“Don’t embarrass me,” I tell him.

“From the sound of it, you don’t really need my help in that area.”

“What are you doing?” I ask him.

What he’s doing is holding up his spoon and using it as a crude mirror to look over his shoulder at the people behind him.

“I’m helping you spy on your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I snap.

Mike just smiles that adolescent smile of his and I’m starting to regret inviting him along.

Our waiter, a man with very little patience and a thick English accent, approaches.

“Will you be requiring anything else this evening?” he asks.

“I have a question,” Mike says, alternating eyes as he continues to pretend like he’s doing something useful with the spoon in his hand.

The waiter lets out a sigh. This isn’t Mike’s first question of the evening.

“Yes?” the waiter asks.

“Why a French restaurant?” Mike asks.

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Mike, leave the man alone,” I say, trying to get my oldest and dearest friend to stop being a jackass.

“Well,” Mike starts, “you have quite the British accent.”

“Yes, sir,” the waiter answers.

“So, why work in a French restaurant? Aren’t there any good English restaurants in the city?”

“Will you be requiring anything else this evening, madam?” the waiter asks, doing his best to ignore Mike’s idiocy.

“No, I think that will be all,” I tell him. “I do apologize for my companion. He doesn’t get out much in proper society.”

“I will have you know,” Mike butts in, “that I have personally attended many a silent auctions where I have placed bids alongside many of New York’s cultural elite.”

I’m starting to wonder if our food came to the table clean.

“Yes,” the waiter says, “well. If there’s nothing else.”

I take one more look around.

The waiter’s going to kick us out if we don’t leave soon and Dane is nowhere to be found.

“Actually,” I start, “if you don’t mind, I’d like to compliment the chef. I’ve only had confit de canard like that once before in my life.”

“Very good, madam,” the waiter says. “Perhaps your friend can fetch your coats while I take you back.”

He glares at Mike, and I’m having a little trouble keeping a straight face. I get up from the table and lead the waiter away before someone throws a punch.

When we get to the kitchen, the waiter asks me to wait outside. He’s not in there for five seconds before I can hear the chef yelling at him.

The waiter comes out, saying, “The chef will see you now, but I’d make it quick.”

I just kind of stand there for a minute.

On the other side of the door is the most talented chef I’ve ever come across since my father died, and I really don’t know if I can deal with him screaming at me. Things have been tense enough in my life.

Oh well, here I go.

The room is hot, busy. People are talking over each other, somehow keeping everything straight in the process.

It reminds me of my dad’s kitchen.

“Will you fucking look at this? It’s supposed to be braised, not reduced to soggy shit!”

“Dane?”

“What?” he shouts.

He turns around and, once he sees me standing in his kitchen, the murderous expression falls from his face.

“Leila,” he says. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

I don’t have a good answer for him.

“I could ask you the same thing,” I respond.

“I, uh…”

“Chef?” the man standing to the left of him says.

“What the fuck do you want, Cannon? I’m talking to someone here.”

The man goes back to his work without another word.

“So, you’re a chef.”

“Yeah,” he says, “about that—”

“Why wouldn’t you tell me that? Wait, is this the job you’re getting—”

“Hey guys, I’m taking a break,” Dane interrupts.

“Chef, we’re in the middle of dinner service.”

“Shut the fuck up, Cannon,” he says and walks over to me. “Yeah, we should probably have this conversation outside.”

A minute later, we’re standing out back and he’s lighting up a cigarette.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” I tell him.

“I wasn’t trying to hide the fact that I’m a chef from you, it’s just—”

“Just what?” I ask. “Oh, let me guess: You’ve got it in your head that if you were a professional musician, I would be that much more inclined to sleep with you?”

“No,” he says. “It’s not that at all. It’s just that, well, people kind of treat a person differently if they know he’s a chef.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

This whole situation is surreal and only growing stranger.

“It’s really not important,” he says. “But yeah, this is the job that I’m going to be losing.”

“After hearing the way you talk to your people, I can see why.”

“Oh, that’s just Cannon. He’s only ever useful if you’re flat out abusive to him. That doesn’t matter, though. Listen, I’m sorry that I—”

“I came back to compliment you on the confit de canard,” I tell him. “Did you make that?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve been kind of dreading making that dish ever since you interrogated me about it.”

“I didn’t interrogate—”

“You kind of did, Leila, but that’s not the point.”

“What is the point?” I ask. “Why are we even out here?”

“Other than the fact that you were about to announce to the grunts that I’m getting fired?” he asks.

“Oh, right.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I don’t know why I lied to you—well, the truth is that I didn’t want you asking me to make you French cuisine every day. I get enough of that at work, I assure you. When I come home—”

“Dane?”

“I don’t know why I kept lying.”

“Yeah, it was pretty stupid,” I tell him. “It’s not really a big deal, though.”

He takes a drag and looks off in the distance.

“My dad was a chef, did I tell you that?”

“Yeah,” he says, “when you were interrogating me.”

“I wasn’t—” I take a breath. “You’re talented,” I tell him. “I’m actually pretty impressed right now.”

“Thanks,” he says, blowing out another drag. “I don’t smoke, by the way,” he adds. “I just figured that maybe I wouldn’t have to hold my breath when I kiss… I can’t even say it.”

“Say what?” I ask.

“Wrigley,” he says with a shudder.

“Oh yeah, your bottoms-up chick.”

And I’ve just blown my cover. Maybe he’ll let it slide.

“You do remember what happened last night,” he says.

Maybe not.

“Bits and pieces,” I cover.

For a while, nothing else happens.

He doesn’t know what to say but, then again, neither do I.

“So,” he says, flicking his cigarette into the back alley, “I should probably get back in there.”

“Yeah,” I respond, “I should probably make sure Mike and the waiter haven’t gone to blows.”

“Mike?” he asks.

“He’s a friend,” I tell him. “I never mentioned him?”

“No,” he says distantly.

There’s some more awkward silence; as if we didn’t have enough of that in our recent relationship.

“Well, I should—”

“Yeah, me too.”

He opens the door and holds it for me.

“Thanks,” I say. “By the way…”

“Yeah?”

“Seriously, the food tonight was excellent.”

“Thanks,” he says. “I do my best.”

“Yeah, well…”

I don’t finish the sentence. I just walk away.

When I find Mike, he’s standing at the door, making faces every time our waiter turns his direction. For such a good friend and genuine guy, Mike is kind of an idiot sometimes.

“Ready to go?” he asks as I approach.

“Yep,” I answer.

I debate whether to tell him about Dane, but decide against it. That sick, tingling sensation I had permeating my body last night is back and this time, I can’t just blame it on the alcohol.

Chapter Ten

That Sinking Feeling

Dane

So, it’s been a couple of weeks since Leila found out what I really do. Our conversation behind the restaurant was innocuous enough, but it was the last real conversation that we’ve had.