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“I did not say that! The man is from Montreal.”

I have to bite my cheek not to laugh out loud. My chef has a crush. I tap my chin. “I thought you said you wanted to go to Montreal last week. You said you needed to speak French and you would even stoop to going to French Canada to do it.” I seem to remember him saying that quite loudly, in the presence of Marcel. I should have picked up on the crush earlier.

Jacques folds his arms and taps his fingers on his tiny bicep. “Perhaps. One day.”

“Listen, the first step to having someone consider having the same feelings for you might be not to insult him by claiming he’s sabotaging your kitchen. Besides, he’s as meticulous as you are. I’ve seen the way he wipes down his station even when the cameras aren’t on him.

The door opens then, and Rufus pops his head in. “Jacques, we need you.”

“Rufus!” Jacques says. “Who is the TV person leaving the mess in the walk-in? Why aren’t you keeping watch on this disarray?”

Rufus gives him a strange look and shoots a glance to me. “No one goes in there during shooting.”

Jacques huffs. “Find out. Let me know.”

Then he shoves past Rufus. I shrug, grinning, before pointing to my shirt. “I’m going to do my lunchtime rounds a few minutes late.”

I should get up and get a new shirt right away; I know we have some in the storeroom, down in the basement. But with my door shut again, the first thing I do is pick up my phone.

I’m not sure what I expected. Eli and I have been texting since the other night at the bar, but we’ve thoroughly avoided talking about that kiss. I think both of us are hoping we can blame it on the alcohol, though neither of us was properly drunk. The texts, instead, have been mostly about how the show is going.

But not this one. This one is a shot of Quince Valley, a gorgeous spread of orange sunrise bathing the hill opposite Rolling Hills in a brilliant orange-pink light. Sunsets over the valley are spectacular, with the sun setting behind the hill on the opposite side of the river. But I’ve forgotten how beautiful the sunrise can be too.

The text under the picture saysMorning, sunshine.

My heart does a little skip. Did he mean for there to be a comma there? Is it just supposed to be a caption of the photo, or is he calling me sunshine?

Though I smile, I text back the first thing I think.

REESE: It’s not morning, buddy.

Then I drop my phone down. My insides are flickering like ripples on the Quince. What is this? Eli and I don’t do this. We don’t text pleasantries.

We don’t kiss, either. Yet here we are.

ELI: It was when I sent that. You ignoring me again?

Leave it to Eli to bring up the awkwardness of how, up until this whole thing, I did ignore him, as best I could.

REESE: It’s insanely busy down here.

ELI: Can I do anything? I do owe you for coming out last week.

REESE: No. I’m saving that favor for when I really need it.

ELI: I’m going to owe you my firstborn before this thing is over.

I laugh at Eli’s ridiculousness. But the next text from him comes through before I can respond.

ELI: It’s fine. You’d make a really good mom. Just make sure you teach him how to play baseball, okay? I always wanted to teach my kids baseball. I’m going to miss that.

My heart clenches. I glance up at the wall, at the photo of my nieces. I could almost laugh that he’s joking about this.

REESE: I don’t know the first thing about baseball.

The next text is a gif fromThe Little Mermaidof Sebastian the crab’s jaw falling open, and I do laugh at that one, hard. I hadn’t forgotten how obsessed Eli was with baseball.

ELI: Well, Eli Jr. and I will just have to teach you.