He suddenly turned his attention to her, fixing her with that microwave stare—the one that could penetrate a person and grill their insides. “I’m sorry. You’d said you wanted to discuss something.”

Tonya looked up at the ceiling, not wanting to see someone like Philip, who’d probably never been behind in a payment, judge her as one of those irresponsible poor people—the kind of person who sent her kid to a ritzy school, the same one her boss’s kids attended, no less—even though she couldn’t keep a roof over her head.

“My child support hasn’t been coming for a few months, and I’m behind in the rent,” she said. “I wanted to see if I could pick up some extra work. Maybe cleaning.”

Philip’s body relaxed into a rounded shape. For a moment, Tonya thought he might cry.

The emotion passed. Her boss’s posture straightened, reassuming the gravitas that a head chef normally commanded. “I don’t want to lose a good worker who’s been with us for so long. Give me a couple days, okay? I’ll see what I can do.”

If she wanted to keep her home, she needed more than a casual promise from Philip to perhaps keep her on staff. She’d need to make sure that she had a job—no matter what.

Tonya offered a pained smile and brushed a tear from the corner of her eye, drawing attention to what she knew was her best feature. “Thank you.” She moved toward Philip, reducing the social distance between them, drawing close enough for him to appreciate her lineless skin and shiny hair. He was handsome enough, she told herself. Successful. Hardworking. Kinder than Nate, certainly.

Tonya tilted up her chin and looked as expectant as possible. She’d done this move for directors, her Sleeping-Beauty-awaiting-a-kiss impression. “I would really appreciate it,” she cooed.

Philip seemed to get the hint. He bit his bottom lip, as if considering how to obtain more clarification, and then glanced at the bar. Maybe she would finally get that shot, she thought. She’d need it.

“What are you drink—”

Before she could finish her question, a harsh ring erupted from her coat pocket. She silenced it almost immediately, but the noise had already done its damage. When she looked up at Philip again, it was clear that any moment between them had passed. Her boss was back to frowning at the reflection in his whiskey.

He palmed the glass and headed toward the kitchen. “I should get home,” he said. “I don’t want my wife to wake up and wonder where I ran off to. She knows I’m not working.”

Tonya tried to parse the statement as she followed him back toward the exit. Was he rejecting her or simply suggesting that now wasn’t a good time? Would he help her stay on regardless?

“Philip, I—”