Satisfaction trickled away and left a rub of guilt. Maybe before Miranda’s review hit he would’ve been ready early. He’d worked day and night to rebuild their clientele, but the crowds had thinned after his lady trashed Mia Casa. His careful advertising now looked like a desperate attempt to find patrons instead of a stable restaurant boasting confidence. It was like he had started all over and lost all those initial weeks of work.

Then there was Miranda. He still needed to try and convince her to come with him, and solidify their tentative trust.

“Um, I don’t know if I can get everything in order. I may need more time.”

Agitated silence hummed over the line. “I’m not screwing around, Gavin. Wrap it up in three weeks, get your ass to China to close my deal, and we’ll sign on the dotted line. Now get to work.”

The line clicked.

Gavin dropped the phone and rubbed his forehead. He’d done it. Partnership meant security, glory, and the big time. Could he get Mia Casa profitable and secure in three weeks? And what about Miranda?

His temples pounded with the beginning of a massive headache. He trudged into the kitchen, where Tony was ripping someone over the phone in full-blown Italian. Gavin winced at the gutter words, especially when he switched to English. The phone slammed.

“Damn, Tony, who the hell was that? If it was a customer, I’ll kill you myself.”

Tony shook his head. “I do not believe such nonsense. Claiming to be Gordon Ramsey, willing to fix our restaurant. We do not need any fixing. That man should be in prison!”

The box slipped out of his fingers and slammed down on his toe. Pain exploded and cut through the panic. “Did you say Gordon Ramsey?”

Tony nodded. “Yes, he says he wants to put us on his show to embarrass and humiliate us in public. I told him what to do. And where to go.”

The breath choked him. He spun around in the kitchen and frantically grabbed the phone. Caller ID. He’d just call them back. He’d fix it, he could fix it. “For God’s sakes, what’s wrong with you?” he shouted. “I filled out a million forms, begged, pleaded, and used all my contacts to get us on Kitchen Nightmares. This is our opportunity to go public, Tony! He comes in, renovates, fixes the menu, and then we’d be the hot place for everyone in New York to go to. And you told him to fuck off!”

Tony spat in his face, his cheeks ruddy with temper. “Of course! We do not need outsiders, Gavin. I have seen that show—it is a humiliation and a display of dirty laundry. Your papa would die, and so would I. No! I refuse.”

“You don’t have a choice! If we don’t turn profits around soon, Mia Casa is going bankrupt and we’re all out of a job.”

His longtime friend and cook looked at him with disappointment. “Do you want to leave so badly you would do this to us?” He lifted his hands, then dropped them against his apron. “If that is the case, go back to your job, Gavin. We do not need you.”

Frustration mingled with shame. The result was a temper tantrum worthy of any Italian member in his family. “Oh, you needed me before to sink my money in here, didn’t you? You need me to settle the fights, and fill in with waiters, and save your ass time and time again because you’re so frickin’ emotional, I never know when you’re gonna blow up the kitchen! Maybe I will leave. Let you and Brando and Pop run it into the ground and then say I told you so.”

Tony slowly walked away, but Gavin found himself yelling into empty space. “Great, just great. Walk away and tell Pop. Go ahead. I’m calling Ramsey and making this place the go-to restaurant in Manhattan—with or without you!”

He finished yelling and made the call. Several calls. When he finally reached the top level, he was irrevocably told he would not be on the show after the fiasco, and Gordon had moved on to a more willing participant.

Gavin slumped into the barstool. His father walked in and took the seat next to him. They sat in silence for a while.

“Each time I find myself flat on my face, I pick myself up and get back in the race.”

Gavin dropped his forehead on the glass bar with a bump. “I don’t think so, Pop. Even Sinatra would agree with this one. Tony screwed up bad. I had a chance to turn this whole thing around.”

“With an outsider?” His father patted him on the back. “Tony was right. You are doing a good job, my son. Already, we have had our most successful night with the new lounge opening. The appetizer menu is flying out of the kitchen. You must remember that the reason people will come and keep returning is the heart of a restaurant.”

“Not the food, huh?”

“The food is part of the heart. It is the people behind who care about the customers. Who care about doing what is right and working hard and believing in something bigger. It is not about being on the right show or how much money you can put into advertising.”

The wrongness of his father’s lecture irritated him, but he pushed the emotions down. He may not agree with his father’s philosophy, but he respected him. He’d just have to work harder to come up with some catchy ideas in order to leave. Maybe a full page ad in The Times?

“Sure, Pop. Thanks.” He picked up his head and tried to focus. But first he had something important to do. “Can you ask Brando if he can pick up an extra shift tonight? I want to take Miranda out. I know it’s Saturday, but it’ll only be for a few hours. Think he can handle it?”

“Yes. I will talk to him.”

“Thanks.”

“Remember, my son. Don’t go and spoil it all by saying something stupid, like I love you. Not unless you are ready to commit.”

Gavin jerked back. The truth to his father’s words shook him to the core. It had been one full week since their date. The image of her half naked on the bar still burned in his memory and raised him to full staff. He craved to pull down her panties and claim her for his own, but knew it was too soon. He needed to move slowly and give her time to re-adjust. He still raised his fingers to his nose and swore he caught her scent. Musk. Spice. Honey. Heaven.

She’d begun having lunch with him at Mia Casa. A few hours in public gave her the security she needed, and kept him from trying to drag her into bed. They shared food, work talk, and caught up on their past. A bond began to strengthen, until he’d find them staring at one another as if they wanted to both jump across the table. But he didn’t want to blow it.

The more time he spent with Miranda, the more he realized she was the woman to complete his soul. But Pop was right. And Frank, of course.

No love confessions until he was ready to put a ring on it. Or was that Beyonce?

Too exhausted and confused to do anything else, Gavin nodded and walked out of the bar.

…

The courier delivered the box at exactly five o’clock. The message was simple:

I’ll pick you up at seven. Wear this.

Even as she curiously tugged off the top of the box, Miranda raged at his arrogance. A last minute command on a Saturday night? She could’ve had a food outing. A date. Anything. What man assumed a woman was waiting for him to send her a box and a note stating to be ready in two hours?

She stopped grumbling the moment she parted the paper.

The dress was magnificent. A deep velvet merlot, with a plunging neckline, she touched the heavy folds in hushed awe. Her fingers trembled over the Gucci label. When she pulled it free from the box, it tumbled to the floor with an elegant train, the color bold and rich in the light. A sparkle caught her eye. She lifted out a pair of diamond and ruby-studded shoes. Four-inch stilettos, perfectly matching the dress. Miranda sucked in her breath. The room swayed. How was this possible? Had he gone nuts? The smaller fabric box was the last item inside. She snapped open the cover and revealed a ruby drop necklace, flashing fire and ice in full-blown glory.

Miranda had died and gone to female heaven.

She sat on the floor amidst the box and its contents for a long time. Did she send it back? Call him and yell? Call him and be polite? Or just go?

Go.

Her adventure lay before her. She was still in control, and he hadn’t pushed the terms of their relationship since their physical encounter on the bar. He’d been the perfect, charming companion this week, inviting her to lunch every day and serving her with a quiet satisfaction she’d never experienced. Amazingly, she’d find a few hours had crept by over a bottle of wine and she craved more. More of his wolfish grin, and sharp wit, and engaging dialogue. For the first time, he allowed her access to both his family and his inner soul. He shared his teachings from India and talked of his work. Then he politely walked her to the door, kissed her cheek, and let her go.

A shiver of excitement ran down her spine. She’d wear the dress and the shoes and the jewels and then send them back.

Miranda ran off to get dressed.

Two hours later, she answered the knock on her door.

Gavin stood in the hallway dressed in a black tuxedo. Casually elegant, and comfortable in evening clothes, he cut a figure that made her mouth dry up and her heart slam against her chest. The man was a walking, talking sex God. Strands of hair were tamed neatly back, emphasizing the slant of his cheekbones, the dominant thrust of his nose, the sensual curve of his mouth. The scent of his cologne drifted around her like Opium and made her knees weaken. He smiled, his gaze probing every inch of her outfit, from the expanse of cleavage, to the wickedly high heels that allowed her to reach past his chin.

“My God. I don’t think I’ll get through this night in one piece. You’re beautiful.”