That’s how Sophie finds me, wiping furiously at the place where I made her come last night.

“I thought you said you were going to clean up.”

“I did.” I’m breathless from all the physical exertion of destroying evidence. “I am.”

Her hair is still a bit wet, hanging loose around her shoulders.

“Were you at the gym?”

The strength in her arms and legs as she braced herself against the table last night, the quivering in her thighs and stomach. She was beautiful.

“Yes,” she says slowly. “Why do you ask?”

I shake my head. “No reason.” That sick feeling is back and as she frowns at me, then launches into an explanation of what to expect from the location scouts, the feeling morphs. Like oil spilling, slick and warm through my limbs.

“They’ll be checking out the general aesthetic of the space, logistics for shooting like lighting and parking crew trucks, that kind of stuff.” She drops her bag on the table and passes me to pour herself a glass of water.

The simple act of Sophie walking toward me sends my heart pounding. And as that irrepressible warmth reaches the ends of my fingers and the tips of my toes, I know this isn’t sickness. This isn’t nausea. It’s butterflies.

I have butterflies for Sophie Brunet.

“Oh shit.”

“Are you feeling all right?” she asks. Water glistens on her lower lip. I can’t decide what I’d rather do: lick it off or be that drop of water.

Ohhhhhh shit. “I am a truly useless lesbian.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “I feel fine. Thanks.”

She looks like she doesn’t believe me. “Listen,” she says after a moment. “I think we should talk...”

That’s the last thing we should do. I need to go sit in front of Mom’s house. I need to talk to my brother. I need to go back to bed. I do not need to talk to Sophie about last night and the feelings that may or may not be forming because of it.

God, I’m worse than my brother. He went and fell head over heels for his boss. Now my chest feels all mushy for my head chef. The Chambers kids really need to expand their dating pools.

“What’s there to talk about?” My voice goes shrill. I can’t look her in the eye. I’m sweating.

She folds her arms over her chest and absolutely glowers at me. If this were over our kitchen, some fight about who to hire or if we need to stay open an hour later, I’d set my hands on my hips and prepare to face off. But I’m not a talker. I’m a fixer. A doer. Talking is how I ruin things. Talking and, apparently, fucking.

“I don’t know. How about this?” She points at the table. We should just get rid of the damn thing. Whose terrible idea was a chef’s table anyway?

Probably mine.

“We should be preparing for the scouts to come.” I leave the kitchen, her eyes boring holes into the back of my head, and pull up the blinds. On the other side of the window, a handsome white guy with laugh lines around his eyes and a trendy scarf and jacket combo stands on the sidewalk. He jumps back, having been caught trying to peek through the window. He smiles and waves as more people join him on the sidewalk.