“On the house,” I say to Marlene as I pass her Vanessa’s food.

“On your dime,” she corrects me.

I’d love to watch Vanessa’s expression when she takes her first bite, but taking care of a few more orders won’t give me that chance.

When our last customer has been served, I duck out of the truck and scan the crowd. I expect to see her and a friend polishing off the last of their lunch, but instead I see Vanessa sitting patiently on a bench. Alone, her food untouched, her two Big Shots unopened.

“Oh, no,” I say, walking up to her. “Did your lunch date stand you up?”

“Quite the opposite,” she answers cheerily. “So, I’ll admit I had a taste of both dishes. The crawfish is amazing. But that gumbo, Caleb? Heavenly.”

She picks up the two bottles of soda and holds them out to me.

“But I’ll be nice and let you pick your drink.”

Which is when I realize her lunch date is … me. I can’t suppress the smile that blooms across my face, even though part of me is a bit uneasy.

“What about Lucas?”

She says, “My husband is in Metairie all day, scouting locations for a new bistro he wants to open. I’m supposed to be running LBD. But I guess you could say I got a little cabin fever—kitchen fever—and wanted to stretch my legs. But if you’re busy again … ”

I am. Terribly.

“Wait—what happened to your head?” she asks.

“Kitchen accident. Occupational hazard!” I say. I don’t want to lie—but I can’t tell her the truth.

But something comes to me that I’m ashamed to admit. Being with Vanessa for the next few minutes might help convince whatever FBI surveillance is out there that I’m being a good little chef after last night’s visit from Special Agent Morgan.

Plus I get to spend some time with this gorgeous and intriguing woman.

A win-win all around.

“Let’s walk and talk,” I say. “I know another spot not too far from here that’s pure New Orleans. Just as long as you’re not afraid of ghosts.”

She seems to perk up at the idea.

“Lead the way, Killer Chef,” she says. “I’m not scared of nothin’.”

Digging into our food and sipping our sodas, we stroll together down St. Claude Avenue, the main drag of this cozy neighborhood of the same name. It’s lined with an eclectic mix of shops, cafés, and detached houses painted vibrant colors like lime, blueberry, and tangerine. Our conversation is mostly small talk: how busy work’s been, how mild the weather’s been, how much fun Carnival’s been.