Page 6 of My Bloody Valentine

“Adrian Vale.”

“The hot chocolatier from that fancy event?” She perches on my desk. “I thought you liked his stuff.”

I feel heat rush to my cheeks at Amelia’s casual mention of his “stuff.” My mind recalls that truffle that tasted of delectablevirility and lust. I don’t doubt what made that particular chocolate so… potent.

“I did, but...” I grab my coat, needing to move and shake off these thoughts. “Something changed. His latest collection is different.”

“Different, how?” Amelia slides off my desk, following me to the door.

“It’s hard to explain. The technical execution is flawless, but there’s this emptiness.”

“Maya.” Amelia steps in front of me, blocking my escape. “Your face is bright red. What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing.” I push past her into the hallway. “Can we just get lunch? I’m dying for some pad thai.”

“Fine, keep your secrets.” She links her arm through mine. “But you know I’ll get it out of you eventually.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it, but the weight of it burns against my thigh.

The winter wind whips around us as we step onto Michigan Avenue. Amelia huddles closer, her portfolio case banging against my hip.

“I swear, one of these days, I’m moving to California,” she grumbles. “No artist should have to suffer through Chicago winters.”

“You’d miss the deep dish too much.” I dodge a patch of ice. “And who would critique your latest paintings over curry?”

“Speaking of critique...” She shoots me a sideways glance. “That review of the Indian place was harsh, even for you.”

We duck into Thai Palace, the warmth hitting us like a wall. The hostess waves us to our favorite corner booth, the one with the view of the L tracks. Before I can deflect, Amelia’s already ordering our usual—pad thai for me, green curry for her.

“So.” She sets her hands flat on the table, leaning toward me. “Tell me about these chocolates.”

I fiddle with my chopsticks. “They were just empty. Like biting into beautiful packaging with nothing inside.”

“You’re doing that thing with your face.”

“What thing?”

“That scrunched-up look when you’re holding back. The same one you had when that gallery owner hit on me at your birthday party.”

“He was married!”

“And you waited three whole weeks to tell me.” She kicks me under the table. “Spill.”

The server drops off our Thai iced teas. I take a slow, satisfying sip. “There was one piece. A dark chocolate truffle that tasted different.”

“Different good or different bad?”

“Both? Neither?” I press my cold hands against my flushed cheeks. “It’s complicated.”

“Honey, you’re the only person I know who can make chocolate complicated.” Amelia reaches across the table, squeezing my hand. “But that’s why I love you.”

“Says the woman who spent six months painting nothing but broken mirrors.”

“That was art.” She grins. “You’re just being neurotic.”

“Says the woman who alphabetizes her paint tubes by shade gradient,” I shoot back, stealing a sip of her Thai iced tea just to annoy her.

“That’s called organization.” Amelia snatches her drink away. “And at least I don’t catalog every restaurant receipt by cuisine type, date, AND emotional resonance.”

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