“The steaks,” she hisses. “I didn’t bust my ass for you to let our most expensive cuts get cold.” I can’t decide if I want to hiss back or kiss her. I settle for narrowing my eyes and telling Drew to hurry up with the rest of the plates. The smell of garlic and cheese wafts up from the tray in my hands and some of the guests turn in their seats to watch our procession go by. I don’t blame them. The potatoes are beautiful, perfectly layered and crispy edged. I want to slow down, pause and present them like they’re a bottle of wine to hear people ooh and ahh. Sophie is so talented, and she works here.

“Thanks for your patience while we pulled this together,” I say as I set the cast-iron skillet in the middle of the table, on a trivet Drew sets down for me. Together we arrange the dishes as the guests move side plates and wineglasses out of the way for us.

Except for Dad.

He sits with his arms crossed over his chest. One long leg sticks out from the side of the table, so Drew has to move around him awkwardly to set the last plate down.

“I think that’s everything, gentlemen.” I give Drew a quick nod and he scampers away to tend to his own guests. “Is there anything else I can get for you?” I ask, doing a scan of the table for empty water or wineglasses and cutlery. “Our chef made these potatoes special,” I say as the silence extends to all of his guests and I pick up the wine bottle to fill up the rest of Dad’s glass, which is—surprise, surprise—almost empty.

“What is this?” He points at the plate of broccoli, the greens arranged in long stalks, their color bright, the bunch overflowing on the silver tray. They look truly perfect. Crisp but soft enough to just get the fork through. On the tray, with the antique silver tongs, they could be a home-cooked feature in a Martha Stewart magazine.

He looks at it like it’s something a rat threw up on his shoe.

I swallow. “Broccoli.”

He takes the bottle from my hand and pours the rest of the wine himself. “We asked for broccolini.”

I take a deep breath but it shakes. “Right. Unfortunately, we don’t have that in restaurant. But our chef put together this dish with garlic and black sesame. I think you’ll like it.”

“Right.” He casts a look to where Sophie stands at the edge of the kitchen. She watches us, unabashedly. “That...” He rolls his eyes. “Actress.”

My fist clenches and my thoughts tumble over each other. I don’t know where to start with all of the problems with that sentence. The fact that she’s not an actress, she’s a chef, or that there would be nothing wrong if she was an actress, or the implication that her participation on reality TV somehow made her less than.