Angela stared blankly across the luxurious mahogany table. Luckily the dim romantic lighting disguised her face, providing a brief respite from explaining what she could not find the words to. The restaurant was packed yet oddly serene, like the cascading hush over an eager crowd as the curtains begin to pull back. She was extremely humble for someone of her accolades, yet tonight she secretly wished she was the main attraction. She could not pull her gaze away from the brown eyes in front of her, reflecting the light from the brilliant white sport coat underneath. She was miles away from him across the table. Angela silently cursed under her breath. She had arrived late and had no choice in the seating arrangement. She wanted him directly next to her, but was secretly glad she had no choice in the matter. She instinctively narrowed her gaze to his lips with sharp focus for a moment too long, catching herself staring too late.

A sharp female voice from her right side seized her attention, startling her. “Are you going to take your eyes off of him once this entire night Angela?” Said Christine. Angela blushed deeply, her plastered smile giving way to a frown. Christine tilted her head, impatiently awaiting a response. Her golden-bronze almond shaped eyes twinkled above full robust lips and a narrow feminine jaw. Red silk draped over each curve and valley of her chest like damp linen sheets rippling in the summer air. Christine was fucking gorgeous, thought Angela. Distracted by her beauty, she blurted “What are you talking about? I’m trying to find an opportunity to speak with John”. Angela and Christine were met with the sight of a short, stout man bending respectfully towards the man in white. The small man almost seemed to tremble when addressing him, mumbling something under his breath too far to hear.

Christine turned back to Angela, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Now dear, what could possibly be so important right now? You need to unwind. Relax.” Christine directed her eyes toward Angela’s glass as the waiter poured red wine. A giggle briefly escaped her mouth before quickly recovering with a sigh “John is your sous chef, you speak with him every day”. Angela rolled her eyes at the condescending tone. She hated how observant her colleague was. Angela opened her mouth hastily, then snapped it shut, wrestling with herself to maintain the proper etiquette required of this fancy place. Her face turned an undetectable tinge more red in the low light. She quickly stole another risky glance at the head of table, sighing with relief. The men were still engrossed in conversation, Angela’s conversation seemingly going unnoticed. Regaining her composure, she returned a warm amiable smile back to Christine. “Oh its nothing, just nerves. I can confide in John, I tell him everything. You know that” explained Angela, selling the cover as best she could. By some miracle she was met with the simple response from the Grand Inquisitor. “Oh, sorry I didn’t mean to pry. I’m a bit anxious too, you know” said Christine meekly, tapering off as she looked down at her glass. Christine’s rare bout of vulnerability oddly stirred compassion within Angela.

As the conversation dwindled, Angela suddenly became aware of her tense shoulders and stern upright posture. She joined Christine in staring into her full glass of dark red wine, reminding her of velvet cake batter in the lack of illumination. A smile tugged at her lips despite the anxiety of being invited to this dinner. Angela had felt like an impostor, but she had to admit her last week’s performance was simply incredible. Even if she couldn’t match Christine’s beauty, she could sure as hell outdo her with a rolling pin and apron. Those, among other kitchen tools, were her weapons. The world was not prepared for how quickly and expertly she had learned to wield them. A few weeks ago, The women had taken first and second place at Coupe du Monde de la Pâtisserie, one of the most prestigious baking competitions in the world. Angela’s croquembouche astonished the judges, each bite a harmony of textures crashing together like an ocean wave. She looked onward through her tower of cream puffs towards the judge panel, blinded by the harsh stage lights. Angela’s heart raced with anticipation, but she didn’t care about the verdict from the judges seated to her left and right. All that mattered to her was the man that sat in the direct center. Her eyes fixed on the gold medal resting in Max’s hand as he rose from his center chair to meet her. She could barely stifle the flood of tears from the cameras as her own pâtissier handed her the medal. She chuckled under her breath at that moment. The same executive head pastry chef she once thought cruel now greeted her with a broad smile. She would never forget his words to her, “I am so proud of the chef you’ve become”. Then came the relentless tears of joy.

She tilted her neck from the wine glass, and with a newfound confidence leaned back into her chair comfortably. In her boredom, she couldn’t help but take another brief glance at “John”. A pang of horror washed over her, the whites of her eyes widening at the empty chair across the table. Before she had time to collect herself, a calm controlled voice boomed behind her. Max’s voice raised the hairs on the back of her neck. It often had that effect on her. “Angela”,“Christine”, said Max with a hint of curiosity. Taking a sharp breath as if bracing herself to dive into frigid water, she slowly spun her chair around. Her eyes traveled up to his tight waistband,  belt as black as midnight. She made her way to his broad chest, glowing white. “Congratulations to you both” said Max. His eyes lingered on Angela’s a touch longer than normal.