“Later, Hollywood.”

I watch her walk back to the door, unafraid of the ice and the cold, like she’s unafraid of everything.

“Bye.” I sigh.

Chapter Sixteen

Sophie

Amy & May’s is going to be on TV! Catch us on the first season of Cooking for Camilla. Our superstar head chef, Sophie Brunet, dusts off her show knives to cook for the best in the business. Want to know what we’ll be serving Camilla? You’ll have to watch to find out ;)

Amy’s post went out to the meager few hundred Instagram followers on the Amy & May’s account. I reshared it. Then Paul. Then Camilla Vargas. The Cooking for Camilla Instagram account, Pop-Up Kitchen’s account. Now the fan accounts are running away with things.

My phone is constantly vibrating, and I’ve wasted most of my day off engaging with our audience rather than cooking. My kitchen is an explosion of unused ingredients, but at least Amy & May’s has a few thousand more followers tonight. I turn the phone on Do Not Disturb and drop it in my bag. I am officially signing myself out of duty.

The Hideaway Club makes no attempts to hide itself from anyone on Columbus Avenue. The first story is done up like an old movie theater, the glittering marquee filled in with the names of the drag queens performing tonight. Every possible iteration of a Pride flag hangs from the second-story balcony, the windows plastered in portraits of more queens.

The Canadian in me doesn’t want to walk past the long line of people stamping their feet and blowing into their gloved hands—on a Monday of all nights—waiting to get into the booming noise of the club, but Amy said my name was on a list. As politely as possible, I march past them, my chin raised and my mouth clamped shut to keep from apologizing.

The bouncer has short dark hair and deep dimples and looks like she could hold her own on a wrestling mat, but her pom-pom hat diminishes the overall scary vibe. “Name?”

“Sophie,” I say. “Brunet.”

She arches an eyebrow as she towers over me. “ID?”

Right. Shit. I fumble with my wristlet and pull out my driver’s license. I haven’t been ID’d in years. I also haven’t gone to a bar or restaurant where I didn’t already know the owner or most of the staff. Walking in here feels a little like the first day of high school.

The bouncer unclips a red velvet rope from a golden post. “Welcome to the Hideaway.”

Collectively, the line grumbles as I walk past, and I tunnel into the collar of my coat to hide from their judgment until I’m safely inside. There’s a lineup for coat check, and music booming so loud I can feel it in my back teeth. I stand on the periphery of the club, rows and rows of tables laid out in a grid before me, stopping at a stage where techs set up lights, props, and stage markers. It’s dark, except for the bright flashes of colorful lights that streak across the space every few seconds. It’s like every other club I’ve ever been to. From the noise to the faint whiff of vomit coming from the bathrooms.