I remind myself of the real reasons I’d rather gargle broken glass than get advice from him: because I see him as a competitor for Sophie’s affections—even though she broke up with him. Because of the careless way he treated her when she gave him one of the most precious gifts she could give him: better insight into who she truly is.

“Thank you, Paul.” My voice shakes. But that’s the only outward sign of how very much I hate this man. “I think we have it under control.”

He makes a pleasant face as a barista calls his name. He holds up his finger, asking them to wait. He’s completely polite, nodding when they place his order to the side on the counter.

But the audacity.

“It’s my pleasure. Just know I’m here if you ever need me. I only want the best for Sophie. And you, obviously.”

My smile is the kind of toxic plastic that can never ever be recycled. “Of course.”

“But you two are going to do great on the show. I’m sure you won’t need me at all. Sophie especially, she was made to be in front of the camera. Don’t you think?”

“You’ve mentioned that.”

I can’t do any more than bare my teeth, nod as he walks away. The worst part is not that I kind of hate Paul, or that Sophie told him something private about our business. Though, I’m probably going to be mad about that later. The worst part is, he’s right. Sophie is beautiful but she’s also kind. In the face of an industry built on hardness, rigidity, she’s gentle. She sucked me in from my small laptop screen. Before I even met her, I was hooked on her blush, her grin, that curl her hair does when the kitchen gets hot. She shines on camera.

Wes thuds back into his seat. “Sorry.” He runs his hand through his hair. “Corrine called.” He pauses, watching me. He’s always been able to see too much. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I say. I open my laptop, stare at the numbers on the screen that tell me what I already know. My restaurant is failing. My dream is dying.

I’m dead weight. Just like my dad was to my mom, leading her on all those years. But Sophie could flourish. At another restaurant. Or even on TV. I’ve rewatched the video we made last week. Maybe it’s just me and the Sophie-colored glasses I wear but she’s breathtaking, the serious face she makes as she’s chopping and the way she pauses over her words when she’s talking about flavors and palates. Sophie is as much of a star as he thinks she is.

She’s Hollywood, after all.

Chapter Nineteen

Sophie

Fifi winds figure-eights through my legs as I walk in the door after my gym session.

“Miaou miaou, Feef.” She chirrups back and I drop my gym bag to replace it with her. She’s getting a little heavy in her later years. “Let’s get something to eat.”