Page 37 of Someone Just Like You

“Clearly my performance as your companion tonight is lacking if your daydream is more scintillating.” His eyes crinkled in the corners, demonstrating he was less concerned than his words suggested.

I squeezed his hand across the table. “It’s not. I promise.”Truth. “Where were we?”

“You were telling me about the illegal nature of your undercover work.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t worry. You can trust me.” He gave me his best “I’m so trustworthy” face.

“Haha. Let’s talk about something else. How’s culinary school? What was the last dish you made?”

“Pommes Dauphinoise.”

“Poms Daphne…” I wiggled my nose. “Huh?”

He grinned. “In layperson’s terms, potatoes au gratin.”

“NowthatI know. Not how to make it, obviously, but what it is and how to eat it.”

Timothy laughed. “How about I make it and you can eat it? You can wash the dishes too.”

“Sounds like a plan. Have you always wanted to be a chef?” I liked the direction this conversation was taking, particularly the absence of it having a connection to Jude. I took a sip of my cider.

“No. I actually started out with a sommelier certification, but culinary arts is a better fit.”

I choked as the cider I’d just swallowed went down the wrong pipe, then blurted, “Do you know Jude Stark?”

Timothy rubbed his chin. “Who?”

“Never mind.” I wiped the cider off my chin and took the opportunity to scrub the napkin over my forehead, now dotted with sweat. What was wrong with me? It wasn’t like all certified sommeliers knew one another any more than lawyers did. And I had no idea where or even when Jude got his certification. Most importantly, I didn’t care.

So why had I asked the question in the first place?

Chapter Seventeen

Afew weekends later, I met Esther for brunch at Penelope, a popular neighborhood café. I had just told my best friend how my questionnaire had unlocked a candidate’s fascination with the art world when the second-year litigation associate had said his favorite book in the last year was a thriller about an international art scandal. “It just so happens there are law firms that deal strictly with art. One in our system is seeking a junior attorney. I set up an interview for next week!”

Esther raised her mimosa. “Cheers to Molly living her best life.”

I clinked my glass against hers. “L’chaim.”

“So, besides taking the recruiting world by storm, what else is going on? How’s Jude?” She waggled her full, nearly white eyebrows.

I hadn’t even told Esther about my brief buttemporaryattraction to Jude at Hillstone, but she had fallen under his spell after he had ejected Killian from the premises. Ithadbeen kind of hot. I swallowed a bite of Nutella French toast and ordered myself to think about one of Jude’s less heroic activities of late, like when he sent me on a wild goose chase to a tattoo parlor. “And, anyway, I wouldn’t know. I haven’t had a reason to see him and probably won’t until the party next month. But I hung out with Timothy again.”

Esther froze with her glass at her lips. “And how’s that going?”

“Good. I like him.” I told her about our date at Tap Haus 33. “He wants to cook for me.” Hopefully something besides that Pom Daphne dish.

“How’s the sex?”

The diners next to us stopped their conversation. The tables were packed close together, and any personal tea spilled was a free-for-all. I whispered, “I don’t know yet. Been so busy with work. We haven’t had a chance to have it.” This was true. What I didn’t admit was how confused I was. Sometimes Timothy would do or say something and I’d have all the feels…like,take me now!But just as often, as great as he was, my passion for him ebbed. Until the pendulum swung more to the take-me-now side, I was in no hurry to sleep with him.

Esther opened her mouth to respond at the same time my phone lit up with an incoming text from Rosaria. We hadn’t talked since the emails after our lunch when we traded my list of ideas for Ceiling Crashers for her questionnaire. I took a swig of my mimosa and read the message.

Rosaria:Hope all is well! Can you call me when you have a minute? I have something to run by you.

“Hold that thought,” I said, pointing at my phone. “I just need to respond to this. It’s Rosaria.”

“No worries. You text. I’ll drink.” Esther held the carafe of orange juice and champagne close and shimmied her shoulders.

I snorted then turned to my phone.

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