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Sullivan woke to the lovely chocolate-coconut smell of Kia’s hair and Kia’s arm around her. Kia blinked her eyes open.

“Hi,” Kia said.

“Hi, lover,” Sullivan said. “I never say this, but I so wish I didn’t have to go to work today. I’d rather stay here with you.”

“Take me with you.”

“To Mirepoix?”

“Let me share my point six percent with your restaurant.”

Sullivan had loved the thirty minutes they’d spent in the kitchen at the Tennis Skort. She couldn’t think of anything better than cooking all day and night with Kia. Well… she could think of a few things that’d be better, but spending the day in the restaurant with Kia would be wonderful.

“This morning is mostly prep. You okay with chopping and making sauces?”

“Absolutely.”

They arrived at Mirepoix late. Opal was already there.

Her eyebrows lifted above her red-framed glasses, but all she said was, “Hey, Kia. Sullivan putting you to work?” Kia fit seamlessly into the kitchen.

She insisted on working in the smallest space possible, dicing pounds of vegetables on a cutting board made for mincing garlic.

Her knife flew over the tiny cutting board.

Her movements were fast, and yet every cell in Sullivan’s body understood innately that the knife wouldn’t slip.

Kia’s arms flexed with the movement. Her hips swayed.

“Like this, Chef?” Kia called out, holding up perfectly obliqued parsnips and zucchini in the shape of diamonds.

“Perfect. Like you are,” Sullivan called back.

Opal looked back and forth between them.

Kia was a joy to cook with and not just because she looked stunning with her hair tied in a purple scarf, her borrowed chef whites crisp, her black-and-white-houndstooth joggers clinging in all the right places.

When Sullivan surveyed Kia’s work, her brunoise of onions, celery, and carrots was also stunning.

“If you ever get sick of the road, I got a place for you,” Sullivan said.

Sullivan didn’t realize her offer had been half-serious, until she felt the pang of disappointment.

The time they had together was temporary, an arrangement.

But the impact of that sad fact quickly dissipated when Kia breezed past her, letting her hips graze Sullivan’s seductively.

Kia’s energy was electric. And even if fleeting, Sullivan wanted to savor every moment of the irresistible attraction drawing her closer to this enchanting woman.

“Watch out, Chef.” Kia looked over her shoulder. “I might take you up on it, and where would you be when your customers started asking for more tursnicken?”

Their eyes met. Had Sullivan just asked Kia to stay?

Had Kia said… something that wasn’t no? Kia waltzed past Sullivan.

Sullivan felt a thrill of excitement form in her core.

One probably shouldn’t feel this level of sexual energy at work, but maybe it’d make the food taste better.

Maybe all the couples who ate at Mirepoix that night would go home and make love.

When Opal walked by Sullivan (definitely not brushing her ass), she whispered, “I was so right about you two.”

The day passed happily. During the afternoon lull, Kia, Sullivan, and Opal drank coffee, and Opal told funny stories about eccentric customers, and Kia described food truck mishaps.

Sullivan mostly listened, happy to watch her best friend and her…

what was Kia to her?… her Kia enjoying each other’s company.

By eight, the first seating was complete, and the second seating was bustling. Sullivan managed six burners, searing mountains of mushrooms and grilling the whole sea.

Orders came in.

“Heard!” Sullivan and Kia said in unison.

“Behind you, babe!” Kia said, passing through the tight galley carrying a heavy stockpot. Now that they were cooking, Kia wasn’t distracting Sullivan with her touch. She was focused. They were working. A perfect team. The touching would come later.

“We’re running low on casoncelli,” Kia called out. “Want me to roll some more?”

“We’ll let everyone know it’s sold out,” Sullivan called out. “You can’t roll casoncelli in the middle of service.” Too bad. The casoncelli were a top seller.

“You’ve never cooked short order,” Kia said. “I can roll casoncelli and cook you a burger.”

“Just try it,” Sullivan called over her shoulder.

“Don’t try,” Opal said.

A few minutes later, the lead server breezed into the kitchen.

“We’re officially out of casoncelli,” Opal told him.

“We’re not,” Kia said.

“Are we or aren’t we?” he asked.

“Chef, does this look good?” Kia held a perfectly formed casoncelli in her hand. “I can make five dozen more if you give me five minutes.”

“Thanks, Chef,” Sullivan said. “It looks great.”

Kia worked for another few minutes, then slid a tray of the hand-rolled pasta onto the prep table as casually as passing a clean plate.

Before Sullivan could say anything, Kia was back at rolling pasta.

Sullivan transferred six of the candy-wrapper-shaped ravioli into boiling water, and they floated immediately, delicate but perfectly secure around their filling of ricotta, dates, and shallots.

Damn, Kia was good at this.

Sullivan plated. In what seemed like one movement, Kia stepped to her left, placed the round tian next to the pasta, wiped the splatters from it, and brought the earthenware into the service window.

“We’re serving these?” the head server looked at the pasta with the kind of concern he’d leveled against Blake’s sloppy plating.

“Kia has made beautiful casoncelli,” Sullivan said.

The head server didn’t move.

“What?” Sullivan asked.

Sullivan glanced over at Kia, who shrugged as if to say, I have no idea what the problem is . Then Sullivan looked at the plate more closely.

Casoncelli always looked a little vulva-like if you were thinking about vulva while you ate stuffed pasta, but these were an unambiguous tribute to the anatomy, with their delicate folds and curled edges.

Sullivan’s mind flew to the image of Kia’s hands gently coaxing the casoncelli into shape.

Sullivan felt a pulse of sexual need, as though her body remembered every empty day and night before Kia woke her again with a kiss.

And she was looking at pasta. And thinking about her pretend wife.

And they were still in the middle of the second seating.

And half a dozen people had already ordered the vulva-celli.

“Chef Jackson!”

Kia strolled over. “I showed you one, and you said they were good.”

“You included a clitoris .” Sullivan tried not to laugh as her voice soared. “These look like a straight girls’ bachelorette party.”

“Straight girls have penis pops,” Kia said.

“That is not the point. The point is—”

Kia leaned closer and placed her index finger on Sullivan’s mouth. Sullivan gasped, taking in the rich scents emanating from Kia’s finger. Dill. Lemon. Sumac. Sullivan wanted to lick those fingers. That was definitely against health code.

“I told you I want to be point six percent better at handling casoncelli.”

Sullivan regarded the pasta, then she looked directly at Kia, touching the tip of her tongue to her upper lip in a gesture she hoped was subtle enough only Kia saw it.

She held Kia’s eyes until Kia squirmed. I want you.

Maybe Sullivan had always wanted Kia, she just hadn’t traced the outline of that desire, hadn’t realized how much deeper it went than the desire to make a richer bourguignon.

Sullivan turned back to the head server.

“They look fine to me. Serve them.” When Kia handed her another plate of casoncelli, Sullivan held them at eye level and whispered, “You little temptresses.” Then she looked right at Kia to let her know she wasn’t talking to the food.

“We’re going to get murdered,” Nina said as they sped—at least lumbered—up I-84 in Opal’s rugby van. “And the van smells like wet socks.”

“Then why did you come?” Sullivan leaned forward with her elbows on the front seats.

Opal was driving. Nina rode shotgun.

“Because if you get murdered,” Nina said, “I want to get murdered with you, and this gives me a couple of hours to practice what you’re going to say on the stand.

Let’s start with first principles. Only answer what they ask.

Don’t volunteer anything, no matter how useful it seems. They’ll set traps that way.

And they’ll try to rattle you. Let’s try some questions. ”

An hour’s worth of questions later, Sullivan had mastered the art of three-syllable answers.

“Are we done with that?” Opal asked.

“We are talking about Sullivan’s life ,” Nina said. “We’re done when I say we’re done.”

Sullivan wished Nina didn’t sound so fierce. It was good to have friends protect you. It was not good to need Nina Hashim’s protection.

But even the impending lawsuit couldn’t totally quell the excitement of cars zipping past them and Billie Eilish on the radio.

The gas station snacks tasted like high school road trips, not like chemicals that caused cancer in the state of California.

Sullivan had found a Wind Searcher Pop-Up Pavilion.

She’d spent hours on Craigslist. She’d done a deep dive into local newspaper ads and flea market sites.

She’d even reactivated her Facebook page so she could message with potential sellers.

And she’d found Kia’s dream RV accessory.

The exact make and model to fit Old Girl.

For a thousand dollars cash, which Nina insisted on calling unmarked twenties .

And Sullivan had had sex with Kia. Beautiful, funny, unguarded sex.

Fuck all the sad things that could happen later.

Like Nina had reminded them, the wheels could fall off the rugby van at any moment.

(Nina had no faith in lug nuts.) Carpe diem.

“Opal says this old-ass RV accessory is on point,” Nina said.

“This present is for Kia, but did Kia talk to you about your birthday?” Opal asked.

“No. We’ll have to plan something for her socials.”

The idea didn’t fill Sullivan with dread anymore. For one thing, posing for socials would mean more time with Kia and touching her on screen would lead to touching off screen.

Nina sipped from her gold-rimmed travel mug.

“What Opal’s asking is, are you sleeping with her?”

“How did did you talk about your birthday turn into are you sleeping together ?”

Nina chuckled into her mug. “The witness will answer the question.”

“Yes.” Sullivan hadn’t believed in auras until she felt her whole aura glow with the memory.

“Good job,” Nina said. “Don’t give them anything more than they ask for. I knew it. Now spill the tea.”

“How did you know?” Sullivan asked.

Nina shot Sullivan a look. “I can tell if an estranged husband in another country is sleeping with his assistant. I can certainly tell if my best friend is falling for someone.”

“I saw you bumping hips in the kitchen,” Opal said. “You seemed to be getting very close. And I heard you ask Kia to come work with us and dump her life on the road. So of course I told Nina all about it. And you halfway said you loved her.”

“I didn’t.”

“She did,” Opal said to Nina. “And that was before they even slept together.”

Sullivan couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across her face.

She could see Kia’s delight when she saw the Wind Searcher Pop-Up Pavilion strung with lights.

She’d throw her arms around Sullivan. Sullivan could feel the way Kia would lift up for a kiss.

A second later Kia would pull out her phone and tell Sullivan to reenact the gift, but for a moment it’d just be Kia, childlike in her delight.

Sullivan felt her chest contract and expand at the same time.

Everything tasted better and smelled better—even the ghost of rugby socks in the van—just because Kia existed. And Sullivan felt fully alive.

“Sooo…” Opal began slowly. “I’m so excited you’ve met someone you like.

We’re all on team Kia. Kia is amazing.” Opal seemed nervous, like she was about to tell her team they didn’t make the playoffs.

“For a young Black chef to accomplish what she has…” She continued with some statistics about bias in the culinary arts.

Nina cut her off. “We’re just saying, be a little careful.

I don’t think she’d hurt you on purpose.

” Nina frowned as though she couldn’t believe she’d just said that.

“But sweet, loving grandmothers would finesse their favorite grandchild when this much money is at stake. But I don’t think she’d try to hurt you.

But it’s a lot of money. And if the shit hits the fan, she could be in a lot of trouble legally. ”

“You said she’d be okay?”

The sparkle of happy adrenaline in Sullivan’s blood turned to pinpricks of anxiety.

“I think so. But if shit goes down, there’s a chance—small chance—she’ll be able to save herself by throwing you under the bus. If I see that coming, I’ll have to destroy her. And then you’ll be mad at me for life.”

“She wouldn’t.”

Sullivan was certain in a way she’d never been certain about Aubrey.

It wasn’t that she’d thought Aubrey would deliberately hurt her, but if someone had asked, Do you think it’s possible Aubrey could hurt you, know she was doing it, and not stop?

the answer would have been I don’t think so .

For a relationship to work, the answer to that question had to be no.

“And she’s on the road a lot too,” Opal added. “That’s hard on relationships. We like her, but be careful. That’s all we’re saying.”