I didn’t know how to ask for what I wanted. I didn’t want to sound as if I was complaining. “Tell me something important,” I said.

“Like what?”

“Tell me what you want out of life.”

“Besides sex?”

I sputtered with laughter. “John!”

He turned on his side to face me, his warm, brown eyes on mine. His thumb traced the shape of my smile. “There it is,” he said quietly. “I want you to be happy, Meg.”

My heart melted. “Oh, John.” That was so lovely. How could I be anything but grateful? “That’s it?”

“That’s not enough for you?”

I grabbed his hand. “Of course it’s enough. It would be enough for anybody. But what about you? What do you want, John?”

“I want to take care of you. You and the kids.”

“You do. You work so hard. I love you, John.”

His face was sober. “Love you, too, honey.”

“But I want you to be happy, too.”

“I told you, I’m fine.” I searched his face, unconvinced. “Let it go, Meg,” he said in his Coach voice.

I could push. But I didn’t want to fight. And maybe there was a chance we could get this night back on track. I squeezed his hand again.

John raised on one elbow to kiss my forehead. “Good night, honey.”

“Are you tired?”

“Kids will be up before you know it,” he said. “You should get some sleep.”

“You’re right.” I kissed him back softly. “Good night, John.”

But it was a long, long time before I fell asleep.

CHAPTER 11

Jo

Hot, hot!”

“Knife.”

“Behind!”

All around me, manic cooks stirred, seared, and sautéed, clanking pans and scraping spoons like the rhythm section of a dysfunctional orchestra. Fat sizzled. Pots bubbled. Intake hoods roared. Two hours into service, the bar was buzzing and the dining room packed. The printers spat orders nonstop into the kitchen.

Eric commanded the center of the storm at the pass, feet planted shoulder-width apart, a black bandanna knotted around his head like a pirate’s. My fingertips tingled, itching to push beneath the texture of his hair, to find the strong shape of his skull.

I expelled my breath. Hoo, boy.

“Rib eye up,” Lucas yelled from the meat side, his voice fraying.

I jerked forward, pot in hand. My elbow knocked a half-full hotel pan from the flat-top, spilling buttery browned circles of potato fondant all over the floor.

Crap. Crappity crap.

Ray, on fish, swore. “Get it together, March. What’s got into you today?”

Your boss, I thought inappropriately. My boss. Eric.

All through service, I’d been acutely conscious of him, touching, tasting, plating, his strong hands coaxing and sure, teasing exactly the response he wanted from every gleaming entrée, every delicately placed garnish. The soft, secreted nerve endings inside me twitched to insistent life.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

I willed myself not to glance toward Eric. It wasn’t his job to rescue me.

But of course he heard. He heard everything that went on in his kitchen.