“Yes.” I nod. “You know, you can probably kiss me at work, too.”

“I can?”

“Maybe not when I’m freaking out about recipe testing.”

“Deal.”

She tastes like lime, tart and sweet, and the berry flavor of her lip stain. I tunnel my hands into her hair, ruining her careful curls, dragging my fingers through the short, buzzed sides. She drags her thumb down my chin, over my jaw, with just a bit more force than necessary and I’m grateful to these queens and their music and their fans, who are so loud no one can hear me moan. The sound moves between the two of us, one of mine melting into one of hers. She slips her tongue behind my teeth. Despite my brief history on television, I’ve never been one for public displays of emotion, including affection, but I want to reach under her shirt and cup her breast right here. I want to drag my thumb over her nipple the same way she drags hers down my throat, to slip my hands beneath her jeans and pull her hips into mine. I want to drop to my knees on these stairs and give back to her all the ways she makes me hot.

Once upon a time, Amy might have looked at me and seen a silly woman who’d let the pressure of Pop-Up Kitchen and the loneliness of a breakup get to her. A woman who’d lost a piece of herself. Once upon a time that assessment would have been true. But that ended when I figured out who I really was. Realizing I was bi was a gift, the greatest gift I could have ever given myself. It was the first chance I’d ever had at loving myself authentically, to love others the same way.

Once upon a time, Amy might have needed to protect herself from me. I might have not been able to love her the way she deserved. But when she looks at me now, I hope she sees. The decision to kiss her the very first time was all mine; to make her come in the back of my car, mine. The decision to sleep next to her, to cook with her, to slip my hand into hers, to kiss her on these steps and let her spread me wide-open later. All of it belongs to me because I finally gave myself permission to love everything about me.

I don’t really care anymore if she wants to step aside, or I promised that I could be casual.

I break away from her mouth. Our chests heave together and from somewhere nearby someone whistles, the sharp, shrill sound of a catcall. “Take me home,” I say.

There’s glitter on my fingertips, glitter in her hair. My mouth is sticky from the deep red of her lips.

“Take me home and let’s celebrate the right way,” I say.

She says nothing, just takes my hand and pulls me from the bar, hails a cab, and gets in. I stand in the doorway and she ducks her head to catch my eyes. The street is dead except for right here, in front of the Hideaway. Music and other sounds of joy mix, light bursts from the building like a little sun.