“Just... done.”
“The chocolate review?” I perch on the edge of her desk, careful not to knock over the pen holder. Everything on Maya’s desk has its place, aligned at perfect right angles. “Who’s the victim this time?”
“Adrian Vale.”
My brain does that thing where it takes three different paths at once.Adrian Vale. The chocolatier. Wait—he’s doneother collections before. Maya mentioned reviewing his holiday truffles last year. But this is the Valentine’s collection she mentioned on the phone last night. Expensive. Probably uses Belgian chocolate. Do I have Belgian chocolate at home? No, focus. Maya’s face is doing that thing.
“The hot chocolatier with the exclusive Valentine’s collection?” The words come out before I fully process them. “I thought you liked his previous work. Didn’t you give his winter collection four stars?”
Maya’s cheeks flush immediately, confirming every suspicion I didn’t know I had. She grabs her coat with jerky movements, and I recognize that energy—it’s the same frantic need tomovethat hits me when I’m trying not to think about something.
“I did like his work before, but...” She’s already heading for the door. “Something changed. This Valentine’s collection is different.”
I slide off the desk and follow, my portfolio bumping against my hip. “Different, how?”
“It’s hard to explain. The technical execution is flawless, but there’s this emptiness.”
I step in front of her, blocking the doorway. Her face is bright red now, and Maya doesn’t blush easily. “Maya. Your face is bright red. What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing.” She pushes past me, and I let her because I know that tone. Press too hard and she’ll shut down completely. “Can we just get lunch? I’m dying for some pad thai.”
“Fine, keep your secrets.” I link my arm through hers as we head down the hallway. “But you know I’ll get it out of you eventually.”
Her phone buzzes. She doesn’t check it, but I notice how her whole body tenses at the sound.
The wind on Michigan Avenue is brutal, cutting through my coat like it’s tissue paper. I huddle closer to Maya, and my portfolio case keeps banging into her hip, but she doesn’t complain.
“I swear, one of these days, I’m moving to California,” I grumble, watching my breath fog in the air. “No artist should have to suffer through Chicago winters.”
“You’d miss the deep dish too much.” Maya dodges a patch of ice with the grace of someone who’s lived here her whole life. “And who would critique your latest paintings over curry?”
“Speaking of critique...” I shoot her a sideways glance, testing the waters. “That review of the Indian place was harsh, even for you.”
We duck into Thai Palace, and the blast of warm air makes my cheeks sting. The hostess—Mali, who always remembers us—waves us toward our corner booth without asking. The one with the view of the L tracks, where we’ve dissected everything from failed relationships to art theory over the past five years.
Before my coat is even off, Mali is already taking our order. She knows: pad thai for Maya, green curry for me, extra spicy for both.
I set my hands flat on the table, partly to stop myself from fidgeting with the napkin holder, partly to signal I’m serious. “So. Tell me about these chocolates.”
Maya’s fingers immediately find her chopsticks, rolling them back and forth. “They were just empty. Like biting into beautiful packaging with nothing inside.”
“You’re doing that thing with your face.”
“What thing?”
“That scrunched-up look when you’re holding back.The same one you had when that gallery owner hit on me at your birthday party.”
“He was married!”
“And you waited three whole weeks to tell me.” I kick her gently under the table. “Spill.”
The server drops off our Thai iced teas—perfect timing, giving Maya a reason to pause. She takes this long, deliberate sip, and I recognize the stalling tactic because I use it myself when working on a difficult section of canvas.
“There was one piece,” she finally says. “A dark chocolate truffle that tasted different.”
“Different good or different bad?”
“Both? Neither?” She presses her cold hands against her flushed cheeks. “It’s complicated.”
