By the time we hug goodbye, I’m genuinely happy for her. And only a little bit envious of the certainty in her eyes, the knowledge that she’s found something real.
I check my phone one last time before leaving the hotel, smiling at the string of messages from Tovek. Each one a little longer than the last, as if he’s getting more comfortable with the back-and-forth.
The last one makes me stop, my breath catching in my throat.
Tovek
Don’t worry. You’ll find your own fantasy novel hero that looks at you like you hung the moon.
I stare at the words until they blur, something heavy settling in my chest. It’s not just the sentiment (though that’s part of it, the simple kindness of wanting happiness for someone else). It’s the way he sees me, the understanding implicit in the message. Not the Noodle Queen or the social media star or the woman with the spectacular failure, but just Mei. Someone who might want to be looked at that way. Someone who might deserve it.
My thumb hovers over the reply button, a dozen responses forming and dissolving before I can settle on one. In the end, I go with the truth. Or as close to it as I can manage.
Mei
I think I might have already.
I put my phone away as soon as the valet drives up to the curb. I slide into my car trying to ignore the way my heart is pounding against my ribs or the warmth spreading through my chest when I see the three dots dancing on my screen.
CHAPTER 6
tovek
I check my phone for the hundredth time, staring at the words on the screen like they might have changed in the last thirty seconds. “I think I might have already.”
No context, no follow-up, just those five words sent in response to me telling her she’d find someone who looks at her the way that dragon guy looks at her friend.
My stomach does a complicated gymnastics routine every time I read it. Hope and terror, in equal measure, making it hard to breathe properly. She’s been gone less than seventy-two hours, and the apartment feels wrong without her.
Too quiet. The air is stagnant, like the space itself is holding its breath, waiting for her to come back and fill it with her particular brand of organized chaos.
The kitchen doesn’t feel right either. I’ve spent the morning cleaning, reorganizing the spice rack, checking the inventory against our order sheet. The bar’s closed today, our first official day off since Mei started, but we’ve got a full day of menu development ahead. New bar snacks, something to go with the drinks that isn’t just peanuts or pretzels. Food that makes people want to stay for another round, then another.
Food that makes them choose us over the Sunrise’s fancy cocktail lounge.
I’m wiping down the prep table when I hear the back door slam, followed by the distinctive thud of a backpack hitting the floor and a string of curses in what sounds like at least two languages. My heart kicks against my ribs like it’s trying to escape, and I force myself to keep wiping, to not turn around until I’ve got my face under control.
“You would not believe the traffic,” Mei says, her voice bright with the particular energy she brings back from these trips. Like she’s absorbed the excitement of the event and brought it home with her. “I swear they close a different lane every time I turn around.”
I glance over my shoulder, not quite managing casual. “Good trip?”
She’s standing in the doorway, hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing that t-shirt with the noodle bowl on the front and leggings with the rip in the knee.
She looks exhausted and perfect and so fucking present that my throat goes tight.
“Really good,” she says, and there’s something in her voice, careful maybe, or deliberate, that makes me look at her more closely. “Still so jazzed that Sunny won Best in Show.”
“That’s great.” I turn back to the prep table, partly to hide whatever’s showing on my face. “We should celebrate. I’ve got that bottle of Japanese whiskey you liked.”
“That would be...” She pauses, and when I glance back, she’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. “Yeah. That would be good.”
There’s a moment. Brief, charged. Neither of us speaks. The kitchen is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the soft tick of the clock above the door. I should say something about the text, about what she might have meant, about the factthat I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours alternating between hope and terror.
Instead, I say, “I’ve got everything set up for the bar snacks. All the ingredients you mentioned.”
Something flashes in her eyes. Surprise, maybe, or reassessment. Then she nods. “Perfect. Let me just wash up.”
She disappears into the small bathroom off the kitchen, and I exhale slowly, pressing my palms flat against the prep table. Get it together. This is business. She’s here to cook, not to hook up.
