A/N: Happy Thanksgiving dear Beans! I'm so very sorry this took three weeks to write. It's 13.5K words this time so its verrryyy incredibly long hahaha! The reason I decided to fit all of this in the current chapter was mostly thanks to the decision that the next one is primarily steamy content (woohoo). So most of the writing for the show + challenges ended up falling going into this chapter. 

I rewrote most of the scenes here and added a completely new team challenge, so I hope you enjoy it. Thank you for waiting patiently ehe, and also to all of you who leave sweet comments on every chapter, know that they make my day every single time. Yippee!!

Enjoy.

_________________

[Vanilla]

The rain did well to mask traces of my scent from across the piazza. Not once did Chicken look my way; distracted by the mesmerizing wave-like movement of creamy risotto cooking over a stove. I, too, had stopped to watch under my umbrella.

Just an hour ago, Leo had fallen fast asleep on the bed after mandatory kitten zoomies around his new environment, pawing at my papers and scripts while I went through them once more after the reading for good measure. It was then that I checked my bag of pet supplies and noticed a possible shortage of kitten wipes down the road, prompting the need to stock up on them alongside other things like a new treat or two. After pulling up a couple of pet stores on my navigation app, I made several stops before arriving at a quaint little boutique on the piazza of Mercato Centrale—Florence's central market.

Three indulgent purchases later, I'd left the store with a heavier tote and lighter pockets when the faint, savory aroma of parmesan and butter wafted past. It stopped me in my tracks.

Anything beyond a ten-foot distance was incredibly difficult to make out in the rain and yet, it had taken me less than two seconds to identify the silhouette behind the stove of a warm kitchen across the square. A small Italian food stand under a traditional red awning, lit by garden lights.

At present, I had been standing rooted to the cobblestone floor of the piazza for the past ten minutes, watching Leroy from afar. Strictly speaking, there was nothing stopping me from taking a closer look or perhaps even going up to the teenaged boy manning the counter to order a serving for myself, but everything about the moment before my eyes felt far too precious to be interrupted.

And so I chose to preserve it.

I turned to leave upon catching a glimpse of his smile and the faraway laughter of the owner standing beside him, correcting the movement of his wrist and demonstrating the technique once more. Risotto all'onda. Creamy, velvety risotto; flowing, rippling in waves.

Upon returning to my hotel room with the spoils of today, I found Leo smacking the pet camera curiously before greeting me with a series of demands. I showed him the new fur toy I purchased at the boutique and instantly, the vocalizations stopped.

"Hm. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were asking for your canine friend," I quipped, watching as he pounced on the plush adorned with bells. "... Well. Even if you were, there is nothing I can do about it. Calling out to him right then and there would've been... intruding. Don't you agree?"

He stared up at me with wide eyes, blinking slowly before abruptly returning his attention to the newfound fascination in his paws. I spent the next twenty minutes packing for a night in Portofino and stowing away the other toys and treats I'd purchased at the pet stores before getting ready for bed.

"You don't... crave companionship, do you?" I turned to Leo as I fluffed the pillows and slipped under the covers in silk pajamas and a leather jacket draped over my shoulders. A jacket that did not belong to me.

It smelled faintly of candles in the night.

I stroked the top of Leo's head after dimming the lights. Watching as his eyes began to close in the middle of making biscuits on my pillow and then, slow to a stop. Gradually, mine followed.

The next thing I knew, something was ringing in my ears. The alarm I'd scheduled for five in the morning was going off at the most terrifying volume I'd set by accident. After expressing his disapproval at being rudely awakened for ten minutes while I washed and dressed, my kitten finally showed himself into his carrier and we headed downstairs to join the crew.

"Banilla! Just in time." Chef Pao waved me over by the driveway. "Bus to Portofino coming soon. We wait here with producers."

"And the chefs?" I glanced toward the large expanse of greenery behind the grand fountain in the middle of the front yard, past the stairs leading to the entrance. "It looks like they've already started their day of filming."

As it turns out, cast members were made to survive on a chef's breakfast of coffee and cigarettes (optional) as the director called for an establishing shot of Villa Cora, meant as B-roll for the main challenge.

Which, technically, was to be held two days in the future. Alas, production timelines and an emphasis on convenience meant that reality shows weren't exactly shot in a chronological manner. In fact, final cuts of reality TV often feature a mix of reactions, confessionals, live cooking, and challenge introductions pieced together and presented for maximum entertainment value.

Even the show's resident border collie was not spared. Apparently, the director thought having Chicken in non-competitive takes added character and authenticity. Which, admittedly, I did not disagree with.

"Can dogs eat olives?" Chef Streisand asked out of the blue, following my gaze as we watched Leroy toss a treat in the air for his dog as soon as the cameras called cut.

"Pitted and plain, yes. Most farm owners love herding dogs like Cinder's. I'm sure they'll welcome him."

And I was right.

Already, a pair of Jack Russell Terriers were waiting patiently at the entrance to the olive farm on the tallest hill overlooking the harbor upon our arrival. The warmest welcome alongside their owners.

Portofino was a splash of color. The window I looked out of on our ride here felt like a theatrical performance; the setting of a movie. Every house, every little store, was a fitting subject of paintings meant for museums, and overlooking a harbor lined with yachts and boats were boutiques, seafood restaurants, artisanal shops, and local food carts that blossomed against a sea of blue. The view was staggering. No doubt, a favorite of local and international tourists.

The olive farm was a mile up the hill where the trees were dense—away from the bustling town and up a narrow road that soon led to a rustic mill.

"Thirteen varieties of olive oil, as mentioned in the script," Siegfried joined us for an introduction of the set, alongside the owners of the farm. "Which all chefs will sample before a tour around the area to learn the phases of olive oil production from tree to bottle... thereafter, the taste test. If all goes well, we should wrap up this scene by eleven." A very tight schedule indeed, but also the most efficient.

The three of us were directed towards a table in the middle of an open terrace with a stunning view of the trees down below and a glimpse of the docks. Placed before us were thirteen labeled shot glasses, the purpose of which I was made instantly aware of.

"I love being given the opportunity to prove our expertise," said Chef Streisand, picking up a glass of olive oil and holding it up to the light. "Intimidation might just make our contestants work a little harder, don't you think?"

I smiled privately. After all, I knew exactly who these samples were meant for. "Indeed, I should hope so. Still! Harvesting olives, running them through traditional millstones a-and and and extracting the oil for bottling... oh I missed educational trips like these. They are quite the privilege, really. If only this was an activity meant for us judges too..."

"Banilla you sound like old man," Chef Pao tutted. "You still young! Take days off, book yourself a flight, and explore the world. In Toronto, the kids love trips to maple syrup factories."

"Oh I love myself a cheese factory tour." "A cheese factory... I'd love that too. Ah, but perhaps a tea plantation... or a brewery, even." "What about salt? Ooo and chocolate. Or even banilla." "I've... read about vanilla thieves in Madagascar. Some farmers live in poverty despite it being the second most expensive spice in the world. Extremely labor-intensive. Hand-pollination requires great care and so imagine losing months of hard work within a single ni—"

"I'd never sleep."

All three of us turned.

So engrossed in our conversation about learning journeys and guided tours we were that we'd altogether missed the arrival of Masters and Mavericks on set. A certain idiot had appeared by the table without our notice, eavesdropping on our conversation while the rest of the crew were being mic'ed up.

I was about to offer a word of caution on snooping around unannounced when I noticed Chicken right at my heel, gazing up with his electric blue eyes of joy and curiosity. Specifically, at Leo in my arms; the result of herding instincts. Ah. So he was simply watching over his dog.

"Yes, yes. Protect the banilla harvest!" Chef Pao chuckled, rounding the table to scratch Chicken under his chin. "Ay I love dogs. Maybe he protect the banilla."

"Places!"

I set Leo down on the grass beside the border collie and instantly, he began herding my kitten away from the set and into his carrier. Unsurprisingly, the farm owners had taken a grand total of two seconds to fall in love with Chicken and his tiny friend, and promised to take good care of them while the cameras were rolling.

Leroy, along with the rest of the cast, was called over to the narrow winding road leading up to the mill for a walk-in shot. And as I watched his back recede, he turned to look over his shoulder. I hadn't quite expected to be caught in the act, and so I nearly choked on nothing—offering a tiny wave instead.

=============

[Leroy]

I don't know how else to put it, but I was starving.

No firefighter has ever had the luxury of having a meal on time, let alone a fixed three-meals-a-day sort of thing, but the demanding physicality of the job meant that food was necessary. Whenever, wherever. They'd given us a simple brioche bun filled with cream to snack on over the ride here, but that was it. Before that, a cup of coffee. I'd even asked one of the assistants when the next cooking challenge was and if it was going to be within the next two hours because hell yeah was I going to use free ingredients to make myself a feast but no. No cooking.

The only thing that distracted my food-motivated brain for a moment was a genius in a sleek white dress shirt. Mandarin collar. A hair stick instead of his usual hair tie. Textbook stunner. Stared for more than ten seconds.

"Chefs!" Pao was the one who got the ball rolling. "Welcome to Portofino. It is illegal to come here without trying the Ligurian pesto, did you know?"

Streisand laughed. "I can't disagree. This is Genoa—right where pesto alla genovese was invented. And as chefs, we all know the most important ingredient in a good pesto recipe..."

Right on cue, one of the farm owners made his way across the set with a bottle of signature olive oil, handing it to Pao while the rest of us watched.

Laid out in front of the judges were shot glasses half-filled with different grades and types of olive oil; a bunch of them I recognized, only because Siegfried had me differentiating the eight grades of olive oil according to culinary standards back when I was homeschooled. That was the easy part since the colors were a giveaway. And even then, the ones that looked the same smelled and tasted entirely different. Nailing the spelling was on the other hand? ... Impossible.

The rest of the lineup included oils made from olives across the world. Turkish; Tunisian; Ligurian. Stuff I knew little to nothing about. Fortunately, they were labeled.

"Two teams: Masters and Mavericks. By the end of today's masterclass, each team must be able to identify, correctly, all thirteen samples. Or at least, more than the opposing team."

The veterans had a clear-cut advantage. In terms of both experience and opportunities, they were head and shoulders above us Mavs. Even with twenty years of cooking under Popo's belt, it was unlikely that she was ever given the chance to travel across the world to learn about more than ten different variations of olive oil. Culinary training, too, played a part in our knowledge of such things.

"But! How can we present you with such a difficult challenge without first proving that it can be done?" Pao went on with a glint in his eyes, swapping the labels placed in front of every glass and instantly, I knew what was coming. Of course, they'd have this scripted.

A spotlight for the genius.

"Indeed. It would be silly to expect you all to possess the ability to pull off a feat even us judges find impossible. Therefore," he stepped towards the table, "I shall demonstrate."

His words stirred excitement and surprise in the room. The name V. J. White had a place in the culinary world even before Andre decided to take things to the internet, but there weren't many who knew exactly the kind of power his mind was capable of. A honed, sensitive palate, backed by the kind of knowledge no library could ever hold a candle to—people knew and feared winter snow. Those living under a rock without a phone or access to social media on the other hand, were curious. Either way, half the chefs on the show came from a generation before ours. To them, he was the odd one out on a panel of stacked judges.

So this was his moment.

The labels now randomized, I watched him pick the left-most shot glass containing a tablespoon of light-yellow, slightly opaque liquid before Pao stopped him with a hand.

"Ah... too easy," he shook his head with a smile and right on cue, an assistant came into the shot with a blindfold in her hands. "The easiest way to separate the many grades and types of olive oil is according to their color. Many trained chefs can do this. So, how about... we try something harder?"

The look in his eyes, I could read. He hadn't seen this coming; either this wasn't part of the script or the production team had somehow kept this from him for an authentic reaction but whatever it was they'd intended to capture did not show on his face. No shock, no reluctance or hesitation. Only genuine amusement.

"I shall humor you, Chef Pao," he said, putting on the blindfold. "For all you know, I could have very well memorized the labels! In order."

"All thirteen?" Pao teased but even then, seemed to doubt his own words. "Ay... unless you have a photographic memory... if so, I wouldn't be surprised."

Streisand handed him the first glass and he raised it to his lips. It had to be the smell. Either that, or the texture but either way, he'd already caught a glimpse of its color. Not in a million years he'd get this wrong.

"Refined. The flavor is... acceptable. Not incredibly acidic but distinctive," he put the glass away and she handed him a bottle of mineral water. "Your average grocery store product off the shelf."

"Too easy."

Du Bellay and I had our heads turned to Andre, who'd probably said this a little louder for the sound guys to pick up and use in the final cut for some added theatre. I didn't see a reason to respond to a kid mumbling under his breath or defend a genius because already, I knew Andre was going to have to swallow his words in a minute.

The second glass was a kind of Turkish oil—naturally-pressed, top quality stuff, and the third was the lowest of all, olive pomace oil that was really only used for frying. That one made him flinch.

The next four, five samples, he breezed through. By this point, the other judges, farm owners, Masters and Mavs beside me and even the camera crew were impressed. By that, I mean hands over mouths; jaw completely loose; gasping for air. Insert copypasta. Layla had her arms folded and a proud look on her face.

He was good.

There was no other way to put it. Also, I had limited vocabulary. Private classes might help.

"Probably memorized that shit," was all Andre could come up with in the end, loud enough for everyone between us to give him the side eye. The salt in his head was somehow comical. Even Sparrow's sister was frowning hard thinking if this was worth interpreting. In a way, having neutral parties give Andre the cold shoulder was amusing; until he started thinking out of the box.

The next thing I knew, he was standing in front of the table switching the last couple of glasses to fuck up the order of tasting.

I had to close my eyes and try to look like I wasn't about to laugh and die from second-hand embarrassment on his behalf. Andre was about to get his ass handed to him on a plate and I didn't even have to lift a finger.

No one stopped him. And I could tell from the look of genuine surprise on Pao's face that he was a tad too stunned to do anything other than look at the director for a cue. None was given. Streisand hadn't exactly noticed what was going on, but she caught Andre just as he was returning to his place at the front of the row and exchanged a look with Pao.

Everyone else stared in Andre's direction and looked between him and the bunch of producers at the other end of the terrace. Still, nothing.

"Chef Streisand? The next glass please." He held the bottle of mineral water with two hands, waiting expectantly for the next sample in the middle of an awkward pause. No one spoke.

"Yes, uh, of course," Streisand was forced to proceed, pausing as her hand hovered over the next sample. Clearly, it wasn't the one that was there moments ago. "Give me a second."

"No matter."

Already, I knew the scene required some heavy editing. Cutting out stiff faces and replacing them with random closeups or wide B-rolls was the only way things wouldn't look awkward as hell. Reluctantly, Streisand handed him the next sample, and he followed suit by doing the same thing from before—smelling it first and then, briefly touching the surface of the liquid with his lips, licking them after.

"The Ligurian. Extra virgin. Delicate. Almost fruity, too. Like it... came straight out of the mill this morning."

Even the farm owners were stunned for a second. One of them recovered first. "Sì!"

"Oh. Well... it truly is one of a kind."

"Gracias signore."

His compliments had the farm owners beaming from ear to ear and even more so when he'd so confidently, assuredly differentiated their olive oil from the rest; making a point about the quality of their produce. Half the room remained in disbelief. The other half looked relieved; almost in awe at how smoothly this was going despite Andre's childish behavior.

In truth, he could've been right; the production team might have written the sequence of the oils in the script. Knowing him though, he wouldn't have bothered storing that useless extra info in his head since he already had everything he needed to identify them tucked somewhere up there.

"You are very good at this, aren't you? Vanilla." Streisand laughed, words laced with amusement and no longer unsure or afraid of the circumstance.

"Oh no. Just your average critic, really."

He proceeded to nail the rest of the samples. All of 'em, Andre had scrambled up and randomized in a matter of seconds.

It was after he identified the last glass of olive oil that someone helped remove his blindfold and everyone clapped; you could tell he was embarrassed. Him being him, receiving this much attention just doing what he was used to doing wasn't within his expectations. He'd never been the kind of person to prioritize recognition or acknowledgement since all that had, already, come from within.

"Let's take ten all," I heard the director say after calling cut. "Check shots!"

I hadn't so much as moved when I noticed Pao heading over as soon as the cameras stopped rolling, eyes fixed on Andre and not in the friendliest, usual-Pao way. "Andre, my man. How are you today? You seem... not so good."

The guy shrugged. "No? I'm good. Maybe a little eager."

"Yes, yes..." Pao sighed. "We appreciate the uh, character. But may I politely ask you... not to repeat what you did just now? I mean, don't do it again. I hope you understand."

Andre went stiff.

Beside him, Du Bellay politely excused herself. Everyone else dispersed for a water break while I hung back, watching Chicken from afar thinking about the many treats I was gonna reward him with for watching over Leo while the latter slept.

"It was for effect, Pao," Andre snorted a laugh. "I figured since you've been in the industry for so long, you'd get it. Turned out great though, didn't it?"

Pao did not laugh. "Even when something happen many times, doesn't mean it should happen. Yes, that thing went smooth but only because..." He sighed. "Okay, never mind. I do not want to leave a bitter taste between you and me, Chef Andre. I believe in you. But even in entertainment, we try to follow the script, no? That cause less trouble for everyone. For directors. Editors. For you, and for me." He finished with a smile.

Knowing Andre, something like a script wasn't going to stop him from messing around. Props to Pao for having faith; luckily, his counterparts were in the middle of lowering their expectations and managing high hopes. Streisand was talking to Leo's owner who had him in his arms, stroking his back, nodding as she spoke. She looked serious. No smiles. Arms folded.

"Hey buddy." I came up to my boy and rubbed the top of his head. He looked off into the distance instead of me. I followed his gaze. Leo. "What, miss him already?" He continued to stare. "... You can't herd twenty-four-seven y'know."

"Hi! Uh," someone stopped by with a phone held up, pointed at us. "Can I get a picture of you with your dog?"

I paused. She was dressed like the rest of the assistants. "What for?"

"Oh, uh, I'm an intern." She tried to explain, turning the screen of her phone my way and scrolling through the stuff she had in the album. "They said I should be getting behind-the-scenes material for daily updates on social media. Just for the hype, you know. And exclusive stuff for some magazines we'd signed on. I've been going around with my phone for pics and some videos."

My attention pivoted. All of a sudden, this was deja vu and I was back in the SOY in the forests of Brazil making private deals with a student photographer for quality trades. I caught a shot of my boy and his new friend on his back, fast asleep. "... Can you send me that?"

"Sure. There's this... and this. Oh this one's cute too—"

"Send them all."

She proceeded to Airdrop more than twenty images while I cracked open a can of pedigree beef for feeding time. It wasn't intentional, but we somehow ended up just a couple of feet away from the judges' table despite efforts to keep my distance on set. Generally, I minded my own business. Except sometimes, I have a hard time separating his business from mine.

"The answers were in the script?" He sounded surprised. "I... I must have skipped it entirely. What a disaster that could've been. Again, I am so sorry. It'll never happen again."

"Yes Vanilla, but... just..." Streisand had a hand on his shoulder, voice softening. "You realize... ... disaster it could've been had you memorized the answers? Andre saw through the... gimmick. Not the greatest feat, I'd say—I mean, it was fairly obvious, but... with the wrong person. Clearly, you would fare better than mere mortals... memorizing an answer key... before the start of an exam."

He coughed. "You think far too highly of me, Chef Streisand, but... I understand. I'll be careful, don't you worry. I appreciate the warning."

"One minute to places!"

They exchanged a couple more words I couldn't make out before ending the conversation with a nod. I tossed the can of pedigree my dog emptied out and sent him back to watch over his sleeping friend. How the kitten could not care less about the chaos happening all around him impressed the hell out of me. Guess he deserved the title of little lion too.

"Rolling." "Slate!" Back to work.

The judges handed out samples of thirteen oils in tiny plastic cups for tasting. They had us crowded around the table with the option to take notes after every sample.

"This one's slightly sweet." World's best librarian, very subtle, very helpful, made a passing remark the moment we were presented the Ligurian extra virgin, gaze meeting mine briefly. Words intended for specific ears. All of a sudden, I felt like I was the high school kid staring his crush in the face across the ice cream display taking his order. Only, it was never really a crush; just full blown, straight up thinking: yeah, that's the person I'd like to spend the rest of my life with.

We were introduced to the farm owners who led the way into the olive groves, speaking in Italian while our fixers helped translate. Cyan tagged along as Sparrow's interpreter and the bunch of us toured the place, learning about Taggiasca olives and how they were harvested. The species was exclusive to this part of Liguria, and its oil likened to champagne among wines.

Pretty cool.

We spent an hour putting our new skills into practice—gathering olives from 200-year-old trees starting from the top of the grove, utilizing nets sown across the land to collect them as they fell. This was manual labor; done by reaching up and running a rake through the branches of an olive tree multiple times, bending down and tugging at the nets. Granted, heading a kitchen was no walk in the park either and proper head chefs were, as much as other blue-collared workers, used to functioning at high levels of physical and mental intensity at work.

I was expecting this to be a breeze for the younger lot, but looking left and right told me otherwise. Raz had tapped out alongside Popo, and Andre had been complaining about his back for the past half hour. Syrup said his arms hurt. Everyone else had neck problems.

The only person keeping up with me and my dog was Sparrow. Wasn't sure if it had anything to do with a preference for the outdoors, but feeling the sun on my skin after a day of clouds and rain got me going.

Also, touching grass did good things to the brain. At least for mine, it did.

Next up was the pressing process. Olives were sorted, ran through the mill to be ground into a paste and finally pressed in layers—producing something that looked to me like fresh-pressed juice, made without heat or chemicals. Extra virgin.

There was a detailed, theoretical introduction full of jargon in both Italian and English meant to aid teams in identifying the unlabeled oils later on, but the only person taking notes was Du Bellay and Syrup. I wasn't surprised. Most chefs were used to cooking with instinct, which also meant we weren't exactly the best at words and descriptions.

When we finally returned to the terrace to shoot the taste-and-identify challenge, the Masters had it down. I saw Hyde, Andre and Tenner providing their takes, leaving a couple other ambiguous samples up to the rest of their team. Du Bellay offered her opinion, swapping two labels. Then, some disagreements. Courtesy of Andre.

Meanwhile, us Mavs were hella clueless. Amaranth who dealt with vegetables in her kitchen on a daily basis took the lead but still, chaos all around.

"Chefs, you have five minutes remaining!" Pao called after glancing at the timer. "Can't wait to see all of you get it wrong. Not easy, you know? Even for me, I don't work with olive oil much."

The challenge was a turn-based system. One member from each team would be pitted against the other to identify a sample. Every correct answer was a point on the scoreboard. I liked how simple it was instead of involving an entire team's input; less drama, faster takes, no Andre.

Speaking of, the guy was the first to step up to the table alongside Syrup. Their samples were greenish. The kind you'd see in a grocery store.

Both tasted the oil and wrote their answers, flipping their boards on the count of three.

"Refined olive-pomace oil from the supermarket, yes," the youngest judge on the panel blinked and in his eyes, I read surprise. "That is correct. Very well done, both of you." Point to Mavs and Masters.

"Tastes bad," Andre made a face at the tiny glass of oil like he'd just downed a shot of vodka. "Can't believe you guys made us drink that."

Sample two, I could tell its grade just by the color but what it was, exactly—Tuscan or Turkish—I couldn't put a finger on without tasting. Both teams missed the mark. Chef Hyde was close. The challenge was tougher than I thought. When it was my turn to head on up for a go at points, something caught my attention.

He looked... bored.

Inside, I mused over his expression. Part of me had expected to see him enjoying the wrong answers or appreciating the difficulty of the task at hand but one look and I knew: he was completely checked out. Almost staring into space.

Instantly, I could relate. I'd spent the past couple of hours waiting for a stove.

"Sorry, Cinder. Is that... could you...?"

I turned. Streisand gestured at the answer on my drawing pad. I stared back.

"It's the extra virgin Ligurian. The farm's." I laid out, glancing down. Spinning the sharpie as I waited. "... No?"

"Well," Streisand was trying hard not to laugh. Her counterparts looked equally amused. "That is correct, but..."

Oh. "... Did I spell it wrong?"

Ligorean Tajustka Extra Virjin Olive Oil.

Hey, don't get me wrong. Autocorrect exists for a reason. Some people need it. I am some people. Over at the Master's line, Chef Saito had missed the mark entirely—the aftertaste of the oil was what set it apart. I extended a hand. He smiled and we shook.

"My kind of spelling! I approve." Pao clapped, laughing as I headed to the back of the line. "Yes, that was the Ligurian Taggiasca. Don't worry, English can be learned. I get Banilla to teach you."

"I'd like that."

"Okay we have deal. Per hour tuition I charge one Jollibee meal. He teach, but you pay me."

I watched him fluster while Streisand moved on to the next sample. The ripples in his eyes returned. No longer dull and stale from the lack of stimulation. Us Mavs tabulated the scores mid-way and by this point, it was clear as day: the Masters were ahead by a mile.

The smile on Tenner's face was telling. I'd seen her wear it many times, reserved for the kind of wins she liked the most—the ones pulled off with others. Cooking alone wasn't a problem for her, but cooking with other chefs in the kitchen made her twice as good. No doubt, the Masters would be enjoying the advantage tomorrow.

Still, I caught myself looking around. That's it? No fires, no freezers for the rest of the day sounded a tad too naive even for a Maverick. I glanced at my G-Shock and thought: twenty minutes before noon and half the day to go. Surely, there was a catch.

"So much learning today that we almost lost track of time..." "Lunch! Oo, Amelia I'm so hungry. What do you feel like eating?" "Well, since we're here in Portofino, some fresh seafood would be delightful." "Down by the piazza martiri?" "The perfect setting, Vanilla. The main square is home to a magnificent view of the luxurious harbor. Yachts everywhere in sight. Locals love it... and so do tourists."

I was right.

Pao rubbing his hands together with a glint in his eye had everyone exchanging a look of hesitation.

"Ay... you didn't think that was all we had in store, did you?" He laughed.

"Chef Tenner, step right up to the front please."

"Wait, another challenge?" Layla looked just as confused as the rest of the Masters. No one else had been expecting more for the rest of the afternoon.

"Not just any challenge," Streisand went on. "A two-hour lunch service in the most visited spot in all of Portofino, known for the highest foot traffic. Teams are expected to prep and cook a signature Italian dish... in a food cart."

The words 'food cart' were enough to get me going.

"The twelve of you will be split into two teams. The one with the most earnings by the end of service will not be cooking in the main challenge, and are therefore... free from elimination."

"Layla." Pao gestured to the row of Masters and Mavericks. "You won the previous challenge. As the toque-bearer, you can choose your full team of six chefs."

"She gets to pick all five?" Someone said under their breath and instantly, it was looks of envy directed straight at Tenner.

"And on top of that," my all-time favorite critic cleared his throat, lifting a cloche to reveal a bunch of miniature dishes the size of fridge magnets. "You get to pick, out of these eight signature Italian dishes, what your team will be serving this afternoon. Afterwhich, you may also determine... what your opponents will be cooking."

Fuck.

While the rest of the room thought of ways to get themselves into Tenner's good books, I knew I didn't have to. Part of her brand was loving a good challenge, which meant two years of putting up with her choosing to go up against culinary students like me for the fun of it.

"Anything else?" She waited with a spark in her eye and it was obvious she could tell there was more to this even with the current handful of advantages dished out.

"Why yes." He almost laughed. I could tell from the curve of his lips. "You may request the advice of one judge throughout your prep process. For now, please pick the five other members of your team."

"My first pick will have to be... Popo." She smiled as she pointed. "If we're serving a huge crowd, we need a chef who deals with the daily lunch rush."

"For middle school kids, sweetheart!" Chef Popo laughed as she made her way over to her team captain's side, receiving the blue welcome apron with two hands.

"Chef Saito. We're surrounded by water here in Portofino, so having seafood on the menu is a given. Amaranth. Raz. And... Syrup. That's my team."

She'd picked four Mavs, and just one Master. Including her, that was two. No one questioned her thought process. Except Andre with a snide remark about people in their twenties making bad decisions.

Red team was, by default: Du Bellay, Andre, Jones, Hyde, Sparrow, and me. Simply put, that's five fine-dining high-end chefs and one random ass firefighter.

Blue was then given two minutes to decide which of the eight dish options they'd like to serve and which, we'd be serving.

They agreed on Fritto Misto di Mare. Fried mix of the sea; a street food classic right up my alley. Battered, fried seafood goodness served in a paper cone. Fuss-free and unadventurous, even for tourists who had never heard of it. People sightseeing by the square were more likely to pick something easy to eat on the go. They'd avoid dishes known to be a sit-down meal at restaurants or anything with a mess. After all, the purpose of street food was convenience and affordability.

Anything typically served on a large plate was a red flag. Even worse if it took ages to prepare. Stuff you'd only see on the menu of a fancy restaurant like...

"Risotto." Tenner did not need her team's input to figure out the hardest dish on her list of options.

Somehow, I'd seen this coming. Everyone else in a red apron looked like crashing out was a valid reaction but thanks to lowered expectations, remained mostly calm on the outside. Andre was the exception.

"Risotto... one of the cuisine's most iconic dishes, and certainly not the easiest challenge. Attracting customers is one thing," Streisand nodded with a lowered head. "Preparing the food in a cramped food truck is another. Shall we take a walk around your workspace?"

The crew bid the farm owners a brief goodbye on camera and once the director called for cut, we hopped on a bus that brought us back to the fishing village we passed earlier today.

I wasn't expecting Raul to hold me up out of nowhere while we were on set since he insisted on drawing a line between work and personal stuff after the thing at the hotel, but apparently this had nothing to do with winter snow. Lies.

"Take this," he held out a dark green bottle that had nothing written, nothing printed on it. "The farm owners loved the shit out of you. This is the Ligurian extra virgin, freshly pressed just this morning, from the stuff you guys harvested. You're the only one they gave a whole ass bottle to, so. Treasure it."

I paused for a second. "They said that?"

"Yeah. Not the treasure part, I mean. Just the whole bit about liking the way you respected the ingredients and whatnot. It's important to Italians—I'm Italian, just in case you're a bad friend and forgot—how you use local raw ingredients and I think you made them feel proud about their stuff. I mean they're already proud of it but proud-er now. I think that's English, right? I'm also a chef. Just in case you forgot."

"Chef Dalto," I showed my appreciation by flipping him off, glancing down at the unlabeled bottle and feeling a little strange. "Tell the farm owners I said thanks."

"I will. Vanilla was the one talking to them first by the way. They came up to him raving about you so I had to do my job and translate."

"... You're saying he could've been the one to hand me that bottle instead of you?"

"No, stupid. He had me give it to you."

"Why?"

"Something about the gift 'losing its magic' or some English shit."

I thought about that all the way down to the town center, stowing the bottle in my duffel and hoping it'd last till I was back home with Annie. Make her some classic pesto. Spice things up if he was around and make an extra serving of aglio e olio.

The noise snapped me out of my thoughts; they weren't kidding about the lunch crowd. The Piazza Martiri dell' Olivetta was the town's main square right in front of the luxe mega yacht harbor. At twenty-three, working full-time emergency services meant that week-long vacations did not exist. The crew called me a workaholic for a reason. Dealing with fires kept many things at bay. Snowstorms included. So the idea of booking myself a solo flight to see colorful houses, outdoor restaurants, terraced blocks and little windows, felt... weird. A view like that sounded straight out of some midsummer honeymoon movie.

Except the crowd.

A bunch of people had gathered around to watch our camera crew set up. Meanwhile, the producers and fixers split up to speak to us in teams.

Turns out, our workspaces were classic Italian food trucks in red and blue respectively. They weren't exactly big, but. Not the hotdog stand I imagined it to be either. At max, the vehicle could fit three in a go.

Prep time was an hour and a half before service began at exactly one-thirty in the afternoon. Besides that and a budget we were given, leaders had to assign roles to every member on the team. I told 'em straight up that math was not my thing. When they didn't believe me, I showed them my AB grades from culinary school before the world's best tutor worked his magic.

"You can't fail AB, it's not possible." Esme Hyde was our appointed captain and she did not buy my story, even with pictures for evidence. "Alright. You're sous chef—assisting Du Bellay."

"Can we not decide who's heading the kitchen without a proper direction? What the hell are we making?" "It's risotto, Andre. Du Bellay's the most qualified chef here for that." "Can't believe I'm stuck with idiots." "You're literally on the team with more Masters..." "We're in Portofino, so. Seafood's a must." "Tomato or cream?" "Tomato." "Risotto marinara?" "Sounds good to me." "We should be talking about the elephant in the room. This isn't some fine-dining restaurant—we can't be presenting risotto like we're used to." "The takeout truffle risotto at Borough does kraft boxes that work." "Those don't look good."

I counted: five. Glanced over my shoulder to see the sixth member hanging back, gaze flitting between everyone's lips.

There was a lot of waiting around while the production team sorted stuff out, which meant unsupervised discussion among the teams in front of their trucks. People were adding their ideas to a pile of potential ones, all unwritten and phrased in a mess.

I tore a sheet of paper from one of the production booklets they'd given us and flipped it to the empty side. Grabbed a Sharpie.

"We can go with cups." I uncapped it and sketched something rough, opening up some room on my side of the garden table. Sparrow stepped up for a closer look. "Get them in holders. Like a carnival. Risotto in a cup."

Hyde frowned. "It's not fancy but... I suppose that's part of the point. What's the other one for?" She tapped the right side of my sketch. The holder I sketched had two holes and a sturdy handle extending from the sides—meant for a pair of cups; an exact copy of the ones I'd seen in Winter Wonderland for mulled wine takeouts.

Sparrow snapped his fingers. Curled them, like they were around a cup, and held them up to his lips.

"A drink." I added a fancy straw. A lemon wheel. One of those mini paper umbrellas. The sketch looked straight out of a five-year-old's handiwork in art class but it was enough to get the idea across. Presenting our dish in a way that made it accessible to those on foot and cool enough for a picture against the harbor had its charm.

I turned to Jones. Owning that many bars across the UK and inviting me to one in Florence must have its uses. "Know what they like here?"

She listed three classics right off the bat and I wrote them down. Arrowed the cup on the left and labeled that MARINARA while Du Bellay recommended a bunch of seafood we could afford with the budget given. Andre disagreed with everything and did nothing else.

The main goal was to factor in all things Portofino; the sun, the sea; humidity and foot traffic. Making the most out of our circumstance despite the challenge Tenner had dished out. At the piazza, we were as close to the water as we could get. Tourists two steps away from the harbor would be taking in the sea breeze and craving Italian mussels and clams. A mocktail on the side. Something vibrant. Cold. Refreshing.

"And the price point?" Andre was skeptical. "Don't forget: we're looking at profits for the win, kids. This sounds like your typical set meal gimmick. It's a big risk."

"Drinks have the highest profit margins in every restaurant," Jones pointed out. "Cost of production is always much lower than the selling price. If anything, this gives us leeway to mark things up."

"I agree." Hyde picked up the Sharpie and in big bold numbers, wrote: "Fourteen euros. How's that?" No complaints.

A couple of assistants arrived with ingredient boxes alongside one of our fixers. Two members from each team would go shopping with them for the stuff they didn't provide—things like seafood and packaging. And in our case, drinks to go with.

We sorted roles on paper before checking out the base ingredients we were provided for the dish Tenner picked. Risotto.

"Arborio rice... olive oil... onions, garlic, flat-leaf parsley. And canned tomatoes. San Marzano; the best." Du Bellay nodded, running through the list under her breath. "Andre. Garlic, please. Peeled and minced. Sparrow," she pointed at the onions and wrote on paper. "Fine brunoise."

Those on mise got to work. Since Hyde and Jones were in charge of plating and drinks, they volunteered to do the shopping; which left me with Du Bellay, our assigned head chef for the next couple of hours. My job was to assist.

Simple enough.

"Can I trust you with the tomato paste?" She hit me with responsibility right out the gate. Had not seen this one coming.

"You... sure you don't wanna do that yourself?" I gave the rest of the ingredients a sweep. "Scraps aren't here yet so you can't start on the stock. I'll work the prep for the aromatics so you don't have to be... dicing carrots and shit."

"Well, it's part of the job. And I'd rather have full control over the broth from start to finish." Du Bellay had a point.

"Any notes?"

"Purée the tomatoes and reduce them. Season it, of course. I'll taste once you're done. And don't forget to—"

"Strain for smoother texture?" I finished, already cracking the cans of tomato open. "Sauté some garlic from Andre's mise in olive oil and add basil while simmering? Or red pepper flakes."

She paused, slowing to a stop. Then, turned to me with a gradual smile; as though realizing I learned the recipe from the same person she did.

"... And a pinch of sugar, yes. If I didn't know any better, I would have thought we had the same teacher."

I made no comment, taking my leave with the tomatoes and joining the others in charge of prep at the outdoor workbench. Just fifteen minutes since the timer had started and already, Sparrow was halfway through his batch of onions. Andre at the other end of the table with his cloves of garlic fumbled over the simple task of peeling. After all, most head chefs leave prep work to those on the lower tiers of the kitchen hierarchy. In Andre's case, I wouldn't be surprised if he hadn't seen a mise station in the past five years of heading his restaurant.

Sparrow was a whole different story.

The guy was in his element. I understood why he was fine staying out of the discussion earlier on since resigning himself to prep was a win-win situation either way, but something about leaving him to do the dirty work (no matter how good he was at it), didn't sit right. Kitchen run tight and fast; the rapid ebb and flow of orders coming in and food getting sent to the pass isn't always the way things were going to be. Throw a wrench in the works and the system could break down in seconds.

I heard Sparrow set his knife aside midway and caught his eye as he looked up. Onions used to have an effect on me; way back when I was made to time myself with a batch of white ones every day, slicing, dicing, brunoise, all cuts imaginable. They don't now. Not after years of smoke from structural fires in my lungs, but still. The look in his eyes reminded me of the boy in Siegfried's New York apartment—the boy cutting onions every morning, waiting for the days to pass.

"You good?" I asked, glancing at the rest of the onions. Nodding at them. "Want me to take over?"

He frowned, then shook his head but I wasn't sure if he knew what I was getting at so I was about to reach for paper when he pulled something out of his pocket and slid it across the workbench.

A laser pointer.

The same one he showed me at the boarding gate back in Heathrow. He nodded at the device and tapped it again. I could tell what he meant by this but wasn't sure how to feel about it; or if I was even the right person for this. Either way, his decision to entrust me with the pointer meant something big.

I reached for it and clicked the button once, resting the red dot on the remaining onions. Then pointed at myself.

He waved it aside, shaking his head for 'no' then pulled out his personal pointer and beamed it at Du Bellay's vat by the window of the food truck.

"..." I hadn't a clue what he meant. He caught the look on my face and wrote the word 'stock' on a piece of scrap. Then, 'onions' with a question mark at the end.

He was asking if she needed onions for the broth. Something Du Bellay missed out completely; she'd told him to do a fine brunoise on all the onions. I held up five fingers and wrote: dice whole which he got instantly and set those aside.

I was popping the cans of tomato into the blender and straining the mixture through a chinois mesh when I paused for a sec to check on his progress. Nosing around stations that weren't mine was not something I did. Throughout the preliminaries and the first challenge in London, I never bothered with a closer look at the competition; just kept things to my burner, watching fires of my own.

Was not expecting to see someone faster than Leroy Cox from seven years ago.

Just to be clear, I'm not the kind of guy who's afraid to admit he's past his prime (don't laugh, I was a better chef at sixteen-seventeen than I'd ever be now) so actually meeting someone who cut faster than the guy I knew from back then—a boy who was more of a machine than anything else—was not something that happened, ever.

His technique was clean. The level of skill you'd expect from a sous chef of some fine dining Michelin-star establishment. When Hyde and Jones returned with boxes of seafood, the bulk of cleaning, deveining, gutting, and sectioning the shellfish and proteins were done by Sparrow and me. The whole deal, done and dusted.

Du Bellay worked on the flavor of the broth and getting out the first sample for group tasting, and everything plating-related was done by Hyde, known for theatrical dining.

The bar owner sorted us a drink each. What she called 'The Ligurian Fizz'. Unofficially, Andre's job was to stay out of our way. Naturally, he didn't. It's interesting how the rest unanimously decided not to take him seriously even without infused water on their faces or a declaration of war made on Twitter.

"Looks straight out of a stock photo on Google." He snorted as soon as Hyde presented the final product on the tasting table, handing out samples to the team while we waited for someone from the judging panel to give our dish a pass.

Things were looking up; our 'Seaside Set' idea came together decent, and for once, Andre wasn't wrong. Presentation-wise, the dish looked like the sort of stuff travellers wanted to have on Instagram. Fancy cups, translucent to show its contents; the redness of marinara with pops of green for garnish and chunks of seafood adding to the luxury—mussels, squid, and vongole; the layered blue-yellow Ligurian Fizz, topped with an edible Borage flower and a grapefruit wheel snagged on the edge. This was Portofino on the go.

Easy money.

Jones handed me a sample of her mix. She winked over the rim of her glass as I downed mine. Not gonna lie, I was way too fucking hungry by this point to think; any number of samples were welcome, including a drink or two.

It tasted like a summer sling. The pompelmo grapefruit reminded me of limoncello, an Italian citrus liquor that packed a zesty punch. Just, without the alcohol. Floral notes in the syrup. Well-balanced. Doubts crossed my mind for a second because trusting my tastebuds with something sweet was not a good idea so when Jones just stood there waiting for my verdict, I sort of nodded vaguely, sliding it over to Du Bellay who caught my eye and reached out for the cup.

Dr. Knight was right about the psychological part. The doubt was a parasite; everything I tasted went through it and somehow, not knowing if I was right about the flavors in my mouth just made that doubt grow and fester over the years. Tonight's journal entry was going to be more than ten words. Not gonna lie, I wasn't used to writing any more than that.

Either way, none of the cast members knew about my condition, including Layla Tenner. Or maybe she did, but not the full extent of it. Besides Siegfried and the world's greatest genius, no one else here really knew me at all.

When Chef Pao came by for a pre-taste of our dish and confirmed that both the drink and the risotto were great, I relaxed.

"Ay! This pairing..." He held up fingers for a chef's kiss. "I love the set meal. This is interesting to judge. First time I see both teams have similar strategies. Blue team also doing set meals!"

"..."

Suddenly, none of us looked proud of our creativity. Hyde, red's team captain, spoke first. "You mean, they're serving something else alongside the fritto misto?"

"Yes they are doing dessert. Brioche con gelato."

I knew what that was. Only because the kid version of me couldn't give two fucks about the complicated Italian recipes in Siegfried's homeschool curriculum but would zero in on anything to do with ice cream. Brioche con gelato was simple; creamy gelato sandwiched between soft, buttery brioche halves. A traditional Sicilian treat.

Perfect for walking tourists while appealing to the simpler side of things.

By choosing to serve a painless dish like fried seafood mix, Tenner's team was freeing up a ton of time for options like gelato on the menu. It was the only way they could pull off a feat like that within the prep time.

I didn't even need to look at red's truck to know they had something special planned. "What flavor's the gelato?"

Pao knew I'd ask. He smiled knowingly. "Olive oil. From the farm! Banilla suggested it."

Great, now I wanted nothing else but five of that shit; knowing Tenner requested for snowy advice did not help my case because of course she did to piss me off.

Either way, we were ten minutes to the start of service and both teams needed to get their food trucks ready for business.

Already, a crowd of locals and tourists had gathered around the piazza with their phones out.

"Buon pomeriggio, Portofino!" The judges greeted them on our behalf, Siegfried off to the side for extra measure. Showing his face was enough to draw attention from the people coming and going. "It is time for some street food by our chefs. Come try!"

Add to that Pao and Streisand who were practically celebs on a stage, and the idea of spending a fraction of their vacation on TV for a minute of fame, we had a whole bunch of customers waiting in line even before opening.

Once Streisand gave the cue for the clock to start, the team split into two: Hyde, Jones, and Andre on the frontlines, and Du Bellay, Sparrow, and me in the kitchen.

Hate to admit. If anyone was great at overselling themselves, it was Andre. The free samples of risotto they handed out were receiving a ton of compliments; locals liked the idea of meal deals that came with a drink, and capitalizing on the spectacle of a huge production crew, Andre easily found himself in the center of attention. Just where he liked to be.

"You can get a fried mess anywhere in the world, but you only get the best seafood risotto here." He straight up dissed, going down the blue team's line to mess with their heads with the kind of sportsmanship only middle school kids would be proud of.

It was obvious that the customers opting for fritto misto and brioche con gelato were mostly locals looking for a childhood favorite. A summer treat by the sea that brought about sentiment and memories, over what tourists dubbed 'a better deal.'

Those standing in line for risotto had their cameras and phones out, pointed at either the truck, or the sea.

"So the locals don't like us for some reason," Du Bellay caught the same thing I did ten minutes into service. Sales were decent thanks to the initial boom; approximately thirty sets so far until visibly, our line started to thin.

Blue team's on the other end, kept growing.

Something was off.

The three of us in the truck on hot foods kept at it while Hyde called ticket after ticket. I felt a nudge in my side and turned to see Sparrow with his pointer out, beaming at something through the glass.

Two seconds. I saw a man's head pop up for a glimpse of our station, and then leave to join the queue for fritto misto with his mates. Then, a woman and a girl. They too, left.

That was how it clicked.

"It's our cooking method." I stared down at the saucepans over our stove, hearing the cogs in my head turn. "They don't make risotto this way."

"What do you mean?" Du Bellay paused with a frown. I grabbed a bigger, heavy-bottomed, straight-sided skillet from under the counter and held it up.

"The gold standard here is to finish it off all'onda mantecatura. The wave technique." I set the pan over the burner and got to work. "It represents the chef's ability to cream a risotto. If you don't do that..."

Sparrow somewhat caught on, thinking this was about using the wrong cookware and started pulling out more skillets from the cabinets in the food truck. I showed him a video of the chef I met last night at the central market back in Florence, working the skillet like a master and creaming risotto in waves; a technique that set chefs in Italy apart from the rest of the world.

"... You're right," Du Bellay said under her breath. "French risotto and its adaptations have come a long way from the classic Italian methods. I can't believe I completely... it's just that this is how we've made risotto since, well. Since forever. Even in culinary school..."

"Happens if you're trained in places like the US or the UK," I added a cube of cold butter into the pan after taking it off the heat. "Chefs like Siegfried cook for a mostly Anglo audience; it's not something that would cross his mind. The rest of the world makes risotto in one way. They just do it differently here."

I glanced to my right. Sparrow watched closely as I moved the skillet back and forth, slowly at first, then gradually picked up the pace as they got the gist of it.

"Still waiting on three risotto," Hyde called over her shoulder and that was when she caught a glimpse of us through the window. "What are you doing? This isn't the time for showmanship! If we had the luxury for theatrics, I would have pulled it off long ago."

"Esme, he's teaching us." Du Bellay sent out the last of our non-traditional risotto. "We've been following industry standards purported by professionals outside of kitchens in Italy."

Not gonna lie, her last sentence threw me way off. How she somehow rephrased my explanation to sound like an expert opinion that would convince Hyde and the rest of the team, I did not know. Thankfully, it worked.

Taking over as head chef meant more eyes on me and the kitchen. Du Bellay wasn't the sort to make a big deal out of losing her position but from an outsider's point of view, people were curious. The technique was showy and made for a spectacle; something that appealed to the eyes and cameras of a tourist while fulfilling local expectations.

"Ugh..." Sparrow paused for a breather, holding the side of his arm and turning to me with his middle finger raised. I snorted a laugh. Nice to know the most universal sign was as useful to me as it was to him.

"This is honestly quite the workout," Du Bellay passed the back of her hand across her forehead, shaking her skillet to create waves in the risotto. "The pan's much heavier than I thought it would be."

"Twenty minutes left on the clock and we're done," I checked the watch on my wrist, held it out to Sparrow and tapped the display. He nodded. "I'm starving."

The judges dropped by separately throughout service; Pao first, then Streisand, and then five minutes before the end of lunch time to put our endurance and consistency to the test—the avalanche himself.

"Most conventionally-trained chefs in modern fine dining restaurants know nothing about the gold standard technique for risotto." He said quietly as he waited in line; last to be served. "It makes me wonder where your head chef learned about this."

Hyde jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "Ask him yourself, Mr. White. If only he suggested this from the start. Nearly gave us a heart attack trying to teach the kitchen halfway through service."

"A chef from the central market taught me." I had been listening; which was a given when it comes to anything related to snow. "Just yesterday."

He did not look the least bit surprised. As though he'd already known and expected this all along, and the question was his way of getting me to say it aloud.

"Yesterday?" Jones echoed, visibly impressed. "Wow."

It was enough to leave an impression on the rest of my team but unfortunately—as the challenge came to an end and production wrapped with a grand announcement of the winning truck—not enough for immunity.

"Congratulations to... blue team!"

Tenner's team won by a fraction of our earnings; just thirty six euros short.

This was by no means good news for the six of us, but also not entirely unforeseen. She'd drafted a team of avengers and made clever decisions every step of the way, both for her team and her opponents. If anything, this was running a ten mile marathon that, strangely, made me crave for more by the end of it. Watching the other chefs in action had something to do with it. Both Masters and Mavericks were chosen to be part of the show for a reason and working alongside and against these people made it clear: Annie was right.

I had a lot to learn.

"Can't wait for the solo interviews," Andre said to no one in particular; voice deliberately raised. "People just love to play the blame game." Nothing to learn from this guy, though.

My boy came running up to me as soon as the cameras cut and we were given instructions to clear our stations while waiting for the production team to call on us for individual confessionals.

"Hey buddy," I scratched him under the chin and rubbed his back. "You hungry?" He wagged his tail. I looked over at blue team's truck and the thought of going up to them for a paper cone of fried seafood crossed my mind. Before I could ask, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

"We made you all some extras, dear." Popo held out a massive portion of fritto misto, smiling at Sparrow before catching my eye for a wave. He was the one who tapped me on the shoulder. "Share these. Young people like you two should eat more and grow faster. It is good to have an appetite. There's more where that came from if you're still hungry. Layla's packing them now."

Already, I was popping calamari into my mouth and checking our kitchen for leftovers. None. Except two cups of Ligurian Fizz Jones had pre-mixed. I handed those to her.

"Sorry, chef. That's all we got..."

"These look like those summer slings we used to drink at disco parties, with the little umbrellas and flowers. I loved those. Very strong."

"It's... non-alcoholic, ma'am."

"Oh! Pity." She hobbled away, leaving Sparrow and I in the shade. We sat in silence; just popping deep-fried pieces of shrimp, halibut bites, and calamari rings while the rest of our team, veterans, got pulled in for confessionals first. Two minutes in and we'd nearly cleaned out the entire bowl of treats without talking. Mood.

He tossed me a bottle of store-bought water. I got out two cans of soda from the freezer of the truck. We sat back and watched the production team dish out instructions to the assistants on set. Stuff to clear; things to pack. Everything else like cleaning the countertops and taking out the trash, we'd taken care of.

The light was at an angle that made Portofino look like a dream. I wasn't thinking when I pulled out my phone to snap a picture. Just did it out of instinct and put it away.

Sparrow pointed at my phone, then signed something with his other hand. Fingers going away from his chest. I switched over to my Notes app and typed: Wats that sign?

He seemed to laugh.

Means 'like'

He did it again. The sign. Followed by a somewhat universal gesture for 'camera'. I made a guess: he was asking if I liked photography.

Yes. I repeated the sign he just did. Then, scrolled through a folder on my phone that had the better stuff I took on my DSLRs back in London. He looked impressed by the ones with nature in it. Ones I'd snap whenever Chicken and I went on our cross-country runs. He did the sign.

"You like nature?" I pointed, did the sign, then highlighted the images with trees in them.

He nodded, leaned back in his plastic chair, then seemed to notice something in the distance. I followed his gaze when I saw him pointing out of the corner of my eye.

Some thirty feet away, a critic with his hair flowing in the wind—cat in his arms while he raised a hand in greeting. A tiny wave.

My hand shot up to shield the smile on my face all thanks to the instant burst of dopamine. I knew we weren't supposed to be interacting on set, but then and there, I felt like going up to him for no reason at all.

Just. Craving his company.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. Sparrow was smiling now; like he knew something I didn't. The sign for 'like' popped up again but this time, it was followed by the one other sign he and his sister taught me just the other day. Tracing a 'V' under his eye. You like him?

Okay, fuck.

"... Is it that obvious?" I frowned under my breath.

Although Sparrow clearly did not catch my words, the amusement on his face told me he'd guessed them from my general reaction of disbelief. And to top it all off, he raised a finger to his lips; as though this was a secret between us now, whether I liked it or not. My natural, instinctive response was to flip him off by complete accident. As luck would have it, he gave it right back.

You are the definition of DOWN BAD, he had the balls to type on his phone but I kept my cool because crashing out would only prove him right.

Wrong. I OUTCLASS down bad.

I showed him and he fucking burst out laughing. It turned a couple of heads including his sister's, who was in the middle of making her way over to us when Sparrow's sudden laughter scared the shit out of her and she ran to our truck to ask if everything was okay.

So.

Turns out, I'm capable of making friends outside of station twelve.

We parted ways as soon as Cyan said something about the team wanting to run through the solo interview questions with them first since, y'know, interpretation and all that, and I was left alone on the bench with my boy. Watching the sun skim over the horizon.

Today was new.

New as in old, but forgotten.

Back then, culinary school had all the opportunities for a chef-in-making to grow however they liked. They had the things you needed to branch out; to learn, to double, to root and remember. Those were the stuff I used to think nothing about because it seemed almost like the norm that I hated. Siegfried taking me on flights across the world learning about cuisines and techniques and schools I'd 'soon attend' or restaurants I'd soon 'head'. School trips that were supposedly fun and new turned out dull and boring because fuck, I wanted nothing to do with the culinary world if it didn't somehow include him.

It did, back then. So that was nice. Made things bearable, at least. I wasn't always distancing myself from it because within that was snow I wished to tread and so there was reason to be around the kitchen; around the heat, the fire, and the flame but today—today was new.

He was there but he'd taken a back seat in the heat. It could have been the effects of traveling or the re-experiencing of learning something new, observing the heart that went into something as simple as olive oil. Manning a food truck. Putting the risotto from yesterday into practice.

It felt like a click.

Like something I'd only come to understand after spending years in the firehouse, going about the day doing things that would've never made us into the sort of gods people tended to worship on TV and the internet. Those were the Visible. Normal people, or the Invisible, did what they did behind the scenes so that others could lead their lives.

If that was the case, then... maybe, the kitchen wasn't that bad of a place I thought it was. Alone, a bowl of soup's not the kind of thing you'd think twice about, let alone worship and rave about like it was some celebrity thing.

Chefs are usually anonymous. You don't always know their names, their stories, or their lives. They just make the shit you eat. And it happens every single day. Somewhere in the world, there's an unnamed person in the kitchen making the food you eat. You don't know how they look, how they speak; if they suck at spelling 'favorite' or if they ever learned their multiplication tables or whatever the fuck 'binomial distributions' are. You don't know, and may never know. But they're always going to be there. These things, I never once thought about.

But somehow, sitting on a bench with my dog in front of the sea, watching the sky turn pink, red, purple, I felt... kinda small, all of a sudden.

===============

"Folks, great work today," Stan had everyone gathered at the reception area of the hotel they'd apparently booked out. The whole thing. "Those attending the producer's cocktail session, join us by the docks in an hour's time. The rest of you are free to roam Portofino for the evening. Get a taste of the local cuisine. Buy yourself some cool souvenirs. Take pictures. Make new friends at bars, whatever. Tomorrow's schedule has been finalized and sent by email so make sure you guys read that. Confessionals start at 8AM. Come dressed in the same outfit. Julianna from wardrobe will make her rounds tonight to collect your laundry. Understood?"

The hotel staff handed out keycards as he spoke, gesturing to the number printed on the card holder. Fourth floor. Room five.

I glanced his way on instinct and caught him looking at me. A pleasant surprise. He hid his gaze the moment he knew I'd noticed him staring and busied his hands with his little one pawing at the carrier. My boy didn't need any of that special treatment; even the hotel staff had fallen head over heels for him. What a lad.

"Banilla, you're not coming with us?" I heard Pao say as soon as we were dismissed, free to head up to our rooms and lie in bed for the rest of the evening. At least judging from the look on my counterparts' faces—mostly spent from the afternoon challenge. Not to mention, olive-harvesting wasn't exactly the easiest job in the world. To some, it was a hell of a workout.

"Oh, well. Um. Is the uh, dinner not supposedly optional? I was thinking of heading upstairs and spending some time with my cat while going through tomorrow's updated script."

"Script? Vanilla, it's the end of the day," Streisand laughed, a hand on his shoulder. Somewhere between the olive farm and the hotel, they'd become close. First-name basis. "We should unwind a little. Pao's stories are the best, I promise."

"Ay, but it's okay if you want some alone time. There's always one of these parties in every country we're going to, so you will not miss out. But, as your senior, I encourage you to maybe show up for, you know, thirty minutes, or one hour, just, like, you know. Show your face. A quick one. Then when everyone is drunk, you leave! Always works."

I heard him laugh a little. Over Streisand's shoulder, our eyes met. He raised a hand, waving a little, smiling. It was a tired one, which had me making the first move before I knew it.

"Can I help?"

I'd hung back after most of the contestants had left the reception area; only the judges and a couple of production assistants remained, apart from the crew occupied with sorting their equipment. The three of them turned my way.

"Ay! You see, pet owners unite. Yes. Banilla might need someone to look after his little cat while he joins us for the cocktail party. Just for a while. He will be back soon."

"I, um." He paused. "That... would be very nice. But only if it's alright with you. I have a nutritional chart that I use and usually I stick to a strict schedule of feeding him but he's been asleep for most of the afternoon and now it looks like he wants to play a-and I don't know if you have the time for that..."

"I do."

The three of them stared at my immediate decision. "That took Cinder less than a second to agree." "Amelia, I told you. This boy is the man! Okay, problem solved. Cocktail saved. I'm going to go up for a quick shower and then join the party by the docks. Banilla, you?"

"Yes. I um, think I'll take a quick shower too." He turned to me, holding out the carrier in his arms before handing over his entire day bag. "There's one last nursing bottle of milk replacer in the bag. Wipes, if you need them. A packet of kitten treats but only if he behaves... a yarn toy, thing. It jingles. And then um, his favorite throw—you've seen that one."

Yo what the fuck that was mine.

Okay not exactly, but it was the knit throw I used over at his place back when we were... y'know.

"Thank you," he finished, noticing that the bellboy had arrived to take their bags up to their rooms. "I'll um, send you a text as soon as I'm done."

The distance between us was necessary. Pao and Streisand were right beside him. Yet, the look in his eyes felt... close. I could see more of the blues despite the lack of light. We weren't touching or anything but for some reason it just felt that way. Like he was closer than usual.

"Take your time." I told him, watching as they headed into the elevator and rode it up. I took the next one, only because Chicken was technically the size of a person and now with one additional buddy in my arms, I needed all the space I could get.

Order had to be established the moment I scanned my keycard and got us into the room.

I didn't need the kids ruining everything on sight in less than twenty seconds. My boy had to sit in a corner (no herding) while I unlocked Leo's carrier and gave him all the time he needed to step out. A total of two seconds. What an unbothered chad. Guess new environments didn't faze him all that much anymore.

I used the wipes to clean him instead of drawing up a basin of water. Some cats made water their lifelong enemy and I wasn't sure if Leo was one of them or if he was only comfortable with his owner doing the deed.

My boy was allowed to roam after being rewarded a treat while I set up a comfy thing for our new guy on the loveseat by the window. Cushions, his favorite throw, the toy, and me. I was holding his nursing bottle. He spent some time feeding out of it. My other hand was for chin scratches and back rubs for my boy.

After Leo's feeding session was a bath with my boy. He'd always gone crazy for showers or things that had water in the air (garden sprinklers) so that, he enjoyed. Somewhere along the way, Leo went from being occupied with his yarn toy to staring at us by the doorway. Chicken was soaked. One violent shake-off later and he was good as new. I did the obligatory blow-dry of his fur till he was warm and fuzzy and sent him out the bathroom for a shower of my own.

By the time I was done with the kids and ready to sit down with Dr. Knight's journal thing for the next couple of minutes (never happens, always been five words max and I'd draw the line), it was dark out.

I had a towel around my waist and a pen in my hand. One word down: New.

My dog and his friend were fast asleep, together, on top of the throw draped over the loveseat—straight out of a fairytale. An entire day out, even for border collies and their energy, must've been a lot to deal with. The pair were knocked the hell out in their corner of the room and the scene warranted a photo.

No way was I about to pass up another cute shot of them together after the one from this morning. After snapping one with the perfect lighting and composition, I stared at it for a minute before deciding to send the thing.

He did say updates on his kitten were welcome.

The response was instant; but wasn't in any way, shape, or form I'd expected it to be. No words, no pictures, no emojis.

He'd sent a live location.

My first instinct was a firefighter's; it had me bolting to the door thinking something was up and I was staring at the GPS on the front of the engine directing us to the site on call, but the next thing I read was the name of the place and that fortunately slowed things down. I stood by the hallway, breathing hard.

It was a bar.

I was about to give him a ring when another text came in. This time, an image.

A glass of wine.

I used to think only fools would claim the superior quality of wine in the presence of company but alas, the caption said, it may very well be true.

It took me a minute to English the hell out of that text and the moment I did, I felt the same rush of adrenaline emergency calls had me feeling. In a single text, he'd somehow conveyed two things: one, he'd been drinking alone, and two, he was asking for company.

My company.