“Crustaceans,” I blurt out instead. “Which are often paired with heavier meats, we run the risk of changing the entire vibe of the restaurant. We can’t serve king crab and sirloin on these plates.”

Amy tilts her head to the side. “I think that’s the most I’ve heard you speak since we started working together.”

I shrug, hiding my face behind my hair and doing a quick inventory of the number of words I could have possibly spoken, on average, in the past.

“You have a point about the shellfish, Hollywood,” she says, smirking.

Shellfish. Obviously, I meant shellfish.

I should just tell her to fuck off. For the nickname, too. But I am desperate for Amy to think I am tough, like her. Cool in that way that only truly cool people really are, where it’s effortless. She can’t know that sometimes I lie awake at night, dissecting every one of her smirks, or when our eye contact lingers too long, or that her nickname might mean something more, rather than just a silly moniker for a disaster of a person. Instead, I smile, closed lipped, just in case.

“And you make a good point about the dishes. But I think it can’t hurt to test it out.” She slides her index finger, the nail short and blunt, down the column of a spreadsheet, the numbers decreasing in size. She closes the binder before I can get a peek at what those numbers mean but I think it might be our restaurant’s revenue.

I sigh, pushing the sinking feeling in my chest further down. “Yes. A test couldn’t hurt. Maybe we could choose one or two dishes and invite the front of house staff to try it on a Monday.”

“I was thinking we add them to the menu starting on Tuesday and offer them for the next two weeks to see how they perform.”

“You want my kitchen to learn...” I scan her menu mock-up again. “Three new seafood dishes in less than a week?” I ask.

“I have faith in them.” She nods. “And you.” But she says that much quieter.

Do you? I want to ask. But I don’t. Because I’m too scared to hear the answer. If there’s one thing I trust Amy to do, it’s be too honest.

I let out a slow breath, planning the logistics of sourcing and ordering the new ingredients last minute. “What menu items should we get rid of then?” I scroll the menu.

“None,” she says dismissively. She studies her spreadsheet, completely unaware she’s messing up my life with that one word and looking goddamn beautiful doing it. Miniature alpine skiers could jump off her eyelashes and land safely on the plump pink cushion of her lower lip.

She’s a beautiful witch.

One of the best things about Amy & May’s is the small menu. Since before I started cooking here, Amy adopted the smart strategy of choosing a few menu options and perfecting them. A restaurant doesn’t need pages and pages of offerings to succeed. In fact, that’s usually a hindrance to success.