trouble. Eric would almost certainly offer to pay, but there was no way I'd accept.
And even though I could afford to drink anywhere I wanted now, the penny-pinching mindset of my
long unemployment was hard to shake.

"Don't worry about the check," said Eric, practically reading my thoughts like he always used

to. "It's my treat."

"No, no, that's all right," I said. "I'll pay for myself, thanks."
He raised his eyebrows a little, and I could tell he was taken aback. "Okay, all right. I'm just

offering."

I sipped my drink. "So, where are you living now?"
He cleared his throat. "I've been around a little bit," he said. "I was in Scottsdale for a while,

and then I stayed in Virginia for a little bit. Now I'm in Portland."

"Oh, so it wasn't too long of a trip here."
"Nope." He rotated his glass on the bar. "Not too bad at all."
Eric was the sort of guy who liked to settle down in one place and stay there for as long as

possible. When we met, he'd lived in Framingham his whole life. I tried to picture him moving three
times in two years, and came up blank.

"Look at you," I said, shooting him a smile for what might have been the first time that night.

"Moving all over the country, hiking the canyons. You really have changed."

Shrugging, he stirred his new drink. "I told you," he said. "The whole situation really woke me

up. I knew I had to make some changes."

He was talking about it like I'd been the one to break up with him.
"Sure," I said. "Same with me." It wasn't really true, was it? Well, I might not have changed

outwardly that much, aside from working for a celebrity. And that didn't really have much to do with
Eric. But inside, I was a completely different person.

Wasn't I?
There was a time when I would have said I'd never willingly sit in the same room as Eric, let

alone go on a date with him. But just seeing his face was apparently enough to change my mind. What
else might change, if I let myself spend any more time with him?

Come on, Jillian. Don't be cruel. He's apologized, he knows he did wrong. It's been two

years. Give him a chance.

We chatted for a long time, about nothing, and I kept on nursing my drink and wondering what

the hell I was doing. I wondered if Max knew, or suspected, who I was with - and if he was judging
me.

He almost certainly was.
Suddenly, a shrill voice rang out through the restaurant.
"ERIC!"
I almost jumped out of my skin, and Eric did too. As we both whirled around on our stools, I

saw a young woman stalking towards us from across the room.

Her face looked strangely familiar to me, in a way that I couldn't quite place, at least not

consciously. But my stomach and my heart clenched simultaneously. As she drew closer, I realized
where I'd seen her before.

In a little profile picture, on Eric's Facebook chat log.
My gaze shifted to the man himself, whose face had completely drained of all color. A

moment later, his hands started shaking.

"What the hell, Eric?" She stopped inches from him, her mouth quivering with barely-

suppressed rage. "What is this?"

He swallowed compulsively a few times. "I...you...Mindy, what are you..." His hands were

shaking even harder now, just like they did back then. When it was me with my nostrils flaring, and
tears streaming down my face, instead of her.

I wanted to cover my face and scream. I wanted to jump up and run out of the room. I wanted

to burst into flames. But all I could do was sit still and watch this twisted version of my own past
play out in front of me. Voices raised higher and higher, until people were staring, until a manager
came and made us all leave. Looking back, I can't even remember if he asked me to leave
specifically, if I was somehow a part of the ruckus without even realizing, or if I just followed them
because I didn't know what else to do.

Out in the street, she kept on screaming. He didn't speak unless she asked him a direct

question, and even then, his voice was quiet and trembling, and the only thing he said was "I don't
know."

Over and over again. "I don't know. I don't know."
I gathered the story in bits and pieces - as if the details mattered. She thought he was on a

business trip. They had been together this whole time. And me, stupid me, I'd never even considered
the possibility that they'd still be a couple. Of all the questions I'd asked him during our long
conversation, I'd never once thought to pose the question: "Do you have a girlfriend?"

And that was it. Even after the desperation faded, after I'd decided I would never take him

back, I always thought he'd come crawling back to me. Single. Alone. Pathetic.

And it happened. Just not quite the way I'd imagined.
Mindy was still shrieking. "Her? HER? You're coming back to HER? You were miserable!

You were suffocating! I MADE YOU HAPPY FOR THE FIRST TIME IN YOUR LIFE!"

Somehow, against all reason, her words didn't have the power to hurt me. I'd built such a

heavy suit of armor around myself. And in that moment, in the midst of all the insanity, I felt...proud.

"Get the fuck out - get AWAY from me!" Mindy was shoving him, still screaming, and he

went. He cowered and ran from her. He ran from her, and from me.

Mindy collapsed like all the air had been let out of her, crumpling down on the sidewalk and

shrieking with grief. Her whole body was wracked with sobs.

When the worst of it was over, she looked up at me. Her face was bright red and wet with

tears.

"I know..." she started to say, before a hiccup interrupted. She took a long, shaky breath, and

started again. "I know you hate me..."

I shook my head to silence her.
"Hate you?" I said, my brow crinkling. "I don't think about you at all."
In the ensuing silence, I turned and walked away, never pausing to look back.

***

My eyes felt tired, sticky and scratchy from too much crying. Blinking took a special effort. I'd

managed to hold myself together until we got home, spending the whole flight with my hands clasped
in my lap, staring unseeingly at the little movie screen on the seat-back in front of me. When we
parted at the airport, Max put a hand on my shoulder and said something, to which I just nodded. I
couldn't remember what it was.

At home, I washed my hands up to my elbows and unpacked mechanically. It wasn't until after

everything was put away, and my first load of laundry was running, that I collapsed on the sofa and
cried.

Normally Heidi would have come running, but the kennel was closed for the day. I wouldn't

be picking her up until tomorrow. So I cried and cried, perfectly alone in my perfectly silent
apartment.

I cried for my own stupidity, for having loved Eric so long. For almost giving him a second

chance. But most of all, I cried for the man I loved now and could never have.

There was no sense in pretending. Not anymore. Max might be a right bastard, as he'd put it,

but I knew, knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he could never hurt me like Eric did. I would
almost be willing to give him a chance, except...

Except he was my boss. Except he was a celebrity and I hated attention. Except he didn't want

me, or he could have had me by now.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Affiné

Some things must be aged to reach their full potential. They need experience, if you will.

Maturity. Once you've tasted a fully aged sharp cheddar, nothing else will do - and so affiné, the
aging process, becomes one of the most important concepts in the kitchen.

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Max

***

Barbara called me one day, out of the blue.
"I heard you're filming a new show," she said.
"Just wrapped, actually."
"Congratulations!" Her tone was...politely tolerant. Had she always sounded like this? How

long had it been since we talked?

How long had it been since I thought about her?
"So," I said, after a long pause. "What have you been up to?"
"Oh, all sorts of things." She sounded bored. Why had she called?
"Well, I'm about to head out the door," I lied. "Busy busy, you know, as usual."
"All right," she said. "Well, I'll talk to you soon, then."
"Cheers."
I tossed my phone down on the bed, wondering why I'd bothered to answer. There was a time,

I could admit it now - there was a time when I was hanging on to the hope of Barbara coming around
and realizing that she'd never find another man like me. There was a time when she was the

unobtainable one.

She'd been replaced.
I thought of Jill, her shell-shocked face when she sat across from the man who'd broken her

heart. He looked like anyone else you might run into, at the grocery store or the laundromat. He was
polite and friendly and he probably helped old ladies cross the street. But deep down inside, he was
every bit as cruel and selfish as I'd often been accused of being.

I had half-expected her to fall for him, all over again.
And hell, maybe she did. But it didn't seem like it. I was dying to ask her, to just talk to her a

little - to make sure she was all right. She had seemed hollow on the way home, exhausted and shell-
shocked, and it made me wonder what the hell he had done to her.

I'd smash his face into the pavement, if I thought it would make any difference. But the damage

was done. And as for him - well, he already lived in some version of hell. I was certain of it.

I hope you know you can do better, Jill. I hope you at least know that.

***

Beckett was upset with me.
This was not an unusual situation, but this time I was pretty sure he was overreacting.
I told him about the situation with Jill and Eric, against my better judgment, because I couldn't

help myself. He immediately went apoplectic. At least, that's how I remember it.

"Do not get involved. Do I really have to tell you this?" He looked like he wanted to punch

me in the mouth, and for once, I wasn't really sure why. "Look, I know people never see their own
patterns, but are you actually blind?"

"This isn't the same as Barbara," I muttered, slamming my desk drawer shut. "Jillian's over

him, she just - she's just struggling, that's all."

"Are you listening to yourself?"
"Why do you always insist on giving advice in these situations? You know I'm just going to do

what I want. Is it just for bragging rights? For the perverse pleasure of saying 'I told you so?'"

Beckett sighed, stepping back. Deflated, though I wasn't sure why. "No," he said. "No, I

actually just...genuinely don't want you to get hurt. God only knows why."

What could I possibly say to that?
"I'm not going to do anything stupid," I insisted. "And if I do, well, that's my fault. Not yours."
"You really don't get it, do you?" He made a little chopping motion with his hand, along with

every word, to emphasize his point. "Everything you do affects the people around you. What's going
to happen to the restaurant if you have another breakdown, like last time?"

I didn't remember that so-called "breakdown" exactly the way he did, but as usual, there was

no point in arguing about it.

"Last time we talked about this, you were practically carving me and Jill's names with a heart

around them in your tree-house," I said. "I don't understand what your problem is now."

"You're impossible," he said, throwing up his hands before storming out of the office.
Well, there's no need to be so dramatic.
It was true - one time, I thought I'd come close to being Barbara's first choice. In hindsight I

realized I never had been. I realized we weren't some tragic, romantic story of the love that could
never be. We simply weren't. It didn't matter why. But back then, I thought I'd had a chance and lost it,
and it was...

I didn't like thinking about it now.

But it wasn't like that with Jill. We were ill-fated for entirely different reasons, and I was

willing to accept that reality. I was done fighting it.

I was almost completely sure.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Persillade

If a mirepoix ever becomes too pedestrian for your tastes, consider the persillade -

shallots, garlic and parsley make a perfect addition to many dishes. But never discount the humble
mirepoix and its simple, earthy flavors. It satisfies a need for the simpler things in life.

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Jill

***

People change all the time, and they seldom do you the courtesy of letting you know

beforehand.

I remember the day I woke up and realized I didn't love Eric anymore. I had an egg sandwich

for breakfast, runny yolk, toasted English muffin, a slice of sharp white Vermont cheddar and a squirt
of Sriracha. It's one of my favorite breakfasts, and for some reason it tasted particularly good that
morning.

I took Heidi for a long walk in the crisp autumn air, savoring the sound of the leaves crunching

beneath my feet.

It wasn't until my second cup of coffee that I realized I hadn't thought about Eric all morning.
A little later, I realized that I would never take him back.
I'd felt so fragile for such a long time, so focused on the ever-dwindling hope of his return,

that this was a revelation. How strong I'd become in the past few months. And I hadn't even noticed
until then.

But now, I felt brittle. And I hated him for it. How could he still affect me like this? It wasn't

fair. It wasn't right. There must be something wrong with me. I'd spent so long convincing myself that I
was strong, that I'd moved on with my life, I'd almost convinced myself it was true.

My first day back at the restaurant was pure hell. I drifted to and from my station like a ghost,

barely focusing on my work enough to avoid cutting off a finger. I assume I didn't screw anything up,
because Max didn't say a word to me all night.

It took me so long to tidy up my station that by the time I looked up, the place had emptied out

almost completely. Only Max was left, and I realized he was watching me.

"You can talk about it, you know," he said, very suddenly. I would have jumped, if I was

capable of being startled in my current mood.

"If you want to, I mean," he said. "It just...it seems like there's something weighing on your

mind."

I paused, swallowed hard, and told him exactly what had happened. Just one or two brief

sentences, but the words felt so raw in my throat that they hurt to speak.

"Everything you're feeling now," he went on, coming a few steps closer, "is completely

normal. Don't be too harsh on yourself."

I managed a hollow smile. "Okay," I said. "Thanks."
While work was going on, I'd wanted nothing more than for it to end. But now, the prospect of

my quiet, empty apartment, with only Heidi for company...

"Is there anything else to do around here?" I asked, quietly, not looking at him. "Anything

you've been putting off? I could stay late."

He considered this for a moment. "Been meaning to rearrange the basement," he said. "Get a

better system going. Many hands make light work, if your dog will be all right."

"Yeah, it's fine. I'll just text my neighbor to walk her." I had a pretty good arrangement with

one of my fellow dog-owners across the courtyard. We usually had opposing schedules and helped
each other out whenever we could.

"Good," said Max, looking at me - a little searchingly, I thought, but he didn't actually want to

ask any questions.

The basement looked perfectly organized, to me. I glanced around the room, trying to figure

out what could be wrong with it. Max didn't say anything, and for a minute I was reminded of when
my mom used to have me "organize her jewelry box" to get me out of her hair.

"I was thinking," he said, finally, "over here, we should..." He gestured towards one of the

corners, drifting off.

"You've got nothing," I said, amused. "I mean...thanks, but you've obviously got nothing for me

to do."

"Sorry," he said, actually looking a little sheepish. "I was sure I'd be able to think of

something before I got down here."

Sighing, I sat down on one of the heavy crates. My feet ached. I hadn't even noticed how much

until now. It was tempting, terribly tempting, to just unload everything on him. But in spite of
everything, I still felt wary. I had to keep my guard up. He couldn't think of me as weak. Even though I
was obviously a mess of emotions just because my ex tried to manipulate me back into a relationship
with his cheating ass, I wanted to retain some of my dignity.

"Don't feel like you need to explain yourself," Max said. He was standing quite close now,

leaning on the end of the handrail beside the stairs. "Trust me, I know."

I looked up at him, hands folded in my lap. "I thought you said you'd never been in a

relationship longer than a couple of months."

"What we lacked in time, we made up for in co-dependency," he said. "Besides - I might have

exaggerated, a little."

"I can't picture you being co-dependent," I said. "Unless..." My gears were turning, but slowly.

There was something about his compulsive need to teach people, to help them, to direct them, to
rescue them. He needed to be needed, didn't he?

"Suppose I do," he said, and I realized that I must have been thinking out loud. "There are

worse character traits in the world. Unfortunately I have most of those, too."

"Stop it." I smiled at him, and it was genuine, this time. "You're harder on yourself than you

are on anybody else, you know that?"

"Always have been," he said. "Not that it matters."
"It matters," I told him. "Trust me. You're not a hypocrite. That's pretty much the only thing that

really matters, in the grand scheme of things."

He looked down at the floor. Chef Maxwell Dylan, struggling to take a complement. I never

thought I'd see the day. And his touching attempt to give me some work to do, even though he knew
there was nothing down here. Nothing but alphabetized wine and an overflow cooler that Aiden
already scrubbed with a toothbrush whenever things got slow.

"That's it," said Max. "I'm firing my therapist. What's your hourly rate?"
"I don't charge for friends," I said, before I could stop myself. The back of my neck

immediately started to feel hot.

"I could never take advantage of you like that," said Max, softly. He looked a little surprised.

So was I.

Are we friends?
Do I want to be his friend?
Or do I want something else...
I knew the answer to that last one, it was easy, a freebie. But I didn't want to think about it

now. I couldn't. Not with Max standing inches from me, and the two of us alone here, completely
alone, with all the time in the world.

"I'm sure everyone's already told you this," he said. "But you deserve better than him."
"I don't even know what that means anymore," I confessed, my gaze sliding back down to the

floor. "People always say that. But it's not like I was perfect. It's not like I didn't fuck up. He
should've...he shouldn't have done what he did. But what does it say about me, that that's who I
picked? That I had no idea what kind of person he really was?"

"You did exactly what you were supposed to do," said Max, reaching out and touching my

arm. The warmth of his fingertips seeped through my chef's coat. "You acted in good faith. You
trusted someone. That's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I have to blame myself," I said. "Somehow. Otherwise..."
"Otherwise it could happen again," he said, softly. "Otherwise you can't control it. You can't

protect yourself."

When I looked up at him, finally, my eyes were brimming with tears.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
"Please." He swallowed, hard. "Don't apologize. I didn't mean to make you cry, but please

don't apologize."

"You didn't," I said, taking a deep breath, trying to fight down the lump in my throat. "I just...I

feel like I'm back to square one. I hate this."

His fingers trailed up my shoulder, still just a friendly touch, I thought, but that didn't stop the

goosebumps. "Every time the wound gets reopened, it's like this. But every time, it takes less time to
heal again." A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "I promise."

"Who could possibly break your heart?" I asked, trying for a teasing tone, but not quite

succeeding. A tear was trickling down my cheek. His fingers reached the collar of my coat, and
drifted past it, to my neck.

Oh. Oh.
He was cupping the side of my face now, his thumb brushing the tear away. "You'd be

surprised, I think," he said.

"Nothing about you surprises me anymore," I lied, as he ducked his head down closer to mine.
"Well, then," he whispered. "We can't have that, can we?"
His lips were so soft and warm, pressed up against mine, and I felt like I hadn't been properly

kissed in years. In a way, it was true. New York had happened so fast, and ended up abruptly, that I
barely had a chance to feel it. This was so, so different. He kissed me with a sense of urgency, yes,
but restrained. His hand splayed out on the small of my back. I hooked my arms around his neck,
pulling him closer, scooting closer to the edge of the crate.

His free hand rested on my knee, the pressure reminding me to part my thighs and make room

for him. A moment later his body was pressed against mine, and I forgot to worry that he'd have a
sudden attack of conscience and leave me here. I forgot to worry that I wasn't ready for this.

I forgot to worry that it would change everything.
He undid my chef's coat with practiced fingers, pushing it aside to reveal the thin camisole I

wore underneath. It was almost certainly still damp with sweat from the heat of the kitchen, and I felt
briefly embarrassed, but what was the point?

"Jill," he whispered, his mouth blazing a hot trail down the side of my neck, to my chest,

leaving me with nothing to do but sigh. I tilted my head back, letting my eyes fall closed even though I
wanted to fight it. I wanted to see him, every part of him, forever - but for now, I had to close my
eyes.

There was still too much bulky fabric between us. I undid his coat as best I could, in the small

space between our bodies, and he shrugged it off his shoulders with a small movement. His muscles
rippled underneath my fingers. I wanted to touch him everywhere at once, and this was happening too
fast, and somehow too slow, all at the same time. Hastily, and a little awkwardly, I wriggled out of
my pants and let them slide down past my ankles.

Wrapping my legs around his waist, I felt his fingers edging underneath my thighs, lifting me

up. Once I was angled more towards him, my pelvis tilted back so that I was resting on my tailbone,
one of his hands grasped me possessively, in the place where I craved his touch the most.

I hissed.
It took so little, just the slightest of touches through the fabric of the panties, quickly soaked

through, and I was twisting and moaning and begging incoherently.

"Shhh," he whispered, punctuating it with a flick of his thumb that sent a shock of pleasure up

my spine. "The neighbors will hear, love."

The feelings only twisted higher, and when it finally peaked - shuddering and shivering

through my whole body with a force that felt like an earthquake - I let out a hoarse yell. I couldn't help
it.

His eyes shone in the darkness.
"Do I have to gag you?" he whispered.
"Maybe," I panted, jerking my hips towards him. I was shameless and I didn't care.

This was what he made of me.
Max shoved my panties aside, and the cool air hitting my over-heated flesh made me hiss

again. Did I used to be this loud in bed? Who knows? Who cares?

A second later, he was pressing against me, the blunt hard heat unmistakable and

unforgettable, and I'd never wanted anything more in my life.

His hands found their grip around my waist, and he just stayed there for a moment. I watched

his chest rise and fall with each harsh breath.

"What are you waiting for?" I whispered, finally, my hips rotating a little of their own accord.
He let out a little huff of laughter. "Always so demanding," he said, breathless. "Why don't you

let someone else decide what's best, for once?"

My fingers closed around the short hairs, the ones closest to the back of his neck. Hard.

Harder. Until I saw the muscles in his jaw twitch in the dim light; until he bit his lip against the pain,
but still wouldn't yield.

"Tell me something," I whispered, locking his eyes with mine. "Do you ever get tired of being

the smartest person in the room?"

And then he was inside me, in one harsh movement, and I yelped as the small of my back

collided with the concrete wall. A dull throb set in, and I saw the hesitation flash across his face.

"I'm fine," I insisted, through gritted, teeth, and it was true. The far greater pain was having

him inside me, stretching me open oh-so-slowly, but not moving. I needed him to move.

I needed him to take me like he wanted, hard and fast, until I had to bite my lip to keep from

screaming, until I tasted blood.

I needed this. I needed to leave everything of my old life behind, and I couldn't do it yet. Not

until I'd had someone else, besides Eric. Not until my long, self-imposed celibacy was broken by a
man who was everything that Eric was not.

Satisfied with my answer at last, Max drove into me again and again, shaking the milk crates

beneath me, making my teeth rattle. I let go of his hair and my hands were everywhere, nowhere,
reaching down instinctively to steady myself. My fingers slipped through the slats of the crates. I held
on for dear life, while Max's fingers left bruises on my ribs.

I wouldn't have it any other way.
He was relentless. I felt like we must have been this way forever, locked together in the

basement of the very building where I'd first seen his tattoo. Where my eyes had first drifted down the
trail of hair that led from the middle of his stomach down beneath his waistband, pointing down to the
very part of him that was wrenching a series of harsh cries from me, sounds that felt like they were
ripped from the very back of my throat.

He didn't complain about the noise anymore. But finally, one hand clamped over my mouth,

silencing me once and for all.

A jolt of pure ecstasy rocketed through me. I closed my eyes, and I saw stars.
When my inner muscles clamped down around him, he finally stuttered - hesitated a little,

starting to lose his perfect, relentless rhythm. I felt a rush of triumph. Like breaking a prize stallion.

I win. I win. He's helpless.
He groaned next to my ear, long and low and guttural, his fingers squeezing so hard around my

waist that I squealed, muffled, into his other hand. Inside me, he twitched and swelled.

At last, we were still.
His harsh, panting breaths were all that filled my ears.
In that moment, I didn't know what the hell was going to happen. And strangely enough - that

was all right.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Quadrillage

The quadrillage is one of those finishing touches that turns ordinary food into a beautiful

presentation. Simply rotate meat or vegetables carefully on a grill or grill pan, not too frequently,
and at just the right angles to create a crosshatch pattern from the blackened marks. It is not
always bad to burn. Sometimes, it makes everyday things beautiful.

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Max

***

The sobering reality started to kick in, right about the time my erection started to flag.
Funny how that always works, isn't it?
I swear to you, on my life, I didn't walk into that basement with the intention of fucking Jillian

Brown. But there she was, and there I was, and, you know...

Well, I was obviously doing her a favor. She practically begged me for it. No, scratch that -

I'm almost one hundred percent certain she did actually, literally beg.

Not that that's a reasonable excuse, on my part. Call me stubborn or call me strong-willed, but

either way, I should have easily been able to walk away from that situation. I could have stopped it
long before it spiraled out of control, but I didn't.

And I'd have to live the consequences of that.
Much as I wanted to pretend, I knew things would never be the same again.
We parted in a slightly awkward silence, cleaning up and putting ourselves back together

without making eye contact. To my surprise, Jill was the first one to talk.

"Well," she said, standing up, smiling a little bit hesitantly. "I'll uh...I'll see you tomorrow,

okay?"

Her face was still glowing with the pleasure I'd given her, her hair ridiculously mussed from

being slammed up against the wall. And here she was, talking like we were just any other boss and
employee, saying goodnight after a hard day's work.

"Sure," I said, because, well - what else could I say?
I was going to have to deal with this.
God damn it.

***

Stop fighting it. Just stop. Why bother? Act like a normal person. Tell her how you feel. Ask

her to be your girlfriend.

The idea almost made me snort out my tea. How would Jill react, if I came to her like that?

She'd probably laugh at me. Think I was joking. Slap me, maybe. Any of those would be reasonable
reactions. Far more reasonable than my assuming she'd actually want to be with me in the long term.

She didn't love me. She didn't even like me. She liked parts of me, and I could attest - that

really wasn't enough to make for a healthy relationship.

Not that I know anything about healthy relationships. But I knew enough about unhealthy ones

that I felt like it made up the difference.

I had to do something, though. I couldn't just ignore this anymore.
If only I could figure out what.

***

"Jill," I said, at quitting time. It was the first time we'd really spoken all day. She turned to

me, her face softer and more open than I'd ever seen her.

God, what have I done?
"Listen, I need to talk to you about something important," I said, feeling a tendril of guilt

slowly wrap its way around my heart. "Do you have any plans for dinner tomorrow night?"

Her eyes went very big, and I tried hard to convince myself that she wasn't imagining

something that I never intended.

"Don't you need to be here?" she asked.
I shook my head. "Don't worry about that," I said. "Yes, or no?"
She swallowed a few times, with an effort. "Yes," she said. "Of course."
A smile crept across her face as she went to gather her things. Like she knew a secret that no

one else did.

Please, don't let her hate me.
At least, not any more than she already does.

***

Jill showed up to the restaurant glowing all over, in a long blue dress that made her eyes

shine.

"Thank you for coming," I said, as she sat down. "I really do appreciate it."
She nibbled on her lower lip, a little confused.
Please don't let her think this is personal. Please don't...
What on earth was I thinking, bringing her here like this? I'd intended for it to be a peace

offering, but this...I realized now how it looked, and I saw it clearly in her face, for the first time. The
one thing I'd been denying for so long, I hardly remembered when it started.

There was respect in her face, admiration, appreciation. All the things I had wanted from her.

Everything I'd asked for.

But more than that, there was love.
A sick feeling crawled through my stomach. The server approached, hesitated a few paces

away. I made a small gesture to dismiss him.

"I have to ask you something," I said, hardly hearing the sound of my own voice.
"Yes," she said softly, still biting on her lip, as it grew redder and redder.
"I'd like for you to be my head chef," I said, the words falling like lead all around us. "I think

you've more than proven yourself."

Her face fell. I watched it, that moment when she went from hope to realization - and it sunk

in, slowly, yet oh-so-quickly at the same time.

I had never felt worse about something in my life.
But she wants this, doesn't she? It might not be what she expected, but she wants...she

wants this. Anybody would want this. It's a once-in-a-lifetime...

She was sitting there, very calmly, I thought, not saying a word. Just processing what I'd said.

Maybe this wasn't going to be as bad as I thought. Maybe I'd just been attributing all sorts of feelings
to her, all kinds of wish fulfillment. Would you really rather have her be heartbroken over you, than
happy?

"I'd like you to start next week," I said.
"I didn't say I'd take it." The words came out slowly, her voice sounding flat and

dispassionate. I blinked a few times.

"Jill," I said, slowly, "are you really...are you really telling me that you need to think about

this?"

"No," she said.
My blood ran cold. "I don't follow," I said, though I was beginning to.
"I don't want the job," she said, calmly. "But thank you for offering."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Appareil

A marinade, for instance, is a type of appareil - a basic preparation or mixture of any kind.

That's a term a lot of people never bother to teach, or learn, because it seems too simple. Too
basic. But sometimes, going back to the basic principles is exactly what's called for.

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Jill

***

"I don't want the job. But thank you for offering."
Suddenly, this whole restaurant was too small, too stifling. I stood abruptly and hurried for the

door, praying that Max wouldn't chase after me. A few blocks down, I glanced over my shoulder.
Nothing. I felt a pang of something that was certainly not disappointment, and continued on my way.

With every step, I felt more and more lightheaded. Giddy, almost. Thrilled with my own

impertinence. I'd left Chef Maxwell Dylan stunned, almost speechless, and that was an
accomplishment all on its own. I tried to imagine putting that as a line on my resume, and giggled.

My mother's voice echoed in my head, something she'd said to me a thousand times when I

was a kid. Don't cut off your nose to spite your face.

But this wasn't just about my wounded pride. It wasn't. Sure, his reluctance to pursue anything

romantic with me stung. Rejection always did. But I wasn't just being vindictive.

I was very nearly one hundred percent sure.
Whatever. My reasons didn't matter now. It was final. There was no way he'd ever offer me

the job again, even if I asked - and I certainly wasn't going to ask. He needed to believe I was one

hundred percent confident in my decision, even if I wasn't.

Whatever he thought this job offer was - a consolation prize, or an apology, or just something

to prove I was wrapped around his finger - I wasn't interested. Not after the way he'd led me on.

Tears streamed down my face as I walked to the subway. I could feel people's eyes following

me, curiously. In a lot of cities I could have walked the streets without notice with a battle-axe lodged
in my head, but not here.

Don't look at me don't look at me don't look at me DON'T LOOK AT ME
"Hey, lady, you alright?"
I ignored the man, not even looking up, just shoving my hands deeper into my pockets and

quickening my pace.

No matter how fast my feet travelled, I couldn't shake the feeling. I was being swallowed up.

Slowly. Like quicksand. Or quicksand in the movies, anyway. Seeping up past my toes, my ankles, up
my legs, and pretty soon it would smother me. But quicksand wasn't really like that, was it? I thought I
remembered reading that somewhere. It didn't happen like they showed in movies.

Nothing ever did.
That thought made me laugh a little, and it came out as a bitter, broken sound. Luckily, by now,

I was in an empty street with no one around to question what my crazy ass was doing. A movie about
me and Max? Sure, that would be a blockbuster. A modern-day Pride and Prejudice. He could be
played by Daniel Craig. No. Tom Hardy...

And we'd get a happy ending, of course. The one that could never happen in real life.

***

I sat alone in my apartment with the TV blaring, because that seemed to be the only way to

quiet the voices in my head.

No, not those kinds of voices. I knew they weren't real. It wasn't my neighbor's dog ordering

me to kill. It was just the usual, run-of-the-mill self-doubt and questioning that kept me up at night,
every time I thought I'd made a horrible mistake.

Lately, I felt a lot less like a person, and a lot more like a collection of horrible mistakes,

strung together with twist ties and chewing gum.

It was just hate-sex to him. That's all it was.
I kept coming back to that, to my insane assumption that we'd shared some kind of tender

moment in that dark basement. Why had I thought, even for a moment, that someone like Max could
ever fall for me? Why had I let myself confuse his patronizing attention for something I actually
wanted in my life?

Why had I let myself believe that he cared?
Oh, sure, he cared about me, in the same way he cared about anyone. Wanted me to succeed,

wanted the best for me, blah blah blah. I was tired of it. I was tired of people who only cared as long
as it was convenient for them.

How could I have been so stupid?
A familiar voice filtered out of my TV, and I turned bleary eyes towards it. Naturally, this

would be it. The night they decided to re-run an old episode of one of Max's shows, just to really
grind salt into that wound.

For some reason, instead of changing the channel, I just sat there. I sat there and watched him -

a few years younger, with the same unruly dirty-blond hair that I'd only just recently held clutched in
my fingers - scream at some poor sap who owned a failing restaurant.

"Is this what you want? Does this make you happy?"
I remembered him saying almost those exact same words to me. The memory hit like a heavy

punch, right in the pit of my stomach.

I forced myself to focus on the minute details across the screen. The color of the man's shirt,

the absurd pattern of his tie. The words, now that it had cut to his confessional: JORDAN HARRIS,
OWNER.

"I feel humiliated," he said. "He really cut me down."
With a sudden movement, I grabbed the remote and switched the TV off for good.

***

I was on my way to a job interview - seems like only yesterday I was going to meet Max -

when I heard someone calling after me.

It wasn't a voice I recognized, but I hesitated nonetheless.
"Jillian!" A man was waving. Something heavy jostled against his torso as he ran towards me,

and I realized too late that it was a camera. "Jillian, you used to work at the Trattoria with Chef
Dylan, didn't you?"

Frozen in place, every part of my body stiff with the effort of not screaming at him to fuck the

fuck off, I didn't answer.

"Have you heard about the lawsuit? One of the contestants on Kitchen Fixer Uppers is suing

him for emotional distress and defamation of character. What do you think about that?"

A stab of shock went through, my mind racing for a moment, and then I realized -
Not my problem anymore.
It never will be again.
He was shoving something in my face. A small digital recorder, I realized.
Finally, I found the strength to actually move. To turn around, and start walking the other way.
"Jillian! Wait! Don't you have a statement?" The man was so close, so hot on my heels, that I

felt I had to say something.

"I have to go. I'm going to miss my train." Pushing forward, head down, I could sense he was

still inches away, even before he spoke again.

"Jillian, Jill - please, just a quote. Just a soundbite. This is your chance to make your voice

heard. You must have quit for a reason, don't you want to teach him a lesson?"

Balling my hands into fists inside my pockets, I repeated in my head: He's a fly. He's just a

fly. Brush him off.

I took a deep breath, and then another. There was a hot stench of garbage creeping out from

some alley, and I told myself that was why bile was rising in my throat.

"Come on. Jill! JILL!"
I whirled on him.
"Chef Maxwell Dylan gave me a chance when I had nothing left," I shouted, so loud that he

actually stepped back from me. "You don't know him, and neither does anybody else who thinks they
have the right to judge him. Go somewhere else to dig up your dirt. I'm not playing this game."

Hot tears leaked from my eyes as I ran for my train, crying, crying for me and for Max and for

everything we could have had, until there was nothing left.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Desosser

To desosser, or remove the bone, allows for meat to be more easily flattened for cooking -

as in the case of roasting a butterflied chicken. Never let it be said that there aren't some
instances where a lack of a backbone is best.

- Excerpt from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Max

***

And just like that, Jill was out of my life.
I had misjudged her terribly - and had been, I realized, since the moment we met. The job

offer was supposed to be an olive branch. An apology. I'd taken advantage of her when she was
vulnerable and I wanted her to know I was sorry, and that it wouldn't matter. It wouldn't change things
between us.

It was only later, much later, that I realized she wanted things to change.
Here was someone who knew me, who'd endured me as a boss and as a human being, for

longer than most people could stand. And she loved me for it. There was a time when I would have
dismissed it as a schoolgirl crush, or even a coping mechanism. But I knew her better than that, by
now. She knew exactly what she was about. She'd chosen to foster these feelings for me, knowing
exactly who and what I was.

And I chose to throw it in the garbage, over a misplaced sense of chivalry.
Right. Well done.
My phone buzzed and buzzed. I'd been ignoring it for about half an hour, as calls intermittently

came in from Lydia. I assumed it was about Jill, somehow. She'd probably called and told Lydia she
was quitting. She certainly wasn't going to call me with the news, and there was no way in hell she'd
be back to work tomorrow morning. I was sure of that.

Finally, I got tired of the noise and picked up. The alternative was throwing it against the

wall, and I hated to be wasteful.

"What?" I snapped.
"Thank God!" Lydia sounded like she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. "I thought I'd

never get through to you. The network just called. They've been served papers. You're named as a
plaintiff. Jordan Harris. He's suing you, Max. He's suing you, and the network, and anyone he can get
away with."

My blood ran cold.
"Jordan Harris? From that...that shithole restaurant? The Orange Slice? What the fuck is he

suing for?"

"Emotional distress, mostly. He claims the show is staged, and he claims you got him

wrongfully fired. It's a mess, Max - and what's this I hear about Jill? What on earth did you do to
her?"

I ignored her question. "What the hell does he think he's doing? If his restaurant is still open,

I'm the only reason."

"Max! Answer me! Is Jillian really gone?"
"If that's what she told you, then I suppose so," I snapped. "Look, can we focus on one thing at

a time?"

"I'm sorry." Lydia sighed. "But you know, if she talks to the press -"
"She's got no reason to talk to the press," I cut in. "What the hell do you think I did to her?"
"I don't know, Max," said Lydia. "I really don't know."

***

"Ms. Dunkelman will see you now."
I stood and followed the young assistant, whom I couldn't recall seeing before, down the

hallway to Olive's office. When we reached it, she paused with her hand on the doorknob.

"I'm Stacey, by the way," she said, softly, ducking her eyes down to the carpet. "If you need

anything - some coffee, or a water, or...whatever, just let me know."

"Of course." I smiled at her, and she finally opened the door, blushing deeply.
"Did she flirt with you?" Olive demanded, not looking up from her desk. The door wasn't even

completely closed. "I ordered her not to. She's such a big fan of your persona. I suspect it's because
her father was a drill sergeant."

"Good morning to you, too." I settled down in the overstuffed leather chair across from her

desk. "I suppose you've seen the news."

"Well?" She looked up at me, finally. "Did you, in fact, cause him emotional distress?"
"Probably," I said. "But not worth suing over. Christ."
"Well, that's a matter of opinion. And not yours or mine, unfortunately. We have to do

everything we can to prevent this going to trial. How deep are his pockets? You saw all the finances
when you were trying to help save his stupid restaurant."

"Terrible. Even with the business from the show, he'd still be up to his ears in debt unless

somebody waved a magic wand."

Olive nodded. "Of course, none of that matters if he found someone to work pro bono on the

assumption that you'll pay through the nose, whether you're guilty or not." She cleared her throat. "And
I'm sorry to say, he's not wrong."

"But I don't understand. He signed all the waivers."
Olive gave me a look. I knew, as well as she did, that waivers were mostly just polite

discouragements. If someone wanted to lawyer up well enough, they weren't worth the paper they
were written on.

"Can't we fight it?" I asked, already knowing the answer. It would be ten times more

expensive, and it would take valuable time and resources. Going to court would be the stupidest thing
I ever did. But for some reason, the idea of settling with this lunatic made me want to claw my eyes
out.

"It's your money," said Olive, in a tone of voice that meant you stupid fucker. "But do you

really want to gamble on having a sympathetic judge?"

I knew exactly what she meant. Filthy rich celebrity who hosted an exploitative reality show

where he screamed at people, or his downtrodden victim? Who was more likely to elicit kind
feelings?

"There are certain things we can address as factual issues," Olive said. "I'm not so concerned

about those. Unless you have a disgruntled former crew member who's willing to perjure themselves,
we can establish beyond a reasonable doubt that the show is not staged. But emotional distress?" She
looked at me. "Hell, I believe him. It's just a question of whether or not it's actionable."

"He's a useless lump," I insisted. "Wouldn't do anything for the restaurant. Wouldn't do

anything to help himself. I can't stand people like that, can you?"

"No, but it's not my job to scream at them on television," Olive said, calmly. "So I won't judge

your performance in that regard."

"Can't we bring in character witnesses?"
"Not in a civil trial," said Olive, lips pursed. "And as your lawyer, I advise against opening

that door if you do ever find yourself prosecuted for a crime."

"Thanks," I said, giving her a sour look. I wasn't even sure why I'd raised the question. Who

on earth would vouch for me in court? Not Jillian, that was for certain. Not anymore.

An ugly thought was growing in the back of my mind. She'll be the next one to sue, you

know...

"What about this other thing I'm hearing about?" Olive interrupted my thoughts, and for once, I

was grateful. "Your sous chef walked out on you? Is that going to cause any problems?"

In spite of my own uncharitable thoughts, I was instantly on the defensive. "Of course not," I

said. "It was just...a professional mismatch, I suppose. She's got nothing on me."

Except for the fact that you took advantage of her when she was emotionally vulnerable,

and fucked her in a basement, all while she was your employee.

Olive had one eyebrow raised.
"It doesn't matter," I insisted. "She won't talk."
Please don't talk.
"Fine," said Olive. "I don't quite believe you, but fine. There's no sense in borrowing trouble.

Here's what we do: suggest arbitration. He might toy with us a little bit, but he'll eventually agree.
The process is going to be six levels of hell, but it'll keep it out of the press, and make it as simple as
possible."

I sighed, pressing my fingertips into my closed eyelids. She was right. I had no other options.

But the bile was rising in my throat regardless, and it was almost certainly just because I was being

sued to kingdom come.

Not at all - not at all - because of Jillian Fucking Brown.

***

I saw the article online, before anyone had a chance to tell me. I saw her name, and my heart

leapt into my throat.

"Chef Maxwell Dylan gave me a chance when I had nothing left. You don't know him, and

neither does anybody else who thinks they have the right to judge him. Go somewhere else to dig
up your dirt. I'm not playing this game."

Sitting here in the glow of my computer screen, I pulled out my phone and held it in my hand.
But what would I say to her? What could I say?
"Thank you for not throwing me under the bus?"
It was useless. There was too much bitterness between us.
I'd seen to that nicely.
The thought of her being chased down the street by one of those vultures, goaded and prodded,

and though she hadn't been able to ignore them - not like I told her - she defended me like a cornered
animal.

Thank you, Jill.
I fell asleep that night with my phone clutched in my hand.

***

Beckett and I were fighting.
Jordan Harris had accepted the settlement, and everything was going to be absolutely fine. So

naturally, it was the perfect time to be at each other's throats.

I didn't know if it was the residual stress, or maybe just our usual pattern that led to us locking

horns every six months or so. I mean serious, knock-down drag-out fights - not literally, most of the
time, mind - but not the usual light bickering that defines most of our conversations.

"This could have easily been avoided, is all I'm saying," he insisted. "Just like the thing with

Jill. Just like everything."

My hackles were up. "You don't know anything about what happened with Jill," I snarled.
"You're right," he said. "I don't have to, because it's always the same sad goddamn story with

you, isn't it? 'Oh, I couldn't help myself, I'm just out of control with my roguish charms and my brutal
honesty, and it's not my fault if people can't handle how genuine I am. I really don't know why she's
crying, honest.'"

"If you're so in love with her, why don't you go ask her why she quit?" I stood up, abruptly,

pacing the room. "Which she did, by the way. Quit."

"I don't doubt it," Beckett said, bitterly. "You always find a way to deflect the blame,

somehow."

"She couldn't put up with me!" I shouted. "Just like Jordan Harris couldn't, just like all those

other people - who cares? Some people just can't stand the heat. Get the fuck out of my kitchen,
right?"

"No one can stand you," he said. "You're a fucking arrogant prick."
"Takes one to know one." It wasn't my best work, but at least I nailed the tone. I sounded

deadly calm.

"What the fuck does that mean?" he snarled.

"You never grew the balls to say it out loud, but you always think you're right. So you hide it.

You want a fucking parade? It doesn't make you a better person than me, and it never did."

He stormed out, after that, slamming my door so hard that it would have shaken the china on

the shelves, if I had any china. Or shelves.

I realized, with a sudden sick feeling, that I would probably never see Jill again.
Beckett called later to apologize, as he always did. But I knew he was right, more than he was

wrong.

I knew, for the first time, the extent of the damage I'd done. And this time, I was going to bear

the brunt of it.

Because despite what I'd thought of her when we first met, Jillian Brown didn't need me. She

didn't need anyone. She'd be just fine on her own.

But I wasn't sure the same could be said about me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Revenir

To revenir is to fry quickly in fat, just enough to warm through. No more. It also means to

return - to come back to something, and I'll be the first to admit I don't understand what that has
to do with frying anything. But there are some questions you just don't ask in French kitchens.

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Jill

***

I still thought about him every day.
Maybe it was my work. I got a new job quickly enough, at another restaurant, lower rent, but

that was fine by me. Just another step on the ladder. I'd never really upgraded my lifestyle working for
Max, except for that sofa. Heidi and I would do just fine, with our '70s townhouse and our nuclear
orange mac and cheese.

I'm kidding, of course. I'd never feed that crap to an innocent dog. Only myself.
The point was, working in a kitchen again, it was hard not to think about Max. I'd incorporated

so many little tricks, so many things that I never thought twice about - until he was gone.

And he was. Gone. That was it. No more.
I couldn't admit, not even to myself, how much he still weighed on my mind.
Time passed, so quickly and so painfully slowly, somehow, all at once. I climbed higher on

the ladder. I climbed higher than I ever would have, if we'd never met. I could admit that now.

He'd made me better. Just like he said he would.
Every day, he was the first thought in my mind. Every night, I remembered his smile. Someday

I would make an effort to forget. Someday, I would give myself the permission to stop loving him, to
move on with my life.

But not today.
Not yet.
Just one more night, dreaming of the life I'd walked away from. No - the life I never could

have had, no matter what I did.

In my dreams, we're still together.
I was angry with myself. Furious. How much of my life was I going to waste, pining away for

men who'd never love me back?

There was no good answer. All I could do was move forward.
Move forward, and dream.

***

THREE YEARS LATER

"Order up!"
I sighed, wiping my brow on my sleeve as I leaned against the counter. The night was finally

winding down. Most likely, we'd have nothing coming in but dessert orders, and those weren't under
my jurisdiction.

As exhausted as I felt at the end of every night at this job, I wouldn't trade it for the world.

Kitchens were where I belonged. I'd known that since before I could even operate a stove on my own,
toddling around my mom's kitchen demanding to help with the preparation of Thanksgiving dinner -
the only time of the year she bothered to turn on the stove.

I was washing my knives and drying them, all laid out in a very particular way that Max had

once showed me.

Max.
My heart still twisted when I thought about him, and I was starting to think it always would.
"Knock knock," a voice came from between the doors, just as they swung open. A moment

later, my boss, Chef Shaw, walked into the kitchen with his arms spread wide. He had a bit of a flair
for the dramatic, but I loved him for it.

"Beautiful," he said. "Just what I like to see. A house full of happy customers, and a staff that's

bone tired from a day of honest work."

"How can you tell?" I went up to hug him, grinning. "Welcome back, Chef. How was

Barcelona?"

"Breathtaking. Same as always. We had a look at a few houses, but I'm not sure yet. It's a

commitment, you know?"

"You should absolutely do it," I said. "Now that you've unshackled yourself from this place.

Live the dream."

"Do it, Chef," one of my line cooks piped up from behind me. "Chef Jillian keeps this place

running beautiful."

"I know," said Chef Shaw. "But it feels so strange to be away. This place was my baby for so

long."

I nodded, bringing a stack of plates to the dishwasher. "I know what you mean. I've only been

head chef for a few years, and I already feel like it's a part of my DNA. I'm guessing it's pretty hard to
switch it off."

"But necessary," he said. "I'm just glad I'm leaving it in capable hands."
"Thank you, Chef." I still wasn't very good at taking complements gracefully, but I did my

best. Being the head chef at a five-star restaurant puts you in that habit pretty quickly.

"But I do want to ask you something," he said. "Do you have any plans for Valentine's Day

weekend?"

Clearing my throat, I considered this. "Nothing I can't break," I said, because that sounded

better than "no."

"Never mind, if you're busy," he said. "I can do it myself."
I immediately regretted my white lie, because Chef Shaw had been married for a dog's age to

a lovely woman, someone who deserved his undivided attention on the fourteenth - for once in her
life. He'd been working in restaurants for decades, where Valentine's is the one mandatory working
night of the year. Mrs. Shaw needed a proper date night. "No, please, by all means," I said, quickly.
"It's really fine - I'd be happy to work. Spend the weekend with your wife."

"Thank you, Jill," he said. "But really - are you sure?"
"Absolutely," I said. "What do you need me to do?"
It must be something other than the usual "show up here and work yourself to the bone," so I

was naturally curious. If he had me on special assignment, who'd be minding the shop?

"I'd like to send you to a charity food and wine tasting." He watched my reaction. "I've got a

few friends who'll be happy to step in here and keep the place running at full capacity, so don't worry
about that. The charity's - well, it's pretty important to me. I want to put my best foot forward. Do you
remember my mother, Tabitha?"

I did. Not too well, having only met the woman a few times, but I knew that Chef Shaw

worshipped her, and she'd recently passed away after a long struggle with bone cancer. The
fundraiser, as he explained to me, was for the American Cancer Society, and it meant a lot to him
personally. He wasn't up to traveling again so soon after his trip, but he wanted to make sure that the
catering was handled by someone he could trust.

Of course, I said I would. I didn't even hesitate.
I had no idea what I was walking into.

***

We'd arrived at the banquet hall a little on the late side. It was unavoidable, with traffic and

luggage mix-ups at the airport, but I still felt vaguely responsible. Harried, I had no patience for the
dour-faced woman who had to look at our vendor credentials for a full five minutes before she'd let
us through to set up.

The place was gorgeous. Huge vaulted ceilings, beautiful round light fixtures hanging in just

the right places. There was a loud, indistinct chatter echoing throughout the room, as everyone
readied their wares.

As I approached our assigned spot, I heard a sound that made my heart drop into my stomach.
"...and put that one over there - no, over there, I fucking - I swear to God-"
I looked away just in time, before his eyes met mine.
"Wow," said one of the servers, her voice sounding remarkably distant for someone standing

right behind me. "Look, it's Chef Maxwell Dylan."

Around me, the world slowed almost to a stop. But not quite. For a moment, all I could hear

was my own heartbeat, pounding in my ears. Then all the sounds of the room slowly came back, first
as low murmurs, then the dull roar that I suspected was closest to reality.

Someone took the totes I was carrying and set them down.
"Are you okay, Chef?" One of the servers was talking. To me, I realized belatedly.
"Yes," I said, automatically. "Are you guys okay to get started without me? I just need to run to

the restroom."

"Yes, Chef."
I beat a hasty retreat, grateful that I'd opted for sensible kitchen shoes instead of something

more formal. After some debate, I'd realized nobody would be seeing my feet anyway from the other
side of the booth. Thank God. Otherwise, I definitely would have snagged my heel on something and
gone ass over teakettle.

Ass over teakettle. Where the hell did I pick that expression up?
I knew the answer. As I splashed cold water on my face, I tried desperately to make myself

forget.

Just ask someone organizing the conference to move you to another booth. It shouldn't be a

problem, if you just explain...

But no. What kind of message would that send to him? I could dress it up any way I wanted

with my staff, tell them I'd gotten a better location or that we were being moved because of some
unavoidable organizational snafu. But Chef Dylan would know.

I walked back to our assigned spot, my head held high. There was simply nothing else to do.
The setting-up process was so hectic that I almost didn't have time to think about the man who

was standing a few feet away. When I hadn't heard his voice in a while, I finally gained the courage to
turn and look - he'd gone. Maybe he wasn't going to be working the whole night, after all. I breathed a
premature sigh of relief.

Jaime, my sous chef, sidled up to me.
"Everything okay, boss?"
I nodded, not quite trusting my voice.
"You look nervous," he said. "You got nothing to be nervous about."
"It's not that," I said. "It's..." My eyes flicked over to the adjacent booth, but I didn't let myself

look for long enough to tell if he was there.

Jaime was watching me carefully. "Oh yeah," he said, finally. "You used to work for him,

didn't you?"

I nodded, twisting something over and over between my fingers. I had to look down to figure

out what it was. A cocktail napkin. Where had that come from?

"Come on," Jaime said, finally, taking my elbow and guiding me back to our booth. "Don't

even look at him. You're going to do great."

He wasn't going to ask what happened. It was none of his business anyway, and truth be told, I

didn't know what I would say. Whatever he was assuming must be much, much worse than reality.
Which was...what?

We fell in love, and we were both too scared to do anything about it, so I ran away.
That didn't sound very good.
I kept my mouth shut.

***

"Are you going to the after-party?"
Jaime was referring, somewhat wryly, to the complementary after-hours food and drink gala

that all the staff of the event had been invited to. It was in the attached restaurant and bar, and I hadn't

been planning on it, but a drink did sound awfully nice.

Surely, the likes of Chef Dylan wouldn't deign to be seen there.
"Yeah," I said. "I think so."
I had a quick shower back in my hotel, and changed into the sleek maroon dress I'd brought for

this very occasion. It would have been a piteous waste if I hadn't found an excuse to wear it, really.

The restaurant was nice. A little too nice. Something about it reminded me of Eric, back in

L.A., there was a cold clench of panic in my chest. I forced it down, walking up to the bar and
ordering a glass of white wine.

"Hello," said a voice from the next seat down.
I gripped the edge of the bar.
"Hi," I said, before turning to look at him. "I didn't think you would be here."
Max raised his glass in a sort of shrug, or maybe it was meant to be a toast. To what, or to

whom, I couldn't imagine.

He looked tired.
"It's so good to see you again," he said, very quietly. "To see that you're..." he was hesitating. I

tried to remember if I'd ever seen him at a loss for words like this, with anyone else. "...I mean,
obviously I've been hearing things. I knew you were doing well. But it's nice to see it, all the same."

I nodded, accepting my wine and taking a long sip.
I thought about trying to escape, but there was no one else to talk to. My young staff had found

themselves in a raucous crowd, about as far from my style as was humanly possible - and I just
couldn't deal with it. I'd rather sit here in awkward, progressively drunken silence with the second
man who'd broken my heart.

"You know, it's funny," said Max, after a very long time. I blinked, and realized that the

bartender was nowhere in sight anymore. Neither was anyone else, for that matter.

He was smiling humorlessly, staring at some fixed point on the wall that I couldn't quite make

out. "I used to dream - and believe me, I know how ridiculous this sounds - I used to dream about
rescuing you from that place. I could see that you wanted better. That you deserved better. And when I
finally saw my opportunity, completely by chance, it felt like...I don't know. Fate. Providence, if you
believe in that sort of thing. I hadn't been able to stop thinking about you, for so long."

He sighed, squeezing his eyes shut tightly for a moment. He pressed his thumb and forefinger

against them, for a moment, and then finally spoke again. "Now, of course, I can see things I couldn't
see back then. You were happy there. Shortcomings be damned, you were doing your best and taking
pride in your job until my pompous ass came in and started slinging arrows. It was for your own
good, I told myself. But I was being selfish. Like always."

I opened my mouth to protest, but he raised a hand.
"Please," he said, looking at me. "Don't. I might be harsh on myself, but it's nothing I don't

deserve."

I kept my lips sealed.
"I can see now," he said, his eyes fixed on my face, "I can see it so clearly, what I couldn't see

before - or didn't want to. I fell for you that night, in Giovanni's. I fell for you, because you looked
lost. You looked like you needed someone. Me, I thought."

His eyes dropped. "I know now, of course, how stupid that was. You didn't need a white

knight, and if you seemed unhappy it was because of me. Because of the things I said. For a long time
after you left, I told myself I'd get over you. Because the fact that you walked away - that meant you
didn't need me. And it's like you said: I need to be needed. For a while I'd almost convinced myself it

was over. But I still woke up every morning, and you were the first thing I thought of. The last thing in
my head when I went to sleep.

"The way I was taught, you break people like horses. It's the only way to get through to them,

sometimes. But eventually, you find that you can't relate to people any other way. It's nasty, it's brutal,
but it becomes second nature. I'm not trying to make excuses. I don't know what I'm trying to do. But
Jill, I just..."

Max took a deep breath.
"I want you to know that I....care for you very much, and I always will. It started out as

something - well, less than flattering, but it didn't take me long to realize how wrong I was about you.
By the time we were in New York together, I'm sure you remember..." he drifted off here for a
moment, lost in the memory. "My feelings had grown into something completely different. I'd gotten to
know you, who you really are, I'd seen you perform under pressure and I was completely taken with
your grace. It was the same thing you showed me, all those years ago, at Giovanni's, and I started to
realize it was a character trait. You never lashed out. You held yourself with pride. Not vanity -
pride. I hadn't seen that in a long time."

I couldn't have said anything if I wanted to.
"Excuse me," came a voice from somewhere. I blinked, and shook my head. One of the

waitstaff was standing awkwardly, a few feet away, holding an empty drink tray in front of his torso
like a shield.

Max just lifted his head, slightly, to look at the young man, his eyes hollow and unseeing.
The server cleared his throat. "We're closing up," he said. "I'm sorry, but you'll need to

leave."

"Fuck off," Max growled, turning back to his drink. The server took a step backwards, paused

as if he meant to say something - then thought better of it, and skittered away.

"We really should go," I said, my voice husky with disuse. I cleared my throat. "Come on. We

can talk...somewhere else."

My intention, really, was to get him back to his hotel and safely in bed. Without me. Seeing

him like this, sad and regretful, all my bitterness had started to melt away. To my surprise, when I
stood up and took his hand, he didn't protest. Leaning heavily on the bar, he heaved himself up onto
his feet and followed me towards the exit.

He must have been drunker than I realized.
The server was standing by the door. As we approached, Max mumbled something that

sounded like "sorry, sorry, thank you for your excellent service" and fumbled a few wrinkled bills out
of his pocket. The server hesitated, glancing at me.

I gave him a nod, and he took the money. "Thank you, Chef," he said.
Max gave what I assumed was meant to be a dismissive gesture, and kept walking. Whatever

he regretted tomorrow morning, I had a feeling it wouldn't be the generous tip to the poor young man
who was just trying to do his job.

"Where are you staying?" I asked, as we made our way out onto the sidewalk. Max shrugged. I

couldn't help but roll my eyes.

"It's not because I'm drunk," he insisted, not entirely convincing me. "How the hell am I

supposed to remember these things? I stay in a different place every fucking week."

Well, he had a point there. "Hopefully you've still got your room key, at least," I said. "Check

your pockets."

"Ah ha," he said, after a moment, producing a little white envelope. He hadn't even bothered

to take the card out, which was a mercy, since the room number was written on the paper.

"Hang on," I said, looking at the name on the card. "Let me just look up the address." I pulled

out my phone, while Max stood there - not swaying, to his credit, but rather standing much too straight
and still for someone who was truly sober.

"It's amazing, isn't it?" he said, softly, while my phone took its sweet time to load the results.
I looked at him. His face was soft and open, almost childlike, in a way I'd never seen before.
"What is?" I asked, because it seemed rude not to.
"Technology," he said, almost dreamily.
Stifling a laugh, I looked back down at the glow of my screen.
"I just don't think we appreciate it enough," he said. "That's all."
"I appreciate the hell out of it right now, I'll tell you that." I rotated my phone to try and orient

the compass. "Okay. It's not far. Just follow me, all right?"

He plodded along silently, and I resisted the urge to reach back and grab his hand - like I

thought I might lose him, somehow. The glowing sign of the hotel finally came into view, and I
breathed out a little sigh of relief.

"Look." I pointed. "It's right there. Just a little farther, okay?"
"I'm not a child," he muttered, staring at his feet.
"Could've fooled me."
If the front desk staff looked up as I guided him through the lobby and into the elevator, I didn't

notice. The place was deathly quiet, and Max's footsteps fell heavily on the carpet, so somebody must
have noticed. But it didn't matter.

I'd expected him to collapse as soon as he got near the bed, but he just stood there, like he

couldn't remember what he was supposed to do.

"Lie down," I said, gently.
"I'm not tired," he said.
Oh, boy.
"Okay," I agreed, laying my hand on his arm. "I know. Just lie down for a minute, all right?"
"Fine," he mumbled, sitting down gingerly, then finally stretching out on his side, with his

head on the pillow. I went down to his feet and pulled off his shiny dress shoes, tucking them under
the bed. I figured it wouldn't be too comfortable to sleep in a tux, either, but I was drawing the line at
undressing him.

His eyes were closed now, and his mouth had gone a little slack. I allowed myself a moment

of quiet triumph.

Why are you doing this? You could've left him there. Somebody would have made sure he

got back all right.

But I didn't want it to just be "somebody." I wanted to make sure. I needed to.
I dimmed the lights and headed for the door. But as I passed by Max's seemingly-unconscious

body, his arm shot out towards me, fingers grasping at mine.

I stopped.
"Don't go," he murmured - so softly that it took me a second to understand.
"I..." What was I about to do, try and reason with a drunken chef? Just leave.
"Don't go," he repeated, his voice a little stronger this time. "Stay."
His eyes were still closed. Did he even know who he was talking to? Did he even know that

he was talking? Doubtful. But for some reason, instead of shaking him off, I just stood there.

"Please," he said.

I looked at the door, and then back at his face.
Damn it.
There was a chair by the bed, and I sat down carefully, not dislodging his grip on my hand.

Just until he lets go. It won't be long. As soon as he falls asleep, like really asleep...

But as soon as I sat down, the adrenaline that had kept me going - all day, and most of the

night - started to seep out of my bones. I felt like a deflating balloon. I was just going to close my eyes
for a minute -

Just a minute -

CHAPTER THIRTY

Encore

Encore. It's a lovely concept. You can always have just one more. One more taste, one more

bite. One more chance to savor. One more chance at anything you like.

- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

***

Max

***

When I woke up, Jill was still holding my hand.
I didn't put a lot of thought into that, honestly, for a while. The first few minutes of waking up

were consumed with various bathroom activities that may or may not have included retching, and
desperately trying to get the taste of rotten gym socks out of my mouth.

Unfortunately, I remembered nearly everything. Maybe it would be best to pretend that I

didn't.

Jill was, miraculously, still asleep when I ventured back out into the room. She's going to

have one hell of a crick in her neck.

I went to fetch some breakfast, half-hoping she'd be gone by the time I returned, and half-

hoping she wouldn't.

Why did everything always have to be so complicated with Jill and me?
That was a stupid question. I knew why. Because I made it that way, and I was too god

damned stubborn to change. Even for a minute, even just for a woman like Jill. As extraordinary as
she was, I couldn't pull my head out of my ass for long enough to just try.

I'd written myself off, so easily, as someone who could never be what Jill deserved. I saw it

now for the selfishness that it was.

I could have at least tried, but now it was too late.
When I got back, with two plates of assorted breakfast foods, Jill was in the shower. I set her

plate down on the bedside table and attacked mine, surprised at my own ability to overcome my
hangover in the presence of some chewy bacon and overcooked eggs.

She came out in last night's dress, toweling off her hair.
"Oh," she said, stopping in the bathroom doorway, biting her bottom lip in that irresistible

way of hers. "I thought you left."

"Just for a minute," I said, gesturing to her plate. "If you feel up to it, of course."
She shrugged, sitting down in her appointed chair and picking it up.
"Sorry about last night," I said.
She shrugged again, smiling this time. "Don't be. It was funny."
"And sorry about everything else," I said.
Jill looked at me, skeptically. "I don't know what that's supposed to mean," she said.
"I think you do," I said.
"It was just a bad situation," she said, breezily.
"But I made it worse. And I hid behind my reputation, as if that made it better." I let out a

breath in a puff of air. "When you've been labeled as a bastard, it's a little too easy to convince
yourself that you'll always be a bastard no matter how you act. So why not go whole hog? Just be
selfish, all the time, full speed ahead, damn the torpedoes. Don't worry about who you hurt. It's too
easy to forget that you gave yourself that reputation in the first place, and you can just as easily undo
it."

"I never expected that from you," she said, softly, looking up at me. "I never wanted you to

change."

"But you needed me to," I said.
She didn't disagree. But she bit her lip again, and looked up at me with expectancy that made

my heart jump in my chest.

"Jill," I said, feeling my pulse quicken. "Jill, if you...if you don't..." I had an insane urge to

gnaw on the side of my thumb. What's wrong with me? "If you don't feel...anymore..." I stalled out,
frustrated. "I don't know what I'm saying. I'm sorry."

"If I don't what, Max?" she asked. She was pale, and it wasn't just from the hangover.
"You felt...I know you felt things for me once," I managed to say, my voice sounding miles

away in my own ears. "I know I ignored them. I know I dismissed them. I was just trying to protect
you. That was stupid and I know that now. But it's been a long time, and if you...if there's nothing left
of the way you used to feel, please just tell me now. Before I make an even bigger idiot out of
myself."

"Max, I..." She swallowed, trapping her lower lip between her teeth again. "Of course I

still..." Her eyes were suddenly filled a pain she'd been hiding, carefully, for such a long time. And I
knew the feeling. I knew it so well. "Of course. Max, I never...I never stopped."

The air positively crackled with anticipation. I felt lightheaded. I felt alive.
"I know I've done this once before," I said. "But please - could I take you out for dinner

tonight? I need to ask you something important."

She just watched me, and I could see her pulse fluttering by her throat. "Is it about a job?" she

finally managed to ask.

I smiled, hesitantly. "No," I said. "No, Jill, it's not about a job."

"Ask me now," she said. "Now or never, Chef."
Her eyes shone, and I knew I didn't really need to say anything. But I wanted to.
I owed her that.
"I've done a lot of stupid things in my life," I said, smiling a little. I came closer, and reached

down so that I was just touching the underside of her chin. Very lightly, but her eyes closed for a
moment, lingering that way before they opened again. "I don't have to tell you that. I know there's no
use in apologizing for the many indignities I've put you through, but I'm going to, anyway. It's long
overdue. I'm sorry, Jill, for everything - for being who I am, because you deserve better. But more
than that, I'm sorry that I tried to make that decision for you. If you really think I'm what you deserve,
well - that's your decision."

The beginnings of a grin tugged at her mouth.
"I should have given you the credit you deserved," I said. "But that would have meant

admitting you were competent to manage your own life, and - well, then what do you need me for?"

Her eyelids fluttered again. "Maybe," she said, her voice very soft, "maybe you don't always

need to be needed. Maybe it's okay just to be wanted."

I knelt down and I kissed her, then, because what else could I possibly do?
We tumbled onto the bed at some point - exactly how, or what happened to get us there, I'll

never know. She kissed so eagerly, so urgently, and I eventually gave up on my efforts to slow her
down.

We had all the time we wanted. But after all those wasted chances, I didn't blame her.
I worked my way down her body, pushing her dress up, kissing her thigh where the skin tasted

so sweet and shower-fresh. And higher up, where I discovered something that made me lift my head
and look at her, shaking my head.

"Very naughty," I said, enjoying the blush that spread across her cheeks.
"I didn't have another pair," she said.
"So you went without." I ran my hands up her legs, her thighs, to her waist and stomach,

unencumbered by anything beneath her dress. "Well, that's only logical, isn't it?"

I wanted to see her blush grow deeper, to watch her face transform as I kissed my way up

higher, but it was impossible. All I could do was enjoy the sounds, and feel the small tremors in her
legs as I worked my way to the center of her thighs.

Really, I would have forgiven her for making some joke about food or gourmets or an

appreciation for the finer tastes in life; I'd heard them all before, but she was far too lost in the
sensations, and I loved her all the more for that.

She moaned and writhed, tensing up and shuddering under my tongue so quickly that I almost

didn't believe it. But when I looked up, her face was flushed and glowing in a way that was
unmistakable.

I didn't have time to react before she was pulling me down to kiss me again, sucking the taste

of her off my tongue, such a sweetly filthy thing that it sent a jolt straight down, making me almost
painfully hard.

"Come on," she whispered, urgently. Always in such a rush.
"Relax." I grinned, wriggling out of my shirt. "It's the journey, not the destination, right?"
"God damn it." She locked her ankles around me, pressing up into me with relentless need.

"You're a bastard, Maxwell Dylan."

"I know," I said, planting a kiss on the tip of her nose. "But I love you - that has to count for

something, right?"

Her face grew serious for a moment, even through the haze of arousal.
"I love you," she breathed, her hand resting on the back of my neck. "I swear to God I do. I

hope you've finally figured that out."

"Well," I said. "I am the smartest guy in the room."
Jill let out a squeal of laughter, socking me on the arm before I had a chance to silence her

with a long, slow kiss. Moments later, I finally gave her what she wanted. She gasped, then sighed,
taking a moment to really accept it all. I'd never get tired of that.

I didn't know what was going to happen tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next year, or...
But we'd be together. Because we had to. Because somehow, improbably, we made each

other better. I still didn't understand it, and I had a feeling I never would.

"Chef," she breathed, suddenly, with a little hitch in the middle of the word. "You never..."

Her eyes fluttered as I moved inside her. "You never asked me a question."

"When you're right, you're right," I murmured, against her collarbone. "Well...I have a few

questions...do you like it when I do this?"

I punctuated with a sharp jerk of my hips, going deep, making her back arch and her body

spasm.

"Yes," she moaned, her head thrown back. "Were you really going to ask me that at dinner?"
"No," I admitted, pulling back, then sliding in, slow and deep. Dragging it out. Teasing her. "I

was going to ask you..."

Her neck relaxed, and she looked at me. Waiting. Her eyes full of affection that I'd ignored for

too long.

"...if you like this." I slipped one hand under her thigh and lifted, hooking her leg up over my

shoulder to let me in deeper. She gasped.

"Max!" she cried out, her body quivering underneath me. Her neck and chest were flushed

pink, her nipples peaked stiff under the fabric of her dress. "I'm...you..." She panted, grinding against
me. "I've...so long..."

"Shh, I know." I lifted her hips, quickening my pace just a little. Not as much as I wanted. Not

nearly. But this wasn't about me. "I know. And I think you know exactly what I was going to ask you,
love."

Her eyes fell closed, and she let out a wordless, breathy moan.
"Say it anyway," she whispered.
"Christ." I groaned as her inner muscles clenched down on me, sending a spike of arousal

through my body. "Demanding, aren't you?"

"Ask me, and I'll do it again," she said, sweetly. A moment later I realized what she was

talking about.

"Jill, my darling, will you be my girl?" I teased, gently, trying to hide the fact that she was

making me lose control. She tightened around me again, and I shuddered.

"Maybe." She was biting her lip and it was driving me absolutely wild. Her eyes popped

open again - wicked, and dark with lust. "If you play your cards right."

At that, I cut loose. Gripping her hips tightly, I drove into her harder and harder, until every

breath was a gasp with moans in between, until her head tossed from side to side, wiping that stupid
smirk off her face. She was grabbing the headboard when she finally screamed my name - and when I
heard that, I lost all semblance of self-control. She was so hot and slick around me, and her pleasure
became mine. I shuddered and jerked inside her, spilling long and deep, years of loneliness and
frustration wrung out of me by the hot, insistent pulse of her body.

I took her leg and lowered it down carefully, first, as soon as I'd recovered. Then I rested on

top of her, gently, pressing feather-light kisses on her face. She had never looked more beautiful.

"So?" I said, my voice husky. "Did I play them right?"
She nodded, dreamily, with not a single sarcastic remark left in her.
God, I loved that woman.
Lying there in the afterglow, our bodies melded like they were meant to be together - and

maybe, just maybe, even if you don't believe in that sort of thing - maybe they were.

You'd be surprised at the sorts of things you can believe in, given half a chance.

About the Author

Melanie Marchande is a young writer who loves creating fun, flirty, and occasionally steamy

stories about two people realizing they just can't live without each other. If you'd like to read more
from her, please leave a review letting her know what you liked about the book so she knows what to
write next! You can also connect with her online:

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Document Outline

Author’s Note
Chapter One - A La Minut
Chapter Two - Charcuterie
Chapter Three - Hors D'oeuvre
Chapter Four - Frappé
Chapter Five - Nouvelle Cuisine
Chapter Six - Brule
Chapter Seven - Demi-Glace
Chapter Eight - Entrée
Chapter Nine - Portefeuille
Chapter Ten - Blanch
Chapter Eleven - Mise en Place
Chapter Twelve - Radicchio
Chapter Thirteen - Concasse
Chapter Fourteen - Mirepoix
Chapter Fifteen - Risotto
Chapter Sixteen - Apéritif
Chapter Seventeen - Liaison
Chapter Eighteen - Bouchée
Chapter Nineteen - Fondue
Chapter Twenty - Entremet
Chapter Twenty-One - Flambé
Chapter Twenty-Two - Dégorger
Chapter Twenty-Three - Rechauffer
Chapter Twenty-Four - Affiné
Chapter Twenty-Five - Persillade
Chapter Twenty-Six - Quadrillage
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Appareil
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Desosser
Chapter Twenty-Nine - Revenir
Chapter Thirty - Encore
About the Author

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