Interesting, I think. She knows about the business proposal, so she must work for Lucas in some sort of management or business capacity. Earlier, like the typical dumb male, I thought that with her stunning good looks she was possibly a hostess or something similar. Yeah, dumb indeed.

“Well, it certainly is an interesting proposal,” I say. “There’s a lot to consider, but I tell you, I might have to come back here to discuss it with him further, to get some additional details.”

I hope this lovely woman doesn’t hear the exasperated sigh coming from Marlene, because my business partner knows I’m talking straight-up bullshit. But she knows what kind of flirtatious fellow I can be, so she’s letting me yammer on.

“Oh, I’m glad you’re considering it,” the woman says, relief in her voice. “We really hope you and your partner find your way to working with us. We’re all such huge fans of Killer Chef.”

My eyes flick down to the woman’s left hand. Seeing no engagement ring, I decide to take things up a notch.

“Is that so?” I ask. “I’m usually there working the grill. And I always like to … keep an eye on our customers. But I don’t remember seeing you around. I’m sure I’d remember.”

The woman blushes a bit. It’s adorable. Marlene is impatient and sighs again.

“You caught me,” she says, smiling. “Lucas has a team of assistants who scour the city for interesting food and bring it back to us. I’d love to visit your truck sometime, but I’m usually cooped up in the back office. Handling the books, dealing with payroll, haggling with suppliers, that sort of thing. It’s not exactly what I thought I’d be doing with a master’s degree in Renaissance art history but”—and her cheerful voice slides into a regretful tone—“life doesn’t always go the way you think it will, does it?”

“No, it certainly doesn’t,” I answer. I stare deeply into her enchanting brown pupils and her gaze stays with me. “Although sometimes, life has a way of pleasantly surprising you.”

We share a little smile, a fleeting moment of connection—which is interrupted by the toot of a horn. I turn to see the valet pulling my silver Impala up to the curb.

“I don’t think I got your name,” I say to the woman, knowing I wasn’t about to leave without that little fact.

“Vanessa,” she answers. “Vanessa McKeon.”

We shake hands. It’s professional, but I swear she holds on a second too long.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Vanessa,” I say, my hand feeling warm from her touch. “Despite the drama, we had a wonderful evening.”