Delilah has opened up a journal and is reading heavily marked pages. The leather-bound journal looks much like the ones I use, though hers is battered and splattered with various food and oil stains. She jots down a note in the margin of what looks to be a recipe, then catches me watching her.

“My recipe journal.” She closes it. “Early on, we’re taught to write things down. Memories can fade. But I also use it to develop recipes or make note of an idea.”

Her slim hand, as battered as her book, rests protectively over the cover. She eyes me warily as though I might poke fun at her. It touches a nerve deep within that her trust in me is so thin, that my past actions caused this lack of trust. So I give her the only thing I can: my own vulnerability.

“I journal too.” I take a sip of latte. “Not recipes, of course. But notes about my role. Or what happened on set that day, so I’ll remember it when I’m old.”

Her butterscotch eyes grow wide. “Truly?”

“It is so surprising?”

She blinks and gives a little shake of her head. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I guess I can’t picture you taking the time to write things down.”

“Everything important to me, I write down.” Shrugging, I palm the cup again. “Or I do now. Back when I lived at home, I wouldn’t dare. Nothing in my room was safe from being confiscated.”

Her lips part in surprise. Yeah, I don’t suspect she had any idea how truly confined I was as a kid. An old discomfort rolls through me, as ugly and itchy as a hair shirt. I shed that past long ago, but some things never truly go away; we just try to forget them as best as we can.

“I got into writing after high school.” After the letter. Another twang of regret plucks me. I don’t mention that damn letter. I have some pride. “Helps me gather my thoughts.”

Delilah nods slowly, her eyes still wide and on me. “It does,” she says after an awkward second. I get the feeling she’s more surprised we have something in common. I’m not. Even when being around Delilah made me want to tear out of my skin just to get away from her judging eyes, I knew we were forged from the same metal.

“Why did you become a chef?”

She visibly jolts at the question, clearly not expecting it. Her palm, still on the journal, makes a slow, smooth circuit of the leather. “Aside from loving to cook?”

She’s evading, and we both know it. I hold her gaze, letting her see that I won’t hurt her here. “Aside from that, yes. You could have cooked for yourself and done something else.”