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I force myself to focus on the hopeful expression in my sous chef’s eyes, along with my assessment of his entrée and whether we should include it on the list we’re submitting to the producers of the show as a possible cooking challenge.

I sigh. “Yes, it makes the list.”

Rufus whoops.

“Did ya hear that, Sophie? The soufflé makes the list! Boss lass approves!”

Sophie rolls her eyes. “Like your head needs to get any bigger!”

“Aw, Soph, you love my big noggin’.”

Sophie blushes at the affection from the big Scot.

“Come talk to me when you’re done here,” I tell Sophie, seeing Rufus scoop a fresh portion of soufflé onto a plate for her.

I already know what she’s going to ask—Sophie’s a single mom to Talia, an eleven-year-old art prodigy, and needs to shift the schedules around again. Until Sophie, I never knew art could be like sports at that age—she needs constant shift changes to accommodate her daughter’s lessons, classes, and even competitions.

But I always give Sophie whatever she needs. I’d be lost without her.

I head past the prep area to my office, a tiny room tucked into the back of the kitchen, whose only window is the frosted glass on the top half of the door.

“Would ya say it’s better than sex?” Rufus asks Sophie the moment I turn around, his tone teasing.

“Hey!” I exclaim, though I’m hiding a laugh. “At least pretend to have boundaries.”

“Listen, I’m asking someone who might actually know!” he lobs back.

I gasp, even though I’m not truly offended. “Rufus!” This is a restaurant, and we know a considerable amount about each other’s personal lives. Like how I’m not getting any at all these days.

“Well? Is there something you’re not telling us?”

Sophie shoves him with the tablecloths.

I scowl. He’s right. I can’t remember the last time I had sex. No, scratch that. I dated someone last year. I just can’t remember the last time I hadgoodsex.

Sure you can.

It must be clear from my expression what I’m thinking of, because Rufus gapes. “Youdohave something to tell us?”

It’s not the first time I wish I took fewer of my mother’s fair Irish genes. My hair’s sandy blonde, but I have the complexion of a redhead with my pale, freckly skin, and it clearly does a poor job of hiding the heat in my cheeks. I whirl around. “Rufus, I’m going to start telling people I take you out back to do your business again.”

“You wouldn’t!” he cries to my back.

“I would! And Sophie would help me too, wouldn’t you?”

“Sure would,” Sophie agrees. “I’d tell everyone you humped my couch leg too that time I let you come over.”

I can’t help laughing at that. My Jack Russell mix is also named Rufus, though I got him before I hired Rufus, when I moved to Quince Valley two years ago. After having very good sex with someone I now wish I hadn’t.

Rufus the human guffaws as I make my way toward my office at the back of the kitchen.

* * *

When I slip through the door of my office, I’m still smiling. I leave the door slightly ajar for when Sophie wants to talk to me.

But the minute I’m alone, the sounds of the kitchen partially muffled by the half-closed door, a familiar painful sensation gnaws at me.

I grimace as I pick up a file from the stack of papers on my cluttered desk, nearly knocking the little potted cactus I have there off the side. I try to look at the stack of resumes inside, but for a moment, my eyes won’t focus.