I blink. “You know about it?”
“First prize is one-fifty and a Culinary Quarterly feature, right?” He leans forward. “Mei, that’s perfect. We should absolutely do it.”
“It’s a lot of work,” I say, already bracing for the reality check. “The application alone is brutal. Concept, menu, references, a whole video pitch. And the competition—previous winners have Michelin stars and James Beard awards. People who’ve been cooking since before I was born.”
“So?” Tovek’s grin is sharp. “They haven’t been cooking with you.”
My stomach does that stupid flip thing. “The prize money would clear most of the debt. Pay off Grishnak completely. And the Culinary Quarterly platform...” I meet his eyes. “It would prove I’m still legitimate. That the Alliance was wrong. If we win, they can’t touch us. Grishnak can’t touch us.”
“Then we’re doing it.” No hesitation. Just certainty.
“It’s in eight weeks. Applications close in three.”
“Plenty of time.”
I laugh, surprised. “You’re serious.”
“Completely.” He reaches for the teapot. “What we’ve built in that kitchen is special. It deserves to be seen. And those Alliance assholes deserve to watch you win.”
God, I want to kiss him. “Okay. We’re doing this. The Drunken Dragon enters the New Vegas Annual Cook-Off.”
“To partnership?” he says, raising his cup.
I raise mine. “To not running.”
We drink. The oolong is cool now but still complex, the flavors shifting with each sip.
I’m done running. Done hiding. Done pretending this isn’t exactly what I want.
Eight weeks to perfect our concept, submit our application, convince the judges we’re worth their attention. And afterward, when we clear the debt, and my reputation, we can turn this bar into something that no one can take away.
CHAPTER 12
tovek
I watch Mei from across the bar, my chest tight with a warmth that hasn’t faded in the three weeks since we became official partners.
Her hair is tied back in a messy bun, a few strands falling loose to curl against her neck as she moves through the dining room, checking on tables, answering questions about the menu. The afternoon light catches the gold flecks in her eyes when she laughs at something a regular says. I force myself to look away, to focus on the glass I’m polishing before Greta notices and makes one of her pointed comments about workplace professionalism.
The bar has been packed since we opened two hours ago. Another record-breaking lunch, according to Greta’s careful tally. We’re already prepping for the dinner rush. The kitchen is in that state of organized chaos that means everything is going exactly according to plan. Mei’s mapo tofu bubbling in three different heat levels, her scallion oil noodles prepped and ready for assembly, the wontons for the soup folded with that pleat that makes them look like they’re about to take flight.
It’s beautiful. She’s beautiful. The life we’re building together, messy and complicated and still haunted by debt and goblins and Grishnak, is beautiful in its own way. Not perfect, not even close, but real in a way that makes my chest tight.
The front door opens with authority. Not the casual push of a regular patron but the deliberate motion of someone who expects doors to open for them. I glance up, a greeting already forming on my lips, and feel my stomach drop.
Not Grishnak. Someone else. A satyr with a carefully styled beard and the confidence of someone who’s used to being recognized. He’s carrying professional camera equipment. A ring light, a microphone, a camera on a stabilizer. He’s scanning the bar with the focus of someone looking for something specific.
Or someone.
“Fuck,” I mutter, already moving toward the kitchen. Greta catches my eye from across the bar, raising one eyebrow in a question. I nod toward the satyr, watching her expression shift from curiosity to recognition to concern in the space of a heartbeat. She knows exactly who he is. Damon Vine, host of “Reclamation Road,” the food show that specializes in “redemption narratives” for chefs who’ve had public falls from grace.
And he’s here for Mei.
I push through the kitchen door, finding Mei at the wok station, her movements precise as she tosses a batch of peppers with a practiced flip of her wrist. She looks up when I enter, her smile warming when she sees me.
“Hey, Big Guy,” she says, already reaching for the next ingredient. “You’re not supposed to be in here during service. Greta’s rules.”
“We have a situation,” I say, keeping my voice low despite the chaos of the lunch rush. “Damon Vine just walked in. With camera equipment.”
