It was not, however, easy to get my hands on a fresh loaf. Generally, employees were swatted away like pesky children. And rightly so, really, seeing as how customers paid for it and all. But that bread dipped in the best crab bisque I’d ever tasted in all my very foodie life was worth a little schmoozing.

“Hi, Gaspard.” I leaned onto the stainless-steel surface of his workstation adjacent to the stove. He hovered over a pot of simmering tomato sauce.

“Ahh, no.” He slid a clean spatula under my elbows and lifted them up, then tossed the spatula into a bin behind him. “This space is for food. Not your germ-covered arms.”

I wrinkled my forehead. “I do not have germ-covered arms.”

“No? Then maybe you should go out into the dining room and let people use them as plates. If they are so clean that they can clutter up my workspace, they must be clean enough for our guests.”

I took a step back and rolled my eyes. “Fine. My arms are nowhere near your food or your countertops or you. Happy?”

He gave me a dry look. “Immensely.”

Mission Bread Retrieval was off to a roaring start. Time to pull out my power weapon. I’d been saving it for a while—well over a week—but I really wanted that bread. “So. Gaspard. You busy next Sunday?”

He paused. “What do you want from me?”

“What makes you think I want something? I’m just curious.”

He leaned forward, wafting the steam over the pot toward his nose, then breathing in deeply. “More garlic,” he said. “I don’t believe you. You have never been curious about my Sunday plans. Why start now?”

Good grief. He was not going to let me be diplomatic. “Fine. You want it straight? I have two tickets to see Francesca Maren next Sunday night in Raleigh. I don’t love Francesca Maren. But word on the street is you do.”

He froze midstir. “How did you get tickets to that show? It’s been sold out for months.”

“It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I’d like to give the tickets to you. Tenth row. Pretty great seats for a sold-out concert. What do you say? You want them?” I folded my arms across my chest. I could tell I had him just where I wanted him.

“Plates up,” a voice sounded behind him.

He turned, giving a final glance over an order on its way out to the dining room. He adjusted the garnish on one plate, then added additional sauce to another before waving them away. When he turned back to me, his face was stern. “What’s in it for you?”

“Nothing. I want to give you the tickets.”

He shook his head. “No. There is fire in your eyes, Lane. You’re after something.”

I stuck out my chin. “Fine. You get the tickets, I get fresh bread whenever I want it for three months.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Two months and not a day longer. Leave the tickets on my desk.”