“The sign?” I asked again.

“Oh yes, the sign,” he said simply. He had charisma, but I guessed he could also be a little bit of a bad boy given the right circumstances. “I’m opening up a new restaurant. I am the chef and owner. I’m Elliott. Elliott Graemmer.” He had me at restaurant. My head whirled in all kinds of directions. My heart tumbled. I tried to remain outwardly calm, but that was a very tall order because I found him so damn attractive.

I must’ve failed because he asked, “What’s wrong?”

He had completely disarmed me. When I opened my mouth, my whole life just spilled out at his feet.

“It’s just funny. I’m in the restaurant business myself.” I handed him one of my newly printed business cards. “I design restaurants. I am rather good at it. It’s also in my blood. My father owns a restaurant right outside Atlanta. My brother and his friend have opened up three restaurants in Atlanta that are pretty well-established. You may have heard of them.”

“Your family or the restaurants?” That smile returned to his face. It was really hard to answer with my knees betraying me like this.

“Both. My brother is Henry Edgeworth, and his partner in the restaurant is Griffin Hardwick.”

“Oh. The color-wheel guys. Everyone knows them.” Without meaning to do so, he slapped me back into reality. Because that was what I wanted. I wanted people to say my name and it be identifiable with a restaurant whose vision I had single-handedly created.

I wanted my brother and Griffin to be as proud of me as I was of them at this very moment. Leave it to my brother and Griffin to big-foot their way into me flirting with a good-looking man. Was that what I was doing? Flirting? It felt good but a little odd. I had never been with anyone other than Griffin. I had never even been attracted to anyone other than Griffin. The needle on my heart’s compass had never budged away from him. Until now.

The man looked around and said, “I’d love to pick your brain. I would offer you something, but we don’t have anything hooked up yet. There’s a Starbucks around the corner.” He shouted at the two men in the back of his building that he would be back and would bring them some coffee. I thought that was a kind gesture. And that is how we began.

We strolled into the Starbucks together. “What’s your name?” he asked, placing my paper cup cappuccino in front of me. “Cappuccinos should never be served in paper. Does that make me a snob?”

“No, that makes you civilized. I’m Bailey Edgeworth.”

“Nice to meet you, Bailey Edgeworth.”

Our conversation was natural and effortless. I learned that his father, like mine, owned a restaurant when he was a little boy. “Pop hated the term ‘chef.’ He would’ve thought it was too pretentious. People are very impressed by a chef who graduated from Le Cordon Bleu.”