“They were delicious.” Unable to help myself, I started reading the comments.

The first one was innocent enough. Great eggs, thanks!

I’m lactose intolerant, read the second. Can you use olive oil instead of butter?

Very “soigné.” , Sousbaby wrote. Who’s your kitchen helper?

“I was honest with you,” Eric was saying. “I opened myself to you, yeah? And you never said a word about this . . . this . . .”

I tore my eyes away. “It’s a food blog, Eric. I’m a food blogger. It’s not a big deal.”

“Then why not tell me?”

“Because I knew you’d react like this!”

His face changed without moving, flesh into stone.

My throat thickened. I looked away again, toward the screen.

I usually add milk to my scrambled eggs. Can’t wait to try this.

Hey, isn’t that Eric Bhaer? asked Foodie10012. The chef at Gusto?

How can you tell? You can’t see his face.

The flying pig. That’s totally his tat.

I bit my lip. “At least they like the eggs.”

Eric’s eyes went flat. “This is a joke to you.”

“No.”

He folded his tattooed arms across his massive chest. “Did you see everybody out there? Do you know what they’re talking about? You’ve made me look like a fool to my staff.”

“I never mentioned you by name.”

He started to reply. His cell phone buzzed. He looked at it and put it away, his lips tightening.

Not just the Gusto staff, I thought. Not if he was getting texts from outside the restaurant. Normally, I was happy when a post took on a life of its own. But this was awful.

“I trusted you,” Eric said. “Like a fool. Like a lovesick teenager. And you lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie.” Exactly. “I just . . .” Didn’t tell you.

“Took something that was personal, private, and put it on your fucking blog without telling me.”

“You knew I was a writer.”

“A writer, yes. Not a blogger.”

“Don’t dis bloggers. I make money from that blog.”

“Because you write about me. About my restaurant. You used me.”

My eye twitched. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry does not fix this.”

“I made a mistake.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “So did I.”

My temper—my terrible temper—sparked and ignited. “By trusting me, you mean? Or by sleeping with me?”

“Shout a little louder,” he said in a hard voice. “I don’t think they can hear you in the kitchen.”

The twitch became a throb. “You know, it’s not like I deliberately set out to hurt you.”

“How would I know? I do not know you. You tell me nothing.”

I threw my arms wide. “What do you want me to say, Eric? What can I do?”

“Take it down.”

“I can’t. It’s too late. It’s already out there.”

I’d linked my blog to all my social media accounts, Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest. Once a post got picked up by other bloggers, once it was tweeted and retweeted, liked and shared . . . Yeah. The food scene in New York fed on itself like a rat snake. The online community depended on networking. I couldn’t have other sites, other bloggers, other influencers, clicking on a broken link.