About forty minutes later, a line starts to form along the sidewalk. We don’t open for another hour; we haven’t even tweeted our location yet. But, as always, word spread on social media. I guess after a few days without Killer Chef, our fans have worked up a real appetite.

Then I hear something. The grumbling engine of a souped-up sports car.

It sounds like the racket I heard just last week. When Lucas drove back and forth past my truck, paranoid that Vanessa might stop by for lunch.

Unbelievable. He’s the kind of guy who gives assholes a bad name.

I ignore the noise and focus on my food. But it keeps getting louder. And closer.

Then I glimpse the blue Lamborghini screech to a stop right across the street.

No. It can’t be. Didn’t Vanessa say he was in Miami all week? Oh, boy.

“Rooney, you son of a bitch!” comes an arrogant shout.

Lucas slams the door and marches up to the truck, wearing white pants and a bright-orange polo shirt. I turn down my burners and step outside to confront him. And hopefully keep him cool.

Too late. His fists are balled. His jaw is clenched. A vein across his forehead looks like it’s about to burst. I’m half-expecting steam to start coming out of his ears.

“You’re a real piece of shit, know that?” he shouts. “You want to go around banging every bimbo in the Big Easy? Fine. But stay the hell away from my wife!”

“Vanessa?” I reply. “I haven’t seen her since that night at LBD.”

“You’re a lousy cook, and an even lousier liar,” he keeps going. “I know about you two. I know everything. I’m only going to say this once. Tell me now—swear it, Rooney—that things are over with the two of you. Or I’ll make sure both of you regret it!”

I stare Lucas dead in the eye. Torn, I consider fibbing, telling him what he wants to hear. To protect the wife he doesn’t deserve. But I also want to tell him the truth: that I’m falling hard for that incredible woman, and she won’t be his for long.

But now isn’t the time to make trouble. So I play it right down the line.

“Lucas, I have a policy,” I say. “I never make a promise I can’t keep.”

Lucas’s nostrils flare. His face turns redder than a boiled crawfish. My customers in line are staring in awe at this man’s roadside show.

“You just made the biggest mistake of your life,” he snarls. “Her, too!”

Then he marches back to his Lamborghini, climbs in, and peels out, its V10 engine roaring and echoing along the street.

As I watch him go, I shake my head in amusement. What a ridiculous, clichéd, empty threat.