“How is that knee?” DJ—yes, he was still stuck to Ashna’s side—said, sounding annoyingly concerned. “Ashna just asked Jonah to bring you a chair until we start shooting.”

Ashna studied her toes. They were covered by sneakers today, but the need to know if they were still painted bright pink stirred inside him.

“My knee is perfectly fine now, thanks. I don’t need a chair.”

“That’s great news,” DJ said with more of that sincere concern. “My girlfriend saw it the day you hurt yourself. She said it was a good thing you were so close to a hospital. Believe me, she never thinks anything is serious.”

“Doesn’t she?” Rico looked pointedly at Ashna, who looked back at him as though she’d like to kick him in his knee. “I guess she wouldn’t have dropped the knife if she thought it was serious.”

This seemed to throw DJ. “Trisha dropped the knife?” He looked to Ashna for confirmation. “I’m pretty sure Ashna dropped the knife.”

You know those realizations where you’re faced with your own stupidity? One of those zinged inside Rico’s medicine-addled brain, for the second time that day. But the damage was done. He’d kicked the ball right at Ashna.

She slapped her hands around it with panache. “You’re right, DJ. I was the one who dropped the knife. Your girlfriend, my cousin Trisha”—yes, she stretched out that last part like well-chewed gum—“she was just kind enough to look at Frederico’s knee when he hurt it.” All of this she said while looking at DJ, but of course, every overenunciated word was meant only for Rico.

“Ah.” All sorts of understanding dawned on DJ’s face, and on Rico’s own face too, no doubt.

Before this painful conversation could drag on any longer, China Dashwood, bless her, called them to order and requested that DJ join her at the front of the room.

“Go,” Ashna said to DJ, with all the warmth of a dear friend.

As soon as DJ left, Ashna turned to Rico, anger brightening her too-large, too-dark eyes. “There’s still time. The first episode hasn’t aired yet. You can ask for any other chef and they’ll give you what you want. I don’t think I can do this.”

“The habit of walking away from things must be a hard one to break,” he said, when the last thing he wanted to think about right now was that particular moment from their past.

She’s just a girl I dated in high school.

Her long, incredibly delicate fingers squeezed her temples, her jaw clenched, every inch of her screamed how badly she did not want to be doing this with him.