"Uh." I pick at a price tag on a package of Valentine's Day decorations I picked to liven up the front of my desk at work.

"Don't tell me you haven't-" Her mouth falls open. "He hasn't basted your turkey?"

I shake my head.

"You haven't marinated his eggplant?"

"Nope."

"Please tell me you've at least preheated the oven."

I throw up my hands. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I want recipes. I want leftovers. And I want a detailed report of what kind of kisser he is, got it?"

I knock on Bash's door at exactly seven p.m. just like I have all week. The yeasty smell of fresh baked bread has me all but banging his door down when he doesn't answer right away. Music plays. Dude Taco barks. I hear men's voices rising and falling over the din.

The door opens abruptly and two guys, each dressed in black, exit. I can't tell if they're pissed or full from a hearty meal and need to go lie down and watch a sports game. They breeze past me.

I step into Bash's apartment, waiting for him to appear, worried they were hit men, and I'll find him assaulted with his own kitchen knife.

"Hello," I call, stepping inside, but don't close the door behind me. "Hello," I repeat.

Dude Taco is all over me, trying to lick my lipstick off.

"Oh, hey," he says, emerging from the bedroom, thankfully alive and with all of his fingers. He wipes his nose.

"How's it going?" I ask nervously. A glance around doesn't indicate any over turned chairs or signs of struggle.

His lips do an odd twitching, chewing thing and then he says, "Hungry?"

"Yeah. Is this an okay time?" I ask leadingly.

"Oh, yeah. I just need to grab a recipe."

"Speaking of recipes, my friend Katya, who, um, arranged this, is wondering if you can share the ones from the last few nights. She's envious of my nightly dinner reports."

He laughs then launches into the kitchen to start tonight's meal. "We're having Reubens on homemade sour dough bread, parmesan garlic green bean fries, and double dill coleslaw." Then he catches me up on the latest gossip from both his parents' restaurant and the coffee shop.

When he's trying to remember the newest hire's name, I interject, "Why don't you open a restaurant? You'd be a startup success. I'd be your most loyal customer." I'm such a flirting failure.

"Business is already booming," he says vaguely. He goes on to have a one-sided conversation about the difference between hobbies and jobs. It's something I've been giving some thought to lately with my dissatisfaction working for Bouche, the UBoss program, and my not small conundrum about what to do with my life, but I can't get a word in to explore my take on the subject.

After Bash serves dinner, I take a few pictures and find myself eating more quickly, if only to move things along and see if he and I have any romantic sparks. All the while, Bash's leg jitters at a rapid clip under the table and Dude Taco runs in circles, rounding up imaginary sheep. Then there's dessert. With much fanfare (and a detailed explanation of the differences between propane and butane torches), Bash presents a perfect Creme Brule. The top is browned and crystalline, the inside moist and flavorful. Even if the kiss is as dull as a torch without fuel, I might continue seeing him if only to eat like a queen.

After he's gone to the bathroom six times (I'm keeping track), and there's no chance his lips will stop long enough for me to see if they kiss as well as he cooks, I release an exaggerated yawn and call it a night.

"Be right back," he says.

I put on my coat.

"Hang on," he calls, perhaps realizing he's losing me.

I button all the buttons. "Promise to email the recipes."

He's approaching from the hall as I near the door.

"Don't forget the brownies," I say, pulling on my mittens.

"I'll get you some sour dough starter for the bread."

"Bye."

"See you tomorrow," he says, jogging toward me as Dude Taco races alongside him, but before I can decline, he's already off and jabbering about the dish he's going to surprise me with. I slowly back away, my belly full, and make a quiet exit.

I'm not entirely sure he's noticed I left when I get to the ground floor and hear him saying something about savory pumpkin.

On Friday, I draft up my blog entry, promising no less than thirty-six people various recipes from the week. The descriptions accompanying the photos have certainly caused more than a few food-gasms among my readership.

Before I can check in with my girls on UBoss, Kat comes in. "Honey, I'm home," she calls. "I'm starving. While I make some pathetic meal from a box, tell me what you ate tonight."

Instead, I describe some of Bash's stranger behaviors, including the jittering. "Kat, he practically vibrates with energy. It makes me dizzy."

"He works at a coffee shop. I'm sure he drinks bucketsful of espresso."

"There's no chemistry and no sense he's interested in anything other than hearing the sound of his own voice." I flop onto the couch.

"Give him one more chance. You said he's making you something special tomorrow night, right?"

I nod.

"Maybe he just wants to take it slow. Not every guy is like Spencer and has sex on the first date. You should know that some men are civilized and try to get to know a gal, the old wine and dine, before they make a move."

I throw her a lifted eyebrow of doubt.

"Okay, not a lot of guys, but perhaps Bash is progressive, he does have a man-bun."

After a boring day at work, during which Bouche makes me remove the Valentine's doily hearts I stuck on my desk, I try to snoop and find out why Carrick's a client, certain he's not in celebrity news, a musician, or other public figure, aside from being a Kennely. But everything is locked in password protected files. I do some of my UBoss reading and then fill in the girls in the group chat. They give me a bonus daily dare for tomorrow: get Bash to take his hair down. I picture a slow motion shake of his head, his hair cascading loose, and it's sexy AF.

The following evening is predictable, but delicious monotony, and it's just Dude Taco, Bash, and me.

He's in the kitchen.

I sit at the table with a bottle of wine.

He minces, stirs, and whisks all the while keeping up constant commentary about what, I have no idea,-I've stopped paying attention and started answering blog comments and questions on my phone.

I could probably recite Homer's Iliad and he wouldn't notice. However, there is the bonus daily dare from my accountability partners...

I sidle up behind him in the kitchen.

I lift onto my toes and whisper, "Bash," into his ear.

He startles and then says, "Behind."

"Behind?" I ask.

"When you're in a kitchen and you're behind someone, you always give them the heads up. Common courtesy. Accident prevention. Behind."

"Behind," I repeat.

I swallow hard; summon my UBoss girl power and a bit of Katya's brazenness. I take Bash by the shoulders and turn him to face me. "There's something I'd like you to do for me."

His eyes dart from counter to stovetop.

"Bash, attention, over here, please. Just for a sec. Would you take your hair down?"

His arm flies to the back of his head. "The bun? Down? In the kitchen? No way. It's not sanitary. Health code violation for sure."

#Fail.

I return to my seat, finish my glass of red wine, and devour the creamy pumpkin risotto with sage, fresh shaved parmesan, and a side of braised broccolini on my plate. Time to pack it up and make a graceful exit.

There's a rapid knock on the door.

Bash doesn't break his soliloquy about the ongoing food waste problem in the world while he's checking messages on his phone.

"Bash," I say, raising my voice. "The door."

The knocking continues and the shaky voice from the other side says, "Butter pecan." Then, "Roasted garlic."

Bash goes silent as the urgent knocking continues.

"Cilantro lime."

Bash gets to his feet.

The person desperately calls, "Chocolate mousse."

I wonder if he hosts other people for dinner dates and this guy is having some serious cravings.

Bash pulls open the door.

A guy who's just about as threadbare as his denim jacket stands in the doorway scratching the side of his gaunt face. He asks, "You got anything?"

"I told you, business hours are from one to five. And this week's password is smashed potatoes."

"Yeah, but I need a fix. C'mon, help me out, man."

Me too, buddy, me too. Bash may be nearly intolerable in the conversation department, but there's no denying he's a phenomenal cook.

Then the guy says, "Bash, come on. Just some pills, weed, coke... I'll take anything."

I don't think he means the soft drink. This is bad. Very, very bad. I've seen enough TV shows to know that if the police show up, I'm guilty by association.

Bash, silenced at last, glances over his shoulder at me as I get to my feet, knocking my chair askew. I grab my coat and bag, and pause only long enough by the door to say, "This might be a good time to admit that I'm using you for food, so I'm not passing judgement, but it appears as if you're using, if not selling, drugs. Good night."

And good riddance.

"It's just a side job. It's not as bad as you think."

I glance at the guy, leaning on the door, shaking and probably going through withdrawals.

"I'm sure it's worse."

"Hang on, wait," he says, but I don't. Not for savory tartelettes, not for cream cheese and avocado wontons, and not for pasta Alfredo. Like before, as I rush down the stairs, his voice follows me with the promise of more delicious meals, but I'm done.

I'm kicking this delicious habit.

Chapter 17.

Zero Stars When I get home, Katya is watching TV with her hand buried in a bowl of popcorn. "Where's my doggie bag?" she asks when I come in the door.

I shake my head and she pouts.

"One star, Kat. Half a star. An eighth."

"What do you mean?" she asks, muting the television.

"The Man-bun-barista isn't a Latin lover, a Greek playboy, or an Italian heart throb. He could best be described as a drug dealer."

Kat chokes on a kernel. "What?"

I nod. "It all makes so much sense now," I say, pacing in front of the screen, frozen on a starlet with her mouth wide open as if she's just as shocked as me.

"I don't believe it."

"Let me present the evidence: he hardly ate the food he cooked."

She shrugs. "That's not a huge deal."