“First up is owner and executive chef of Palo Alto’s legendary Indian fine dining restaurant, Curried Dreams, Ashna Raje.” A polite spattering of applause. “And her partner, the striker for Manchester United—the man you’re all wondering how we managed to nab—Frederico Silva!” An explosion of cheers. “But here at the Food Network we give away recipes, not trade secrets.” They loved that, and cheers ebbed and turned into laughter.

Standing next to her, Rico vibrated with good humor. Whether it was real or part of this New Rico, Ashna couldn’t tell, but something about it was so joyful that a parched part of her soaked it up.

“We’re tremendously excited about the show,” China went on. “We fully expect it to be the next big thing.” She threw a grateful smile at Rico and Ashna. “Already we’re a household name thanks to a very generous and heroic act.” Ashna worked hard to suppress her groan. Yes, she knew it made her a terrible person, but thinking about Rico slamming down on his hurt knee made her want to shake him. It also made her want to find him a chair.

Crazed applause.

Rico took a bow. Ashna practiced every breathing technique India had ever taught her, but then China touched her heart as she looked at Ashna, which was so sweet that Ashna found it impossible not to smile.

When the next wave of fawning and hooting died down, China held out the mic to Rico and Ashna. Rico’s hand pressed into the small of her back, it seemed to take him a second to realize what he was doing and he withdrew it. Which didn’t remove the warm imprint from her skin. Rico waited for her to speak into the microphone, but she couldn’t, her arms wouldn’t move.

With all the smoothness of who he now was, he took the mic from China and gave her a hug. Really? The Boy No One Was Allowed to Touch (except her, of course) was all cuddly now?

The cameras were on them, but when China looked at her, Ashna could still see the holy shit, he’s good on her face. Ashna made the effort to hold in her scoff.

“What an honor to be here,” Rico said. It was unfair what the mic did to his voice. The bass, the silk, it all magnified manifold. Those rounded consonants of his accent, a mix of his Brazilian and English heritage, melted into one another as though they knew the impact they had on ovaries everywhere. Ashna counted at least five women pressing a hand into their bellies.

Ashna wanted to flip him the bird.

“What a stroke of luck to get partnered with the most talented of all the chefs here.”