But seeing her face tighten with emotion, I decide to keep that thought to myself. I offer her a sympathetic shrug, along with the only kernel of romantic wisdom I absolutely know to be true.

“Marriage ain’t easy,” I say. “Believe me. I’ve been there.”

We cross Gravier Street and reach an entrance to Duncan Plaza. It’s a nice little park, an island of pleasant shade and open green space in this sea of office buildings. Inside the park, a group of rowdy schoolchildren are on a field trip, and a thirty-something father is gently throwing a foam football to his adorable toddler, playing catch, even though the foam toy bounces off the toddler’s giggling face.

“Want to walk through?” I ask. “And maybe toss that pigskin around?”

She grins at the cute scene, but hesitates.

“I should be getting back to LBD. We have our all-hands Monday meeting in an hour. Then I’m interviewing some new hostess candidates, there’s our new spring cocktail menu to approve—”

“Hey, I get it. You co-run a sixty-seat fine dining restaurant. I can barely handle a two-person food truck.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Killer Chef,” she says. “I think that place is pretty special.”

She turns to face me. She tucks a strand of blond hair behind her ear.

Then she leans in and pecks me on the cheek.

As she bashfully pulls away, I ask, “What was that for?”

“It was just a kiss, Caleb. Nothing more, nothing less.”

She smiles, spins, and heads back the way we came.

I stand still as I watch her go, my feet planted firmly on the sidewalk.

But I swear it almost feels like I’m floating.

Then I check my watch.

My two minutes has slid into fifteen.

I’m no longer floating.

I’ve got to get to work.

CHAPTER 21

Think cooking in the back of a truck can feel cramped? Try whipping up some grub in the front seat of a car.

I’ve been sitting behind the wheel of my car all day. My legs are tingling, my back is aching, and my stomach is growling something fierce. I forgot how much a stakeout could suck, especially when you’re doing it alone.

But now, it’s finally time for a delicious dinner. Have I earned it? Hell, yes.

I open the small red cooler sitting on the passenger seat, which I packed earlier with everything I need to assemble a legendary Killer Chef sloppy roast beef po’boy—or at least a close approximation. When I was a cop, younger and dumber, plastic-wrapped sandwiches from a gas station would take care of my hunger, but times—and my life—have changed.

First things first, I fire up my “stove,” a portable mini hotplate that plugs into my dashboard’s power jack.