“For now.”

Something inside me sank. “Does that mean you would move? Sell the restaurant?” But what about the people who worked there? What about me?

“If I found a better opportunity, sure.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Anyway, I wouldn’t have to sell to start somewhere else. Ray is itching to take over the kitchen.”

I fought an unexpected sense of loss. Of panic, almost. “But Gusto is yours. What about your dedication? Your, um . . .”

“Passion?”

I regarded him uncertainly, that curl still teasing the corner of his mouth, his eyes serious. Were we still talking about the restaurant?

Just for a moment I wished I had Amy’s ease with men, her ability to make the perfect, light, flirty comeback. “That’s what you said. Before,” I reminded him. “You live to cook, you told me.”

“I love to cook,” he said promptly. “But this business isn’t static. You are always on your way up or your way down.”

Right. No question where he thought I was headed.

“Thank you for those words of encouragement,” I grumbled.

His smile spread. “You should be encouraged. You think I hire every English major who walks through my door?”

As if I were special. As if he wanted me training under him. As if—maybe—he’d read my job application after all.

“Why did you hire me?” I asked.

He started to say something. Gave a quick shake of his head instead. “You are smart,” he answered finally. “You work hard. You learn quickly. But I think maybe I made a mistake with you.”

My lips felt numb. Was he . . . Oh God, was he letting me go? “If you don’t want me . . .” I said stiffly.

“March.” Another shake of his head, as if he’d caught me using the wrong knife. “Every kitchen you go to, you get what you want and move on. Move up. Get out. You serve me well. But I do not serve you. I do not think you find what you want at Gusto.”

“But I do,” I said desperately. “Maybe I don’t belong in the kitchen for the rest of my life, but I don’t want to leave you.”

He gave me an intense look. “To leave Gusto.”

Weren’t they the same thing? I was using him. For inspiration, for a paycheck, for material for my blog. And I didn’t have the guts to tell him so. “Right.”

He regarded me for a long moment. “What do you want, then?”

I thought I knew, once. I wanted to be a writer. I’d followed my dream to New York City, to experience a bigger life on a larger stage than Bunyan. In the city, I was free to shine. Not with the reflected glow of a father, husband, children, but with the light of my own success.

Only now . . . I’d lost my job and my roommates. I worked in a restaurant like every other scrambling dreamer in New York, the actors, the dancers, the musicians, the writers. And for what? There was no book deal. There wasn’t even a book. Meanwhile, Amy was in Paris, Beth was in a show, Meg was hardly home anymore, and Momma was in rehab. Maybe I needed to reexamine my priorities.