“Amy would come,” my sister had said. “She has to work.”

I stuck out my chin. “If we could . . . I only need a minute.”

A long pause, measured in heartbeats.

“Sure,” he said at last. “Let me see the reservation book,” he said to Ray, and turned on his heel.

I trailed after Chef toward his office, resisting the urge to poke at my hair, bundled for work on top of my head.

The room was the size of a closet, cramped, cool, and dim. Chef tossed his leather jacket on top of the desk, which was already spilling over with invoices, menus, and samples.

“Talk to me,” he ordered.

Unlike a lot of top male chefs, Chef didn’t treat his staff as though having a dick entitled him to act like one. I took a breath. “I can’t work Thanksgiving.”

He grabbed the neck of his sweater, tugging it one-handed over his head. “Tell Ray.”

“I did.”

His face emerged from the pullover. His gaze met mine. “Ah.”

I stood my ground. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

The sweater joined the jacket on his desk. Stripped, his shoulders and arms were broad and hard, his belly slightly soft. A chef’s body, sculpted by years of commanding the pass, hefting and hauling, tasting and testing, marked by full-sleeve tattoos.

I averted my gaze, uncomfortable seeing him out of his professional whites. At the same time, my hands itched for a camera to capture those tattoos: kitchen knives, a flying pig, and a single word, soigné. I recognized the reference from Julia Child. It meant good cooking or elegance in preparation. Something like that. I was already framing shots, writing captions in my head. Under the white coat? No, too medical. Chef, Exposed. Ick. That sounded like a porn flick.

“Who died?” Chef asked.

What? Momma wasn’t dead, she couldn’t die, she was just . . . And then I realized he was being sardonic. “Nobody.”

He maneuvered around me to the locker stuffed with white jackets and houndstooth pants. Years of working at top speed in tight kitchens had made him as agile as a boxer. But this proximity, off the line, felt different. Awkward. Intimate.

He shrugged. “Then . . .”

“It’s my mother,” I blurted before he could tell me no. “She went into the hospital today.”

“Ah. I’m sorry. She will get better?”

“Yes. I think so.”

Meg said so. My poor, capable sister, dealing with everything by herself.

“Good.”

He pulled on his white coat. Unlike my anonymous polyblend, his chef’s jacket was fresh-pressed, high-thread-count cotton, vented in the armpits, his name embroidered above the pocket.

“The thing is . . . After she gets out, she’ll need help. I need to go home. Just for a few days.”

He looked at me sideways. “How old are you, March?”

Why did he want to know?

“Twenty-eight.” I tried not to sound defensive. At least I hadn’t moved back home to live with my parents. Yet.