“If I were a conspiracy theorist, I’d say you planned this.”

“But you’re not a conspiracy theorist. You just believe in fate.”

“Ha. I do not whatsoever believe in any such mumbo jumbo. If I believed in the poetic notion of some grand kismet scheme, I’d be in a whole different position than the one I’m in now.”

The position I’m in now has nothing to do with fate, I remind myself privately.

Like I need the reminder.

But I repeat the mantra in my head anyway.

There is only choice or no choice.

My choice right now, amid the noise and clatter of this epic chocolate show fail, is singular—fix shit. Save the day for Lulu. Demos at The Big Chocolate Show are career-making. Lulu can’t miss hers.

I rush out of the booth, rejoin Lulu, and hand her the towel. Quickly, she wipes down her arms. As I guide her through the crowds, I tell her she can wear the chef jacket for her demo.

She darts into the restroom and pops back out a minute later with clean hands and arms. She takes the chef jacket from me. “You saved the day.” Her smile shines with the wattage of the sun.

“See how it fits first before you pronounce me king of awesome.”

“I’ll make it fit, and then pronounce you ruler of awesome.”

I go into the men’s room, wash up, and unbutton my shirt. The back is covered but my shirt is, fortunately, the only collateral damage. My pants are fine. I stuff the shirt inside the plastic bag and take a minute to breathe, checking out my reflection in the mirror. I’m wearing a white T-shirt. Not my most professional style but it’ll do in a pinch. Good thing I haunt the gym regularly.

I take a moment to add up the facts, only the facts.

Lulu is here.

She’s living in New York.

I’m living in New York.

I’m about to add in one more fact, but I can’t in good conscience go there.

Besides, my heart is pounding too fast.

It’s from the incident, I tell myself.

It’s from the adrenaline rush.

It’s not from feelings.

I don’t feel a thing.

I leave the men’s room, take a drink from the water fountain, and wipe my hand across my mouth.

When I look up, she’s there.

With outstretched arms, she spins in a circle, waiting for an appraisal of her new outfit.

Her new, jaw-dropping, sexy-as-sin, might-as-well-throw-in-the-towel-and-raise-the-white-flag-of-surrender outfit.

What the hell was I thinking?

I clearly wasn’t using my brain at all. Because she’s even more alluring in this garb.

She’s only wearing the chef jacket and heels.

“Are you . . .?” I gesture to the outfit, the end of my words making my meaning clear. Are you naked under that?

She rolls her eyes. “Please. I have on my alpaca panties.”

“Alpaca panties?”

Her eyes twinkle. “I couldn’t resist. There was a sale on cute animal print undies with faces, you know, right here.” She gestures to her pelvis. “A six pack of giraffes, zebras, dolphins, and llamas too.” She casts her eyes down. “Wait. I have on the llama ones. I always get them confused.”

“Alpacas have shorter ears. Llama ears are banana length.”

She snaps her fingers. “Yes. Exactly. I’m wearing the big-eared animal undies, so it’s totally fine.”

Great. Now I’m thinking of her in underwear. In fucking llama underwear. Precisely the visual I’ve assembled way too many times without help, thank you very much. Minus the llamas, of course.

She tugs at the hem of the jacket, revealing the bare flesh of her thigh.

“Lulu.” It comes out like a warning.

She laughs at me. “Relax. I’m tiny; this jacket is huge. It’s like a short dress on me.”

“A very short dress.”

“I can handle a short dress. I’ve worn shorter.”

“Shorter as in ass-cheek length, Lulu?”

Her eyebrows wiggle. Her eyes—green and not so green—sparkle. “Yes. I’ve worn ass-cheek length, Leo. But I’m still decent. And you’re still my hero.”

She leans closer, rises on tippy toes, and moves her lips close, closer, closest. She dusts those lips across my cheek, and it’s like she’s an arsonist.

In one swift move, I’m on fire.

She grabs the plastic bag from my hand, stuffs her ruined dress in it, and hands me back the bag.

When she swivels around and walks toward the demo stage, “decent” isn’t exactly the word I’d use.

More like decadent.

The jacket hits the top of her thighs. Her legs are toned from kickboxing—and I know why she boxes, I know why she started, I know why she doesn’t miss her kickboxing sessions with her girlfriends, and my heart squeezes from knowing this.