Page 66 of The Seven Year Slip

Miguel rolled his eyes. “You’re not gonna convince me.”

“I’ve done it once already.”

“Pfff. You’re telling me to get some random highbrow food critic to come over here, eat my food, and tell me what I already know? No, thanks. You can keep your stars.” Miguel waved his hand, and went back to his cooktop, and James rolled his eyes.

I asked, because I wasn’t quite sure myself, “How do you get a Michelin star?”

He turned to me and wiggled his fingers. “It’s a mystery. Well, notthatmuch of a mystery, but we never know when a Michelin critic comes into our restaurants. We just know when they’re gone. Usually, they come by once every eighteen months or so if you’re on their list—unless a restaurant is in danger oflosinga star, then they can make a surprise visit.”

“They sound a bit like a food mafia,” I said conspiratorially.

“You’re not wrong. To get one star, a critic has to come into a restaurant and like the food enough to award it a star. Two stars, a critic has to come four times. Three stars?” He gave a low whistle. “The hardest of all. Ten visits. Ten consecutive perfect dinners acrossyearsof work. It’s almost impossible, which is why there are only a handful of restaurants that are three-starred.” He had this conflicted look on his face, as he spun a silver ring around on his thumb. “Most chefs would kill for three stars.”

“And you?”

“I am a chef,” he replied, but there was a guarded look on his face. He motioned to the cooktop, where Miguel dipped out a bowl of steak strips, and added a handful of bell peppers and onions. “Miguel and Isa are two of the most talented people I know. They make this look easy, but their food is intricate and incredibly detailed. See the steaks? They’ve been marinating for at least four hours in a mixture of—what is it? Lime juice and...?”

“Yo mama’s secret recipe,” Isa quipped.

James barked a laugh. “Right, right. The ingredients are fresh, and they change the menu based on what’s in season. They have a pumpkin fajita in the fall that just—it blows my mind.”

As he talked, I couldn’t help but join into his excitement. Like I did in the apartment. He talked too much with his hands, lacing adjectives into the air with his fingers, but it was endearing, and the other people in line couldn’t help but lean in to listen.

When he lit up, we were like moths to a flame.

I wished this had been the side of him he’d shown in that conference room, and in that cooking class—everywhere, really, that mattered.

This was the part of him I feared had disappeared, but he’d just schooled it and kept it hidden for friends who wouldn’t give up his secret.

“Why are you smiling? Did I say something funny?” he asked suddenly, dropping his hands.

“No, sorry—I just—I missed this.” And I motioned to him.

“Me boring you with food?” he asked.

I shook my head. “You being passionate about it.”

A conflicted look crossed his brows. “I’m always passionate about it.”

Why don’t you show it more often, then?I wanted to ask, but I felt that might be a little rude. Besides, seven years made him almost a stranger, so who was I to say anything, anyway? “I know, I just—I missed it. In the”—I waved my hand absently—“seven years. It was a long time.”

“Ah.” James nodded, biting in a smile that was just a little bit crooked, and the hollow part of my chest ached—the part that had been carved out by grief. It ached for something warm. For something good. For something that maybe, just maybe, could stay. A smile and a bittersweet story over lemon pie.

And I was in trouble tonight, because I smiled back.

“I think it was a little longer for me,” he said at last.

My eyes widened.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed, and I quickly tore my gaze away from him and pulled it out of my purse, expecting it to be one of my authors stranded at another airport or convention hotel. It was Fiona and Drew. Crap—I’d forgotten to text Drew and tell her that... what, I was out getting dinner with our prospective client?

Maybe not.

EARTH TO CLEMENTINE!!!Fiona texted, along with a slew of emojis I hoped meant that she was concerned and not about to murder me.

Are you murdered?Drew asked.Do we need to file a police report?

CLEMENTINE MIDDLE NAME WEST ARE YOU ALIVE, Fiona added.TEXT Y/N.

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