He’s even arranged for Sebastian to be the one to hand over the cash tonight after the last diner goes home. Consider it just another example of how hungry people are to work alongside Mr. Zane. The same set of hands is willing to debone fifty squab and pay off gangbanging drug dealers from the South Side, all in the same night.

I don’t blame Sebastian, though. There’s something about Benji that makes you want to strap in for the ride. It’s like rushing a sorority: you’ll do what you need to do to get in, because ultimately, you end up part of something bigger than yourself. I just don’t think any of us know what that something is yet.

At least that’s the way I see it from my vantage point, which is currently the groin area of a brand-new apron that was marked with an unsightly stain until I stepped in.

“See, babe?” I say. “All clean.”

Benji pulls me in for a kiss, his hand cupped around the back of my neck. With my French twist fragile in his palm, I feel the stress in the kitchen disintegrate. I’m no superhero, but if I were, my power would surely be managing to make it all okay for him, every time. It doesn’t even matter that there’s garlic burning in a sauté pan, my lipstick is now smeared, or that my work email is probably blowing up with a hundred notifications an hour.

“You’re my rock, babe,” he tells me, tucking a few strands of loose hair behind my ears. I love hearing that I’m doing a good job, because it’s not always easy.

“Okay, so here’s the final guest list,” he says, getting back to business. Benji hands me a piece of paper from the back pocket of his charcoal-gray skinny jeans. At the top, Aug. 20 Pop-Up is underlined in black marker. I give the list a quick once-over.

“So seating begins at seven, tables are set as rounds and the largest group is a party of six. Simple enough,” I say.

“Well, it’s more than just ushering people to their chairs.” He tenses back up. “After everyone’s seated, I’ll need you to run food and bus tables if we get in the weeds.”

“Weeds?”

“Busy as shit.”

“Ah. Okay.”

“And water. Constantly. You should be carrying the pitcher and filling any glass that’s lower than two-thirds.”

“Got it.”

“Pay attention to what people are saying. Any issues, come find me immediately.”

“Obviously.”

“And as we’re wrapping, make sure you call a cab for anyone who’s too drunk to drive. The last thing I need is bad press about a deadly DUI from someone I fed.”

“Anything else, your highness?” I jest to lighten the mood. I get that he’s on edge, and rightfully so. So am I, to be frank. This mini romper won’t be forgiving in the derriere area should anyone drop a fork while I’m rehydrating them. I also barely know the difference between kale and spinach, and am about to play hostess to a room full of people who are jonesing to fire off a photo or two of this year’s culinary celeb couple to their judgmental social sphere. It’s a lot.