“Yeah. It was called,” I made air quotes with my fingers, “Lunch with Leo and Luna.” I winced. “After this segment, the name was changed to Leo’s Lavish Larder.”
Which, by the way, was a terrible name. Who even said “larder” anymore?
Noah watched as the camera panned down to Leo’s manicured hands, which were expertly chopping cilantro. He worked with the precision of a man who thought he had everything under control.
Watching now—at a distance, with fresh eyes—the awe that I used to feel for him was definitely diminished. I studied him more dispassionately but still noticed how his eyes smiled from below honey-brown hair that he kept just messy enough to seem like he hadn’t spent ten minutes styling it. His crisp chef’s coat, embroidered with his name and the logo of the culinary institute he never let anyone forget he’d attended, remained spotless, despite the mess we were making.
And then, of course, there was his smile—the one that had easily convinced everyone, including me, that we were not only the perfect culinary team but the perfect couple.
Watching the footage with Noah, that sick feeling from before threatened to grip me again. Because I knew what was about to happen.
There I was, off to the side, chattering away as I grabbed limes from the counter.
“Fresh lime juice makes everything taste brighter,” I chirped—yes, chirped—as I sliced one open and squeezed it over a bowl of sriracha dressing and lobster filling.
My voice was sunny. Enthusiastic. The perfect “Luna” voice.
I saw my eyes dart down and to the side, the movement almost unnoticeable if you weren’t looking for it. But Noah didn’t have the context I did. He wouldn’t know what he was seeing, what I had been seeing at the time, so I reached across the table and paused the video to explain.
“You can’t see it from the camera’s point of view, but there’s actually an iPad kind of hidden behind the breadbasket here, which is what I was looking at just now. We used it to refer to our recipes or look things up sometimes. Notifications were supposed to be muted while we were filming, but if you listen closely, you can hear the pinging sounds. That’s when her messages started coming in.”
Noah frowned. “Her?”
“Kensington Martel. Kensi. Assistant to the assistant producer. Who is now, incidentally, Leo’s new co-star. The messages were meant for Leo’s eyes only, of course. She didn’t realize they’d show up on the tablet. And the first one…”
The table, the restaurant, and Noah’s face faded away, as I could practically see the bright message bubbles in front of me, right down to Kensi’s cutesy little emojis. “She was telling him there was lipstick on his collar—her lipstick,” I explained, swallowing hard.
Noah nodded slowly, apparently not needing more details to understand what I was saying. Grateful for that, I hit play again.
On-screen, there was another soft ping, and my video-self’s eyes flicked down to the tablet again, lingering longer this time. Some part of me, I think, had understood immediately what I was looking at. Deep, deep down in, like, the lizard brain section or something. There had just been this horrible sense of doom in the pit of my stomach, though I’d tried to come up with some other explanation.
Now, sitting with Noah, as I watched my face freeze and then slowly look back at the camera, it was like I was suddenly back in that moment. I could feel the heat from the overhead lights, could smell the herbs and the lobster meat.
“Doesn’t a dash of citrus make everything taste a little fresher, Lare?” I still sounded cheery, but my body felt…stiff.
Leo, oblivious, enthusiastically agreed as he scraped the chopped cilantro leaves into a bowl.
Another notification flashed across the screen.
Kensi: That old apron makes her look like someone’s grandmother.
What? Why would Kensi be texting this? I thought we were friends.
I glanced down at my apron—paisley and patched in places. I’d chosen it for the show deliberately, a sentimental connection to the woman who had shaped so much of who I was.
My fingers brushed the fabric, suddenly feeling exposed.
Then there was Leo in his chef coat—sleek, black, pressed, professional. My gaze traveled up to the neatly buttoned collar.
Which was when I saw it.
A pink smudge.
Right side.
My hand hovered over the bowl. The director’s voice crackled in my earpiece.
“Keep moving, Luna. We need to pick it up.”
