“Well, the network is set to announce the pro chefs the day after tomorrow on a special episode of Iron Chef. We’ve been promoting it for months.” China grabbed the beer back and took a sip. “And we’re short a chef.”

“Oh no, look at the time.” Ashna jumped out of her chair. “If I don’t close up I won’t be able to get to the farmer’s market before all the best produce is gone. Palo Alto chefs are ruthless. You won’t believe how fast everything gets swept away. Last week they ran out of bitter melon because I was twelve minutes late.”

Using both hands, Ashna tried to yank China out of her chair, but she didn’t budge. “This doesn’t sound like an emergency.” It totally sounded like an emergency. For Ashna, not them. “We can discuss it tomorrow.” She tried to move Trisha with similar results. “Don’t you have work tomorrow? Surgeries maybe? Saving lives and all that?”

China made her best puppy-dog eyes. “Trisha will have her lives to save. You’ll have your restaurant to run.” Her sigh took on a desperate quality that didn’t sound like she was faking. “But I won’t have work to go to. Not if I don’t have a new chef to replace DJ by tomorrow.”

Boom.

Trisha and China stared at Ashna with all the gleeful expectation of friends who had you perfectly cornered.

“Of course you’ll find a chef to replace DJ. Chefs have to be scrambling to get on your show.”

“Like who? We start shooting in less than a month. How will I run auditions before the announcement in one day?”

“How about . . .” Ashna racked her brains. Why oh why hadn’t she worked harder to network with her peers? She wanted to help. Truly, she did.

“You know how hot DJ is,” Trisha said.

“We need someone hot and talented,” China said.

“I can’t think of anyone—”

“We can,” they both said in a perfectly delusional symphony. “You, Ashna.”

A giant ball of laughter gathered inside Ashna and came tumbling out like an avalanche. “Very funny. No, really, you guys are hilarious,” she said between hiccupping and—bordering on maniacal—laughter. “Hil-fucking-arious.” She pressed her hands into her sternum. Her heart felt like it was going to explode. And she couldn’t stop laughing.

Identical worried frowns creased Trisha and China’s foreheads. Ashna couldn’t remember the last time this panic-fueled laughing fit had happened to her.

China brought her water.

“Do you need a paper bag?” Trisha asked.

Ashna shook her head and sucked in several deep breaths. It took a few moments, but she forced the laughter to subside. “What are you going to introduce me as? ‘Ashna Raje, owner and executive chef of the soon-to-be-foreclosed Curried Dreams?’”