“Very funny. And, yes, there is one more thing. Mark and Rita just texted me. They can’t make it tonight. Couldn’t find a sitter for Maverick or something.”

While it would be great to finally meet Benji’s sponsor, Mark—and his wife, Rita—I’m okay with the last-minute cancellation. Two less comp seats means more profit and less work for Benji. It also means two less people who I need to impress on the spot. Especially people whose job it is to spot bullshit. They’ll be missed by Benji, I’m sure, since they’re basically the parents he never had, from what I gather. But hopefully he’ll just shake it off.

“I’m sorry, that sucks. It’s tough with kids,” I say, like I know.

“Yeah, it’s whatever. I told them we’ll see them next weekend. Anyway, can you just promise me something?”

“Of course.”

He looks me dead in the eye and says: “Promise that you’ll fuck me after this is all done.”

Blood rushes to places it hasn’t since I lost my virginity on Valentine’s night my freshman year of college. I know, I know. That’s totally cliché. But what was your first time like? Okay, then. Let’s not judge.

Speaking of clichés, now would be a good time to mention that I fell for the bad boy. And being “that girl” doesn’t end there: just imagine a more basic version of Selena Gomez with a day-old blowout, tucking her leggings into Uggs when the temperature falls below seventy degrees. Give or take a pumpkin-spiced latte and a Real Housewives viewing party, and you’ve just about got me—Allie Simon—pegged. I’m the last person someone like Benji Zane would want to date and the first person the food blogosphere has been able to confirm he actually is dating. I give him a wink and turn toward the dining room. I’ve got a little time before our first guests are set to arrive and I need to get my game face on. I need to feel less like someone whose superhot boyfriend wants to ravish her across the very counter the amuse-bouches are being prepped on and more like someone who knows on what side of the plate the fork goes.

Tonight’s pop-up is in a small ballroom on the forty-fifth floor of a high-rise luxury apartment building way up on the North Side. For a Friday night, it’ll be a bit of a clusterfuck for anyone who lives in the heart of Chicago, the Loop, or out in the suburbs like my parents, to get up here, but the views of the boats on Lake Michigan and the sunset reflecting off the buildings in the skyline will be so worth it. This summer evening is the kind of night Instagram was made for.

How Benji secured the venue this time is a doozy. He put an ad on Craigslist: “Party Room Needed.” Said he couldn’t pay money for the space, but would leave all his leftovers behind and the secret to “a roasted chicken guaranteed to get you laid.” Thirty minutes later, some teenager whose parents live in the building dropped off the keys to the penthouse floor. It never ceases to amaze me the things people will do just to feel like they have a personal connection to the Steven Tyler of the food world. Alas, here we are.