“Everything’s great,” I whisper. “But are you going to step out? I think people want to applaud you. They loved everything. Honestly, it was the perfect night.”

Benji’s not shy. Not by a long shot. But I can tell he’s delayed making his cameo until I offered up the reinforcement that people really are waiting in the wings like Bono’s groupies.

“Really?” he asks.

“Really. Look at table eight. Bunch of food bloggers who wet their panties when they ate the deconstructed squash blossoms. I’m pretty sure they’ll have a full-blown orgasm if you just come out and wave to them.”

He peers over me to check out the guests. Table eight is all attractive blondes with hot-pink cell phone cases who must have taken a thousand photos so far. I’d worry, but when your reckless love story has been chronicled on every social media platform since its hot and heavy start, that makes it pretty official: Benji Zane is off the market, folks. Has been since the middle of May.

“Alright, fine. Give me a sec.”

Benji ditches his apron and grabs my hand. Together, we walk into the dining room and all chairs turn toward us. I feel a bit like the First Lady, just with a trendier outfit and a more tattooed Mr. President by my side. I bite back the urge to wave to our adoring fans.

“I just want to thank everyone for coming out tonight. I hope you enjoyed the food. It was my pleasure feeding you. Feel free to stick around and enjoy the view or see Allie for a cab if you need one. Good night, everyone.” Benji holds our interlocked hands up and bows his head.

The crowd goes wild—well, as wild as forty diners who have all just slipped into a serious food coma can go. It’s a happy state, the place Benji’s food sends you. Kind of like how you feel after a long, passionate sex session. When done, you’ve got a slight smile and glow on your face, but just want to lie down for the foreseeable future and possibly smoke a cigarette.

I spot my father standing in the back, filming on his phone as my mother claps so hard, her Tiffany charm bracelet looks like it’s about to unhinge and fall into what’s left of her dessert. Seeing them both smile proudly across the room at who their daughter has wound up with warms my heart. It’s been an uphill battle, but I’m confident we’ve won them over.

Benji whisks me back to the kitchen, and before I can congratulate him on a successful evening, he pushes me up against the walk-in fridge. His tongue teases my mouth open and I am putty in his hands. With his right hand, he pulls down the collar of my romper, exposing my black lace bra. He frees my breast and kisses my nipple. My neck turns to rubber and my eyes roll back.

“Benji,” I pathetically protest, very aware that all that separates us from a roomful of people who are currently picking a filter for a photo of the two of us holding hands is a swinging door that doesn’t lock.