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“Just what?” I ask. “Oh, let me guess: you’ve got it in your head that if you were a professional musician, I would be that much more inclined to sleep with you?”
“No,” he says. “It’s not that at all. It’s just that, well, people kind of treat a person differently if they know he’s a chef.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
This whole situation is surreal and only growing stranger.
“It’s really not important,” he says. “But yeah, this is the job that I’m going to be losing.”
“After hearing the way you talk to your people, I can see why.”
“Oh, that’s just Cannon. He’s only ever useful if you’re flat out abusive to him. That doesn’t matter, though. Listen, I’m sorry that I—”
“I came back to compliment you on the confit de canard,” I tell him. “Did you make that?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve been kind of dreading making that dish ever since you interrogated me about it.”
“I didn’t interrogate—”
“You kind of did, Leila, but that’s not the point.”
“What is the point?” I ask. “Why are we even out here?”
“Other than the fact that you were about to announce to the grunts that I’m getting fired?” he asks.
“Oh, right.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I don’t know why I lied to you—well, the truth is that I didn’t want you asking me to make you French cuisine every day. I get enough of that at work, I assure you. When I come home—”
“Dane?”
“I don’t know why I kept lying.”
“Yeah, it was pretty stupid,” I tell him. “It’s not really a big deal, though.”
He takes a drag and looks off in the distance.
“My dad was a chef, did I tell you that?”
“Yeah,” he says, “when you were interrogating me.”
“I wasn’t—” I take a breath. “You’re talented,” I tell him. “I’m actually pretty impressed right now.”
“Thanks,” he says, blowing out another drag. “I don’t smoke, by the way,” he adds. “I just figured that maybe I wouldn’t have to hold my breath when I kiss… I can’t even say it.”
“Say what?” I ask.
“Wrigley,” he says with a shudder.
“Oh yeah, your bottoms-up chick.”
And I’ve just blown my cover. Maybe he’ll let it slide.
“You do remember what happened last night,” he says.
Maybe not.
“Bits and pieces,” I cover.
