Occasionally she’d wipe her forehead with her milky-white, freckled arm and smile apologetically, probably thinking she looked like a mess.

But she was wrong. This was a much-needed reminder that Red was kind of hot, in her own quirky way, anyway.

Like the way she curled the tip of her tongue on her upper lip when she concentrated. Something about it made me so hard I almost shoved her against the stove and proved to her just how much we could enjoy each other’s company. Or the way my wallflower suddenly became the center of the room, working the hardest without calling attention to herself or rambling about it. She glowed. Corny as it sounds, she f*cking glowed.

“Hey, can you fetch the red wine from over there?” she asked at some point, running between one point of the kitchen to the other. I was so taken aback by her request, I felt almost offended.

“No, I cannot,” I answered evenly. “Can you not overstep your f*cking bounds? You’re here auditioning for a job.”

“Someone’s on that special time of the month,” she grinned, grabbing the wine bottle by its neck.

“Just do your thing, Red.”

“O-kaaaay,” she drawled, still wiggling her ass to an inaudible tune in her head. “So just look over the pan and make sure the olive oil’s not overheating while I get the bottle opener.”

She finished making the dish a little after the restaurant closed for the night. Her red hair was everywhere—face, neck, sticking to her forehead—and Cat’s dress looked like she had just lost a food fight. But she looked happy, and that’s a look I’d never seen on her face before.

I ordered Pierre to follow me to one of the black leather banquettes, where he poured us both red wine while she served the food.

“Gentlemen.” She couldn’t contain her wide beam as she presented us with the plates, repeating the name of the dish and finishing off with a little bow. “Enjoy your meal.”

We both picked up our silverware and stabbed into the food. The minute I shoved the fork into my mouth, I was done for.

Yeah, she was that good.

I knew Pierre thought so, too, by the way his mouth hung open halfway through his bite, looking up at her with hate-filled eyes.

“Too salty,” he gritted through his teeth.

“Bullshit,” I sneered. “It’s excellent.”

Her gaze bolted to me, her face opening up with something sincere I probably didn’t deserve. She was just as surprised as I was by my compliment. “You think?”

“Yeah.” I threw my cloth napkin on the table and stood up. “Tell your culinary class friends your evenings are no longer free. You can start a week from Monday. I’ll let Brock know so he can do the paperwork.” I turned to Pierre. “Don’t give her more than five shifts a week. Make sure she’s always stationed doing something meaningful. I don’t want her cutting vegetables or working an intern position. You report back to Brock about the new employee, should any difficulties occur. And you…” I nodded toward her. “Ruined that dress. No surprises there. Let’s go home.”

Pierre jumped to his feet, looking like a heart attack waiting to happen. Judging by his puzzled look, a dozen questions were swimming in his head, but the only thing he seemed to have managed to stutter was, “H-home?”

Her hair smelled of onions and garlic as I dropped my arm around her shoulder, just to see the blood draining from the fat chef’s face. But I was surprised when Sparrow’s reaction was to wrap her hand around my waist like we were an actual couple. We walked out of the restaurant, and she looked up at me, her eyes bright.

“Stop smiling at me,” I said.

She started laughing.

“Cut it,” I groaned. Positive attention is the kiss of death to natural born killers. We just don’t know how to deal with reassuring feedback.

“I can’t!” she giggled. “I can’t. I’m sorry. My friend Lucy is going to piss in her pants when she finds out.”

For the first time since we got married, I didn't feel the bitterness that accompanied looking at her face. The burden I had to endure when having her around.

We walked into the chilly summer night and I disconnected from her touch. The valet who’d parked my car immediately broke into a run, cutting into the alley where he’d left the Maserati. I gave him a fat tip for the extra hours and for waiting, and ushered Sparrow into the car. She was still laughing like a drunk.

Secretly, I had to admit, her laugh was not that horrible to listen to.

That should have been my first warning that Sparrow wasn’t the only one cracking up. Her laugh was not that horrible to listen to. At all.

SPARROW

DRUNK WITH HAPPINESS and high on bliss, I could barely contain myself during the drive home. The thought of working in the kitchen of a high-end restaurant made me want to break into a silly dance in the middle of the street. I was going to get five shifts a week, which meant my culinary school days were over. But my real career was only just beginning.

Sparrow Raynes. Runner. Summer-air lover. Boyfriend-jeans enthusiast. Chef. Hear that, Mom? Your daughter, the girl you so easily tossed away like an empty soda can, is someone.

Will be someone.

My imagination went wild. I could gain some experience and then go and do my own thing. Truth be told, I wasn’t the fancy-food type of girl. I’d buy a food truck and serve blueberry pancakes to all the suits working in downtown Boston. Be the height of their gray working day. I’d hire Lucy to work alongside me, and maybe Daisy, too. She couldn’t bake or cook to save her life, but she was always good with people.