Chapter 3
Miley
I almost called in sick to my own restaurant.
Sick was a stretch. I’d been awake since four in the morning, tried on every piece of clothing I owned, rejected all of them, driven to a twenty-four-hour Walmart in my pajamas to buy a new chef’s coat, realized at the register that I was still wearing slippers.
Then drove home, showered twice, did a full face of makeup, wiped it off, did it again, wiped that off too, settled on mascara and lip balm like a person who was definitely not trying too hard, and then spent forty-five minutes ironing the new coat while watching a compilation of Christopher Vale interviews on my phone propped against the toaster.
I was fine. Completely, totally fine.
The spa appointment yesterday had been planned for weeks.
Months, actually. It had nothing to do with today.
The fact that I’d gotten a facial, a manicure, and something called a hydrating scalp treatment that involved a woman massaging my head with oils that smelled like a tropical vacation was purely coincidental.
Same with the hair appointment, the blowout that took an hour and now sat in loose waves around my shoulders like I’d woken up looking like this, which I absolutely had not.
I walked into Sazón at six forty-five and went straight to the bathroom mirror. My nails were done. Subtle nude pink because anything bolder would look ridiculous under food prep gloves. My hair was cooperating for once in its life.
My skin looked… good? Was that possible? Did I look good?
I leaned closer to the mirror. Turned my head left. Right. Practiced a smile that was supposed to say “welcome to my restaurant” but kept coming out as “please don’t let me embarrass myself in front of the man who saved my life.”
I needed to get a grip.
By nine, my staff were in and the kitchen was humming. Danny was prepping vegetables with both hands and zero conversation, every cut slower and more deliberate than usual. He knew today mattered.
Rosa was at her station. Silent. Brittany was polishing glasses at the bar. And Kevin was loading the dishwasher at approximately half his normal speed because he kept looking at me.
He’d been looking at me since I walked in, his expression more confused than anything else, like he was trying to figure out what was different about me today.
Finally, he stopped loading entirely. He stood up straight, dish in hand, and stared at me openly.
“Chef, you…” He paused mid-sentence, blinked, and tried again. “You look really… I mean, you look… today you’re especially…”
Danny didn’t look up from his cutting board. “Use your words, Kevin.”
“Beautiful!” Kevin blurted it out like the word had been stuck and someone had performed the Heimlich. “Chef, you look really beautiful today. Is it because that movie star is coming over?”
The kitchen went quiet. Rosa’s knife stopped. Danny’s head came up. Brittany turned from the bar with a grin spreading across her face so wide I could practically hear it.
“See, I knew it.” Brittany pointed her polishing cloth at me. “I knew there was something different. You did your hair.”
“I did not do my hair.”
Brittany continued, pointing at my hair. “Miley, your hair is literally in a blowout right now. You have waves. You never have waves. You have a ponytail and a prayer.”
“I always have waves.” I tried to defend myself.
“You never have waves.” Danny had abandoned the vegetables entirely. He was leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, enjoying this far too much. “You also never wear mascara to work. Or is that just your natural eyelashes looking like that?”
“These are my natural eyelashes.”
Danny came closer. “But those don't look like your usual natural eyelashes.”
“How would you know what my natural eyelashes look like?”
“Because I’ve worked here for three months and I’ve never once seen them look like that.”
Rosa, still at her station, finally spoke. One word, in Spanish, without looking up.
I didn’t catch the exact translation, but the tone was clear. She agreed with them.
“Okay! Okay!” I held up both hands. “First of all, I look like this every day. You’re all just unobservant.
Second of all, a woman is allowed to take care of her appearance without it being about a man.
Third of all, even if I did happen to visit a spa yesterday and get my hair done, that would be for me. For my confidence.”
Silence.
“She went to a spa,” Kevin whispered to Danny.
“And got her nails done,” Brittany added, pointing at my hands. “Nude pink.”
“I will fire every single one of you.”
“No, you won’t.” Danny grinned.
He was right. I wouldn’t. And I hated that he knew that.
I turned back to the kitchen, embarrassed, and got back to pulling ingredients together.
Behind me, Kevin was still telling Brittany I smelled different too—like fancy coconut.
Brittany said it was probably a scalp treatment, Kevin wanted to know what that meant immediately, Danny cut in to tell him to stop speculating and get back to work, while Rosa let out a sigh that said she was done with everyone under thirty.
Ugh, these people! I loved them and they were going to be the death of me.
The production crew arrived at one. They swarmed the dining room, rearranging tables, setting up lights, taping cables to the floor. My cozy little restaurant suddenly looked like a film set, and my stomach did a slow roll.
The interviewer was Sandra Koh. Professional and warm, and within minutes she'd made me feel like the most interesting person she'd spoken to all day. She asked me pre-interview questions about the restaurant and I answered on instinct, my eyes drifting to the front door every thirty seconds.
Two o’clock came. Two-ten. Two-twelve.
Every minute felt like an hour. I rearranged the garnish station twice. Checked my reflection in the back of a spoon. Considered running to the bathroom to reapply lip balm and then reminded myself that I was a grown woman, not a teenager at a concert.
At two-fifteen, the front door opened.
I knew it was him before I even saw him because the entire room changed. Sandra stopped mid-sentence. The sound guy looked up. Even Rosa, who had been unmoved by everything, glanced toward the entrance.
Christopher Vale walked into my restaurant wearing all white.
White shirt, open at the collar, sleeves cuffed to his forearms. White trousers, perfectly tailored.
He looked like he’d been carved out of something ethereal and placed in my restaurant as a reminder that this was not my world.
He was taller than I'd imagined, broader too, tall enough that the dining room felt smaller the moment he walked through it.
His face was the one I’d seen on billboards, magazine covers, and my phone screen.
But in person, none of that prepared me.
Screens flattened him. In person, he had dimension.
Presence. Dark hair, slightly messy, like someone had paid good money to make it look unstyled.
Blue eyes that I could see from across the dining room, vivid enough that whatever I’d been about to say slipped out of my head.
One person trailed behind him. A woman, sharp and compact, holding a tablet and wearing an expensive suit. His manager probably. She moved with the focused energy of someone who was always three steps ahead.
He greeted Sandra with warmth. Shook hands with the crew. Smiled, and the smile was heavenly, yet mysterious in a way that gave nothing away. I recognized it from a decade of watching his interviews.
Then he looked at me.
My body made a decision before my brain could intervene. My hand shot out for a handshake, my elbow clipped the salt shaker on the counter, the salt shaker spun sideways and rolled toward the edge, and out of my mouth came the words:
“I’m a huge fan of your face. It’s an honor to finally meet you.”
The salt shaker dropped off the counter and hit the floor with a crack.
Behind me, Danny made a noise that turned into a cough. Rosa, from the kitchen, said something in Spanish I was ninety percent sure translated to “God help this girl.”
Christopher Vale looked at me. Those blue eyes, the ones I’d seen on screens for ten years, were on me, Miley Torres, who had just destroyed a salt shaker and told a man I was a fan of his face, and my brain was actively filing for bankruptcy.
Then the corner of his mouth moved. Just barely.
“Thank you,” he said. “I grew it myself.”
I laughed. It came out louder than I wanted, part relief and part genuine surprise because the joke was good, but the delivery was even better. For a second, I felt he wasn’t Christopher Vale—the celebrity. He was just a guy who was funny.
Brittany appeared with drinks. The moment slid forward. Christopher was guided to his seat. I retreated to the kitchen to have a quiet crisis behind the walk-in door.
The interview started. Sandra asked about his projects, the intersection of food and culture, his recent work. Everything he said was warm, generous, perfectly calibrated to feel intimate while revealing nothing personal.
Sandra leaned forward. “Your fans are dying to know about your love life. Any updates?”
His smile didn’t falter. “I prefer to keep that private. Romance is better when the audience doesn’t have a ticket.”
Impressive! I wondered if he’d rehearsed it or if that kind of wit just lived in him.
Then it was my turn. I stepped into the lights and a steady calm clicked into place inside me. This was the part I knew. This was where I wasn’t a fangirl or a nervous wreck. I was Chef Torres, and I never missed my lines in the kitchen.
I made my signature dish. Slow-braised lamb ribs, pomegranate reduction, herb-infused couscous, roasted vegetables with honey-harissa glaze. Three years of perfecting. Never served, because I’d been saving it.