I shake my head, shake out my arms, and finally fall back on my ass. I drop my head between my legs, trying to catch my breath. She places her hand on my back, even though I’m covered in sweat. “You want to talk about it?”

“No,” I mumble to the floor. Then say, “I got dumped.”

She pauses. “By Paul?”

“No. My business partner. Her name is Amy.”

Natalie crouches beside me. “I’m so sorry, Sophie.”

I thought talking about it would make me want to cry more but saying it out loud feels a little bit better, actually. “You’d think that after getting involved with someone I worked with last time, I wouldn’t do it again. But this...felt different. I thought, at least. I don’t know anymore.”

My shoulders shudder as I try to push the tears down. I’ve gone this long without crying about it. I should be able to make it through this, but the tears leak through anyway.

“Weak,” I mutter. “I’m weak.”

Natalie tips my chin up. “Listen, I don’t know anything about your personal life. Or very much about your professional life. But there’s one thing I know about you for sure. You’re fucking strong, Sophie.” She taps the plates on my barbell, then my temple. “It takes strength here to do anything in this gym. And I’d bet it takes strength to be one of the best chefs in the city, too. Just a different kind.”

Maybe it’s only because I’m heartbroken, and everything reminds me of her, but that sounds exactly like something Amy would say. And it makes me feel better.

Camilla Vargas is, implausibly, more beautiful in person than on TV. Even without makeup, dressed in the clothes she came from home in, she glows. Her smile is huge, her hair shines. She’s real and also a little surreal. Amy stands on one side of the kitchen, pretending to busy herself with cleaning that doesn’t need to be done while I stand at the other end, pacing. But when Camilla arrives, I stop. She claps her hands, walking around the restaurant, which the crew has cleared of most tables and chairs, her smile huge.

“Sophie,” she says, holding her hands out to me. Instead of shaking one of mine, she takes both and squeezes. I hide the wince as a shot of pain goes through my healing hand. “I’ve heard so much about you. It’s such an honor to meet you.”

She’s full of shit. She has to be. As if Paul mentioned me to her. But I blush nonetheless. She’s even prettier up close. I look away and immediately meet Amy’s eyes. She scowls and turns away.

I don’t know what she expects. It’s impossible not to be a bisexual having a panic attack in the face of one of my biggest celebrity chef crushes.

“I’m so excited to see what you’re making for me tomorrow,” she says.

My smile feels shaky. “Yeah. Me too.”

She pauses, most likely hearing the nerves in my voice. Camilla takes my hand, just the one, like through chef-to-chef ESP, she’s realized my other one is fresh from a deep cut. “The first time I got to make my own menu, everyone told me what to cook. It was all anyone could talk about, the things they would cook if they were in charge. But they weren’t in charge, were they?”