“Now I’m wearing the color green for jealousy. The transformation is stunning.”

“You like it? I wanted you to be happy here.”

“What’s not to like? With this kind of transformation, you should be in the before-and-after edition of Architectural Digest. Who did this?”

“Her name is Penny Prichard. She wants to meet you.”

“The Penny Prichard? Why would she want to meet me?”

“She loved your vision for the restaurant. Absolutely loved it. That was the first thing she said when we met. So, of course, we talked all about you, and I mentioned your love of vintage and consignment shopping. She was impressed. She gets intimidated by those places. She would like you to take her shopping sometime if you’re willing. Even if you’re not, she wants to come by the restaurant and have a cup of coffee with you.” Just what had Elliott told her? He must’ve read my mind. “She is as captivated by you as I am. It’s not a hard job, baby.”

He picked up my overnight bag. “There’s enough room in my closet for you. I was specific about that requirement.” I was once again impressed by the way Elliott expressed his feelings for me. I loved him for it.

“Are you ready for dinner and a cocktail?” He read my mind. He took my hand and gently seated me at the new glass-top pedestal table. Gone was the small mahogany table with barley-twist legs. I settled into my chair and watched him light candles, seemingly everywhere. He disappeared into the kitchen.

“A sidecar, my lady,” he smiled. I had never known him to make one before. It was delicious. “I didn’t know how to make it, so I called Griffin, and he walked me through his recipe. I know you are particularly keen on his version.” I was touched.

“Very tasty. Right down to the sugar-rimmed glass.” I recognized the glass. It was part of a twenty-four-piece set I had purchased in Queens at an estate sale two months ago.

He went back into the kitchen and got a bottle of champagne. “Don’t rush your drink. But I think tonight is a celebration and calls for a little bubbly.” He leaned over and kissed me, tasting the sidecar on my lips. “Not half bad. But I still prefer my scotch.” He looked like he was working mightily. I wanted him to just sit down and enjoy. The perils of being a perfectionist chef …