Llama panty–wearing Lulu makes it to the cooking stage at master food critic James Carson’s booth, steps up, slides on a lapel mic, and smiles.

As if it’s the most natural thing in the world to do a chocolate demo dressed like the sexiest chef in the world. Looking like the woman I fell in love with ten years ago.

Mad, crazy, unrequited love that required years to get over.

And seeing her now, commanding an enrapt audience, wearing a Heavenly jacket, having concocted a chili pepper chocolate truffle that made my taste buds sing the “Macarena,” it hits me.

Lulu should be our next rising star.

4LULU

Earlier today I was swimming in a sea of chocolate.

Now?

I’m shaking hands with the woman who runs Heavenly Chocolates. Kingsley goes by her last name only, like the badass businesswoman she is. She doesn’t simply nab honors as a top female CEO or a top Asian-American female CEO—she’s plain and simple a top CEO. She’s become renowned for her market acumen, her fabulous holiday parties, and her tastemaker skills.

The company launched its Rising Star line last year to highlight, market, and distribute artisan chocolate alongside its bigger, mass-produced treats, and it was a huge hit. It never occurred to me I’d be in contention for a role as Rising Star chocolate-maker, much less chosen in one freaking day.

But Leo had marched her over to my demo, and when I finished, Kingsley stared at me over the top of her red glasses, asked for some chocolate, and then rolled her eyes in a sign of unmitigated pleasure. Seriously, those food-induced eye rolls are literally the best thing ever.

Now, Leo’s gone, and Kingsley has offered me the coveted post as we chat behind the demo stage. She grabs my arm affectionately, her swath of silver bracelets jingle-jangling against each other. “Just the other day, I was in your shop, gorging myself on those new Earl Grey creations. They are sinful. Positively sinful. Look what you’ve done to my hips.”

Kingsley gestures to her hips, and they’re not tiny, but they aren’t an ox’s width or anything.

“You look lovely.”

“And I wear Earl Grey chocolate so well.”

I laugh. “You wear everything well.”

She smooths a hand over her belly. “And sea salt, and caramel, and lavender, and raspberry, and strawberry, and so on. But no regrets, right?”

“As I like to say, I never put anything in my mouth that I’ll regret later.”

She chuckles, squeezing my arm tighter. “Aren’t those some words to live by, sweetie.” She clears her throat, her expression turning serious, her dark eyes staring intently at me through the glasses. “Now, listen. I want you to make something amazing for us. I want it to light up the night sky. I want it to be so good Aretha Franklin would sing a tune about it, may she rest in peace.”

Nerves slam into me. She’s asking for the moon, the sun, and the stars.

I’ve been shooting that high for years. Shooting and missing by miles. I need to be able to deliver the solar system to her, starting now. I give the nerves the heave-ho, raise my chin, and aim high. “Do you think Aretha might have sung about a milk chocolate ganache with peanut butter and toasted corn? Or truffles with pistachios and cherries? Perhaps even a buttery caramel with dark pecans?”

Her eyes widen, and she lets her tongue loll out of her mouth. “Oh, I believe she’d be hitting the highest notes.”

I breathe a sigh of relief, chased by giddiness. Holy shit. This is a huge opportunity that could do wonders for my fledgling brand. “Thank you again. I’m truly thrilled.”

“Also, this look you have going on?” She waves a long red fingernail at my ass-cheek-length jacket. “It’s hot as hell. But maybe consider some pants next time.”

My face flushes beet red. “There was a chocolate fountain incident.”

She furrows her brow. “What?”

“Never mind.”

Now isn’t the time to talk about what went wrong. A few years ago, my life was upside down. I was a pastry chef working in someone else’s struggling bakery in the East Village and fighting to find a few free hours to design and create my own chocolates. It wasn't enough time. My dreams were tabled indefinitely.

Now, thanks to Leo, my dreams—the ones I clutched to my chest even in the darkest of times—are racing to the stratosphere. I can’t wait to tell my mom and my best friends and so many other people.

When Kingsley is done, I look around for Leo to thank him, but he’s gone.

I head to my shop, roll up my sleeves, and get to work making recipes.

I feel the slightest bit intrusive when I send Leo a text later that night, asking if I can take him out for a drink to celebrate. I imagine he’s at home, curled up with his fiancée on a dark leather couch, watching Netflix and chilling while ignoring his phone.

The image should make me happy.

I was rooting for that for so long, hoping he’d find someone who fulfilled his heart.

He doesn’t reply right away, so I send a text to Cameron, my best friend and business partner at Lulu’s Chocolates, the guy who is handling our expansion plans.

Lulu: We’re partnering with Heavenly!

Cameron: So much goodness it’s like great balls of fire!

Lulu: Not too shabby, right?

Cameron: That’s the stinking definition of un-shabbiness. Wait? Heavenly’s the company where the dude you’ve been friends with since culinary school works?

Lulu: Leo. Yes.

Cameron: Interesting . . .

Lulu: Why is it interesting?

Cameron: He was best friends with Tripp, right?

Lulu: Yes! You know that! Why is it interesting?

Cameron: You know exactly why it’s interesting.

I’m about to reply when Leo’s name pops onto the screen with a text telling me to meet him tomorrow at The Pub.

I picture him in his apartment near the park, the one with the green awning and the doorman who always called me Carrie Bradshaw.

I can see the elevator, and with sharp clarity, I remember all the times we took it, heading upstairs to a fifth-floor dinner party. Dinner, wine, dessert, Scrabble, Cards Against Humanity, riddle books.

Now, I imagine Leo is setting down his phone, turning it to silent, and giving all his focus to Amy for the rest of the night.