“Work,” she finishes.

I nod.

“I can do that.” And she puts more space between us. “But I meant what I said, Hollywood. Whatever you need.”

She pushes through the swinging doors to the back hallway. This kitchen has never felt so cold, like she took the fire with her. I turn back to my paella ingredients.

“This is for the best.” If I say it enough times, maybe eventually it will be true.

It becomes believable as the night goes on, the idea that this is for the best. Specifically, the show is for the best. Even if we don’t get Camilla’s stamp of approval, the exposure will do so much for us. The chance to cook for Camilla Vargas feels like redemption for all the people who stopped coming here after Paul and I broke up. If only I can get this recipe right.

“When are we going to tell them?” I ask as Amy wipes down a four-top at the end of the night.

“Tell who what?” She doesn’t look up from the spotless table as she rubs the cloth over the surface until it shines.

“The team.” I edge closer until my hip accidentally brushes hers and we both step back. “When are we going to tell the team about the show,” I whisper.

Her mouth twists. “What decision would support you best?”

I blink, processing the sharpness in her tone. Okay, then.

“I guess we tell them soon. It’s not like they’ll have to do too much. But hopefully they’ll be excited.”

She nods like she’s listening, but her gaze is focused on the already clean tabletop and her mind seems far away.

“Hey, you’re excited about this, right?” I ask. “You want to do this? With me?”

She nods quickly. “Yeah. For sure.” She looks at me from the corner of her eye. “Have you had a chance to review the finances I sent you?”

“Sorry. Not yet. Did you have action items for me?”

“No. I’m just concerned, I guess. Take a look and then we’ll talk.”

I wait for the span of a few exhales but she doesn’t say anything else. Amy is so regularly unflappable that when she is, for lack of a better term, flapped, it’s noticeable.

To me at least.

“Are you upset?” I ask. “About the...boundaries?” I gesture to the kitchen behind us where we had our last conversation that wasn’t about eighty-sixing fish tacos.

“I’m fine, Hollywood. Promise.” She walks to the large table in front of the windows, leaving me alone at the back of the restaurant.

“Should we celebrate then?” I ask, following her.

She glances over my shoulder, where Jameela finishes a scrub-down of the grill. “Tomorrow,” I say, closing the gap between us. “Why don’t you take me out for drinks and I’ll take you out for dinner.”

Her eyes narrow. “Are you asking me out on a date, Hollywood?”

“No,” I say quickly. But my heart flutters like the silly schoolgirl I am whenever I’m around her. What would a real date with Amy be like? Would she pick me up in her little red car? What kind of restaurant does a restaurant owner take her head chef to anyway? Maybe we wouldn’t go out to eat at all, maybe we’d go to a hockey game or a museum or the theater.