“They seem eager,” I say.

She shrugs, folding her arms.

“You have a...” Slowly, I press my pinky finger into the delicate skin beneath her eye. “Eyelash.” I hold up my finger. “Make a wish.”

My heart thunders from this small contact, muscle memory of what touching her last night meant. In the little bit of space between us it’s a wonder she can’t hear it. Sophie narrows her eyes.

“You want to throttle me, don’t you?” I whisper.

Her own pulse thrums under her jaw and it’s a relief to know I’m not the only one.

“You,” she says, her voice tight and controlled. “Are an asshole.” The last word devolves into a growl. Nothing like the breathless whisper I was going for.

With that she walks away, seamlessly transitioning back to a professional chef answering a crewmember’s question. My face burns with embarrassment. This is the opposite of bowing out. Still standing sentinel in the dining room, Paul meets my eyes. There’s something unreadable on his face. Confusion, maybe anger. But there’s no doubt in my mind that he saw the interaction between Sophie and me. What would it have looked like to someone on the outside? Business partners turned quasi-friends sharing a quiet moment? Or one selfish lover intentionally provoking the other? I turn my back on him.

By the time the crew prepares to leave, hours later, I need to be alone. They’re all so loud and pushy and in my space. Their crap is all over the place and it’s going to take forever to prep the kitchen after they’ve tramped through it. I want to pull my hair out, meanwhile Sophie smiles and laughs while she debriefs with Paul. They stand on the other side of the kitchen counter, so I’m stuck on the periphery of the conversation. Paul, Mr. Perfect that he is, attempts to include me, looking to me every few words.

“Everything looks great. I can’t make any promises, of course.” He smiles at me.

Ugh. It’s actually genuine. I hate him.

“The kitchen isn’t ideal.”

I bristle at the idea that my kitchen isn’t ideal. Only Sophie or I get to say shit about our kitchen that is sometimes too small of a workspace and never gives the back of house team any privacy from screwups. I know he means in the context of filming television, but still. Back off, buddy.

“Most of the filming would be done in the dining room anyway, though.”

“That’s great,” Sophie says. “That’s great, right, Amy?” She widens her eyes at me in the universal signal for say something.

“Great,” I echo.

“It was nice to meet you, Amy.” He shakes my hand.

I say something similar back, though I’m sure it sounds like a lie. There’s nothing wrong with him at all other than he and Sophie used to be a thing, a very serious, making vows kind of thing, and I—very stupidly—fucked her last night. Oh, and he looks at her like he still very much wants to be the one fucking her.