“They want me in L.A. tomorrow. They want a pilot. It’s not what I thought it would be. They don’t want my food. They want my personality.” I draw a breath. “And maybe that’s fine for someone else. But I want to make something real. I want to wake up and make something that matters—to me, to people who actually taste it.”
His eyes soften. “So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying I already made my decision.” I step closer until there’s barely space between us. “If you need a sous chef, I’d like to finish out the season.”
For a second, the world stops spinning. Then he exhales and smiles like he’s finally been allowed to breathe. “You’re sure?”
“Completely. I have everything I need right here.”
He looks down at me, eyes glinting with something halfway between relief and wonder.
“Then we’ll build it. Together. You can run the pop-ups. I’ll handle the kitchen. Tricia will turn the cameras on. And when youdofilm your show, it’ll be yours.”
“‘Yours’ has a nice ring to it,” I say quietly.
He grins. “Good. Because ifyouever need a sous chef, I make a mean apple-pumpkin pie.”
I laugh, the tension in me finally breaking. “And if I need a co-star?”
He leans in, his lips a breath from mine. “You already have one.”
For years, I’ve been cultivating countless cookbooks’ worth of recipes. But I think I’ve finally found the recipe for the best dish ever: love.
