A/N: Eeeheeee I'm so sorry I took some extra time to write this chapter because I wanted to ensure sufficient research was done before actually writing it and also because I've been working on the manuscript for the third book of the Taste series (Wax Part I) which I'm hoping to have ready for publishing before December ;v; I wanna make it in time for Xmas so that I can host another giveaway and send one of you lucky ones a nice Christmas gift hehe. 

I had fun writing this chapter and finishing it on my birthday :> CANDLE AND SNOW SHENANIGANS *slurp slurp* delicious

Enjoy. 

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[Vanilla]

"Banilla! You sleep well last night?"

I glanced over my shoulder, down the other end of the hallway to see Pao and Amelia headed my way with cups of coffee in hand. Eyes barely open and standing in the middle of the lift lobby waiting for an elevator was my sorry self, minutes before five in the morning without a drop of caffeine. Half of me had been hoping to run into a certain idiot before the start of today's busy schedule for the teeniest pick-me-up but the other half knew perfectly well the sheer distractive abilities of said person that was nothing less than detrimental to a harmless bean trying to focus.

"Unfortunately not, Pao. It's a miracle I managed to clock four hours of sleep after going through the revised script last night after the shoot... Carter has been an, um, interesting character. To say the least."

We shuffled into the elevator and Amelia pushed a button for the ground floor, where we were scheduled to set off from in a few minutes—going separate ways with interpreters and a camera crew each for ingredient shopping.

"What does he do again?"

Pao struggled to contain his laughter.

"One day he driving the car vroom vroom, next day he come down from the helicopter, then he shooting the gun." "I wasn't talking about the movies, Pao." "Ay yes Amelia I know what you're talking about but I'm serious. The guy is an actor. He cannot cook!"

We shared some quiet laughter.

"Precisely what I thought. What is Carter doing here? Who invited him, do you know?" Amelia crossed her arms, leaning against the mirrored side of the elevator. "He comes by saying the silliest things and heads off in three seconds. Not to mention, he's a little too friendly."

"What about you, Banilla? What do you think?" Pao directed my way after noting my silence, which I'd hoped not to draw any attention to.

"I suppose I... should withhold judgement. For now," I opted for something safe, reluctant to share the heavy clouds that fogged my mind whilst waiting for sleep to remove them all. "Perhaps Carter is a natural. Chef Cox certainly fits into the category of culinary talents." I was lying through my teeth and as most of the human population would have known, it was not one of my strong suits.

"No no, Cox had been trained—by the legend himself, moreover—since he was a kid. Carter meanwhile, starred in some film as a head chef just once and all of a sudden, boom. He owns a restaurant."

The elevator doors slid open with a ding and we were met with a frazzled production intern breathing a sigh of relief at the sight of us three. "Thank god. Your rides have been waiting... the cast gathered early and we're all ready to set off to the markets."

Every pair was to be split; one of them would go shopping for ingredients with their chosen advisor while the other would first head to their izakaya stall to prepare for the evening. Joining me at the fresh market today were chefs Du Bellay and Garland.

And because all three judges were assigned three separate vehicles headed for different destinations, I ended up keeping my thoughts about Carter's odd behavior to myself and bidding my counterparts a temporary goodbye.

"You don't look so well, Vanilla."

I slid into the backseat alongside Chef Du Bellay and Chef Garland in the seven-seater, turning to the former who'd posed the question with a tone of uncertainty.

"Right, I thought so too. It seemed like you weren't fit for walking just two days ago," Chef Garland added, all in good nature.

I sighed. I'd take a certain idiot's criminal activities and subsequent... physical consequences any day over a night of overthinking. Unbeknownst to myself, Chef Carter's presence was affecting me much more than I thought it would. The thing about water-splashing, toy-playing, foul-mouthed Andre was that everyone else pretty much saw him the same way. I'd seen him throw a fit and kick up a fuss at nearly every single human being who'd offended him just by existing, albeit I was really the only one on the receiving end of his signature move, the water splash. At the very least, the man was somewhat consistent—in that his poor attitude and immaturity was directed equally (if not, fairly) at everyone else. Carter on the other hand...

"Thank you, everyone. For your concern. It's just a minor headache from the lack of sleep. I'm sure it'll pass." I wasn't about to let some self-righteous movie star get to my head. Either way, there was work to do. "Let's run through the list of ingredients we need to be sourcing for your respective menus. Chef Garland, you first."

Filming in Japan had policies, manners, and etiquette that the general public kept to even if the rules weren't being entirely enforced or outrightly stated. The unspoken code of conduct was something most of the population followed without question and while this meant having visits and filming permits planned down to a T, it also saw nearly no onlookers sneaking photos of us every now and then.

In fact, we came to realize that people generally went about minding their own business in the markets; which actually made the experience of shopping for ingredients relatively smooth and peaceful.

"This is Okinawan beni-imo," our interpreter held up a sweet potato sliced right down the middle to reveal a purple so rich and dark that it looked like a gem. "This man is the farmer. Right now, beni-imo is in season so this is his recommendation if you're looking for sweet potato."

We'd decided to start by sourcing for vegetables and happened upon a farmer by his truck with boxes of potatoes of all kinds for sale. He also had a grill filled with stones and pebbles set up by the roadside with a row of sweet potatoes baking on top of them. The smell was what drew us close.

"The rich color and texture sounds like something we're looking for in our tempura fritters," Chef Du Bellay nodded, checking her list of ingredients and looking like she was ready to put in an order for the evening.

I dropped a quick word of advice. "Perhaps before we proceed, you could elaborate on the way you intend to use the ingredients? After all, the interpreter merely said we were interested in sweet potatoes."

At the back of my mind, I vaguely recalled reading about purple sweet potatoes and how they were best incorporated into desserts and sweets, unlike the typical Japanese sweet potato that was yellow on the inside and had a much more suitable texture for savory cooking. Still, I couldn't be sure if that applied to the Okinawan species and so asking for the farmer's advice would've been the best foot forward.

The interpreter got about to posing the question on our behalf and just as I'd anticipated, returned with a recommendation that differed from the last. "If it's a tempura recipe you're going for, the farmer recommends the Murasakis he has. Many restaurants opt for this, it seems. The Okinawan kind is more suited for making desserts."

"Right. Thank you. We'll take a box of twenty," said Chef Du Bellay to the interpreter before turning to me with a smile of relief. "So you knew about that."

"Just a nagging instinct, chef. Unfortunately, I don't have knowledge about everything under the sun."

"It can seem like you do, at times. I'll bet Leroy has a lot to say about that."

"Cox?" Chef Garland piped up all of a sudden, mouth full of baked sweet potato that was a perfect morning snack in the cold. "He barely talks to anyone. Why'd he have a lot to say about anything?"

I cleared my throat at once. "Pleasant shopping experience so far, yes? Everything's been going rather smoothly. Gentle reminder to keep track of that budget of yours."

"Oh yes, very pleasant," Chef Du Bellay also proceeded to clear her throat in the exact manner I did. "Truth to be told, that farmer could have gone along with his initial recommendation and insisted on those Okinawan sweet potatoes. They are his specialty produce, after all. Nearly twice the price-point on that, too."

"That's a businessman you're thinking about, chef," I noted. "Businessmen work on a profit-based mindset—which isn't wrong, I may add. Farmers however, well, especially in Japan, take extreme pride in their produce. Moreso than just selling them, they hope the people who use these ingredients understand their value and use them in nothing else but the best way possible. I'm sure if the farmer hadn't the exact species we were looking for, he'd refuse to sell us anything and send us away, even."

Happy with our first purchase of the day, we checked sweet potatoes off the list before inquiring about Okinawan salted mozuku seaweed that was next on the list. The farmer did not hesitate to point us in the direction of a fellow Okinawan. A fisherman.

He then asked the interpreter another question, to which she had paused and appeared slightly embarrassed by. "I'm having a hard time understanding him. He alternates between standard Japanese and the Okinawan dialect, which is actually considered an entirely separate branch of the language, so..."

"きみたちどこからきたの？"

"Oh! He's asking where you come from."

"London." "ロンドンからきました。"

The farmer appeared fairly impressed at the sound of London, glancing my way with a smile before returning to our interpreter with one last comment. She laughed.

"He says the man with pale hair is very good-looking," was what she told us after we bid our goodbyes and started in the direction of the next store along the shotengai shopping street.

"Pale hair? But who..." I paused. The accompanying chefs turned to me with a look.

"Yes, I wonder who..." "Which man, I wonder..." "Yes, among us women, who, a man...? How, possibly...?" "A mystery indeed..." "Practically unsolvable. No one would ever know."

"Oh be quiet." I pretended to fiddle with my glasses, feeling rather embarrassed all of a sudden. And pink. Naturally, I wasn't quite used to being complimented; especially on my general appearance. The world's greatest idiot was an exception only because, well, he'd earned that very title for good reason. All this teasing certainly did not do well for the heart.

*

It did not take us very long to check off everything on both Chef Du Bellay and Chef Garland's lists; from dry ingredients to vegetables, fresh seafood, poultry, and even special condiments brought into Tokyo from other parts of Japan, the market had been the perfect choice much to my relief. After all, I'd spent some time burning the midnight oil researching markets like these before finally deciding on one that would best suit the needs of both blue teams.

The shotengai shopping street boasted a pleasant mix of fresh produce, regional specialties, hole-in-the-wall diners and neighborhood zakka stores selling traditional kitchenware. A place like this served as inspiration alongside providing the chefs with a grounded perspective of the kind of food locals were familiar with and the way it was served. Not to mention, very efficient; and not a single tourist in sight!

"Let's not keep our teams waiting," I said to Du Bellay and Garland before turning to the camera crew to request for a ride back to the yokocho alley where the challenge was to be held. Returning first also meant more time for prep.

They exchanged a look and an assistant producer tagged to the crew came forth for a private word with myself. Unfortunately, spending less than three hours sourcing for ingredients at our respective markets was as much of a big mistake as spending more than that. As stated in the script, guest judge Chef Carter was to 'bump' into every team as they shopped, creating opportunities for interaction not only with the cast but with locals who were likely to recognize an international movie star.

"You're suggesting we buy time until he arrives?" I sighed, glancing at our ice box of fresh produce and vegetable cart on wheels before checking the time. Twenty minutes till officially three hours spent shopping. "Alright. I don't wish to make things difficult for the production crew, so we shall remain here until the three-hour mark."

And thus, we decided to stop by a specialty store selling chopsticks. Only chopsticks.

In reality, even a well-travelled person like myself would have struggled to imagine a two-floor, chopstick-only establishment with the most exquisite pieces on display and rows of products available for testing. Tiny dishes filled with beans, pebbles, and marbles of varied sizes littered the store. After presenting our filming permit to the owner and being granted permission to enter the store, I found myself tempted to make a purchase of my own.

Two purchases, to be exact.

Alas, matching pairs of chopsticks; how else could things get any rosier than matching cutlery? Yet, here I stood, in the middle of the store debating between two shades of brown and a suitable length for hands like his.

"The darker shade suits you," said Chef Du Bellay from across the display table, picking up kidney beans with a pair of lacquer serving chopsticks.

I paused. "Well, um. I can't say I disagree, chef. In fact, I'd picked out the ebony pair for myself. This one is... a gift."

"If that's the case, it says on that label to ask for assistance if you prefer the exact pair you're using, just made from cherry wood," she caught on, pointing at the notice slip attached to the cabinet of chopsticks. All in Japanese. "I can see how a red tint would suit the person you're thinking about."

Mindful of the rolling cameras, I masked my surprise with a cough, thanked, and complimented her reading proficiency, before heading straight to the counter where our interpreter conversed with the owner of the store with a tail between my legs. Minutes later, all three of us emerged with a purchase of our own and still, not a single Carter in sight.

I glanced at the time. "It's been three hours," I stated objectively, turning to the assistant producer tagged to our group. She appeared uneasy, whipping out her phone at once and attempting to make another call. Seconds later, she put it away without a word; presumably met with a dial tone.

"I don't wish to make things difficult for the crew, Miss. But it's past the hours we agreed upon and waiting around with fresh produce in our arms isn't the smartest option. We've already bought enough time shopping around and... if anything, I don't see how Chef Carter's presence would add any value to the current script. He's already missed the entire ingredient-selection and sourcing process."

My words were met with reluctance; looks exchanged amongst the crew and a moment of contemplation. Aside, chefs Du Bellay and Garland egged on with bated breath, knowing I'd made the call for their benefit.

"And you will take full responsibility for this decision, Mr. White?" The assistant producer had her thumb hovered over the screen of her phone, ready with a text to be sent.

I paused for a second, then agreed to do so.

*

The consequence was instant.

I'd left the chefs at their respective stalls to prepare their mise en place for the evening before joining my counterparts at the sheltered area director Stan and his producers were based. Conversation had been pleasant and insightful until Carter stormed in with knives for fingers and coal for eyes.

"Mr. White. How nice to see you here, back so early."

If I knew any better, I'd say you're late, Chef Carter! Pray tell us where you've been. I sighed. Not now, Vanilla. Not now.

"... we missed you, Chef Carter. I take it you've been busy?"

He snorted, hands on his hips. The look was a tad silly but I wasn't about to be making judgements about someone's posture. "Listen, kid. I'm not here to play around. Unlike yourself, I've got better things to do; I value time, and that means I respect everyone's schedule. I respect the camera. I respect the script."

I could not help but stop for a quick survey of the room, wondering if any of the cameras around were rolling and this was all part of some sad, distasteful prank. Eyes drilled into the back of my head.

"And I... respect... that...?" I began slowly. Careful with my words. "I'm sorry, Chef Carter, I don't quite—"

"You're not listening, then." Carter held up a hand. Almost matter-of-fact. "I'll say it again just for you: stick to the script. It's not about what you want or what you envision, okay? Keep things simple. We have a shot list. Stick to it. Not very hard for a genius like yourself. Producers like Jenny over here don't spend days writing script after script just for it to be ignored, eh? Let's show them some respect."

"..."

My gaze followed his hand gesturing in the general direction of the producers hunched over a monitor in the back, checking the shots of those who'd returned from the markets.

None of them were named 'Jenny'.

Or Jennifer. Or Jenson. Or Jane. Or anything relatively close.

"I see where you're coming from, Chef Carter. In fact, I agree with you—in terms of the crew's schedule, our group spent exactly three hours at the market as stated in the script. We gathered our ingredients; even did a little shopping. As far as I know, we fulfilled every requirement of the intended purpose of our trip to the market! I do, however, recall there being a 'special appearance' scripted at the two-hour mark of our excursion... which unfortunately did not occur as not all members of the scripted cast were present for filming. Is that what you're referring to?"

Several feet behind Chef Carter, Pao and Amelia had their hands over the lower halves of their faces, entertainment in their eyes and gripping tables for support. If not for Carter's Hollywood fame and influence, I'd have found this all fairly amusing myself.

"That's very good, Mr. White. I knew you were a sensible man—you admitting your mistake is exactly what I expected of a mature young man. You see, your decision to cut your team's schedule short had an impact on the shot list. And by that I mean you're missing an important scene that every other group has. An incomplete shot list is just unprofessional. We don't do that here."

I paused.

"I'm sorry Chef Carter, no mistake has been made. The essence of the script was to have the chefs sourcing ingredients from local markets and by doing so, giving the spotlight to Japanese farmers and their—"

"Haha... we got a stubborn one right here."

"Ay Will, it's a misunderstanding. Calm down, you don't need to talk like this—"

"S'alright Big P. I got this. We veterans just gotta school the kids sometimes, you know?"

"Uh, no, I don't know actually. Haha. Ay this really is just a misunderstanding..."

"Chef Carter," I waved my flag, refusing to get Pao involved. "If I had, by any chance before this, offended you in one way or another, I apologize. This is all very confusing; if you could help me understand where all this animosity is coming from, I would—"

"Well if you can't follow basic rules in the industry, kid," the man sighed. "I suggest you quit."

I stared at him in shock. Quit? Oh! Gladly!

"What a superb solution to this conflict, Chef Carter. Could've never thought of that myself!"

Alas, I'd let slip a sliver of the avalanche only to find the entire tent silent as a grave.

Some uncanny coincidence had the crew returning from their lunch break and the producers over at the cameras had all but looked up and stared straight at Chef Carter and myself sandwiched between the two parties.

An impasse.

I had several options; all of which stemmed from two very distinct stances. One, have Carter run scot-free and by doing so elevate all levels of his unworldly ego but as a result maintain the seeming peace we'd established at work. Or two, have him buried under snow and by doing so possibly put the chefs under my wing—Garland, Du Bellay, even Layla—in the line of fire; collateral damage as a result of Carter's unwavering bias against the menus I'd influenced.

Neither proved to be the solution.

"Everything alright, gentlemen?"

I turned to face Siegfried standing three feet away, positioned between Chef Carter and myself in a neutral stance. He had a wary smile on his face, somewhat cautious of the situation but intervening as an amicable third-party. After all, landing a movie star like Carter must have taken a staggering amount of resources and boot-licking persuasion—to have him pull out in the middle of filming would be gut-wrenching. Not to mention, the extent of influence he had on the industry, too, could very well affect the ratings of the show even before the airing of the first episode.

"Vanilla," Siegfried turned to me first. "The chefs were asking for you just a moment ago. Something about identifying the species of seaweed and possibly having sourced for the wrong one. I told them you'd be with them as soon as you returned from the market."

I blinked. "Of course. I'll excuse myself then."

I hadn't expected him to present me with a perfect exit. And without a hint of condescendence.

"Thank you," he flashed a smile before turning to Carter with a hand on his back, guiding him towards the preview monitor hooked up to multiple cameras. "And Chef Carter, you've got to see the shots of you at that shopping street... perfectly-timed... we'd like your opinion on the..."

_____________

[Leroy]

"Leroy my boy," Pao popped by the grill, gaze lingering on something over his shoulder. "I uh... everything okay?"

"Yeah." I followed his gaze. Nothing stood out to me; just the store across and cameramen setting up their equipment all around. "You?"

"Ay yes. Everything is okay. Just some... nothing," he laughed it off. "You know how it is. Production stuff. The drama." Something was off.

"I don't," I didn't think to lie. "It's my first gig. I know nothing about the industry." I picked out a ring of freshly fried calamari and gave it a taste. This was my second trial and error since returning from the market. Surprisingly, things were going smooth. I moved on to the dip.

"Haha! Okay true," Pao sighed. "I would like to tell you about it but... not my place. Maybe another time. And anyway, you have other things to focus on ya?" He reached for the biggest ring of fresh calamari on instinct.

"Patience," I smirked, casually sliding it out of his reach. "Just four hours till go time. You can wait."

"... ay you very bad. I am your advisor so I'm here to give you advice! How can I do that without tasting?" "You're going to like it." "But how you know? Chef Cox, I'm telling you... oi what are you doing?" "Hiding the food." "Ay this boy!"

We pretended to wrestle for the plate but Pao gave in eventually, rolling his eyes and wagging a finger—mood visibly improved. It wasn't like him to mope over everyday work in the first place, and I figured something might have happened within the core team. Come to think of it, I hadn't seen snow all day.

"I come to tell you something my boy," he leaned against the counter, slapping a clear folder on top and pointing at some handwritten notes in red. "Usually we have three judges and a guest for the panel. Nothing wrong. Tonight you will run the izakaya and serve locals for two hours. During that time, the team will count how many customers you serve. There is a hidden quota. If you hit that early, the panel will come see you. And uh... because of... some conflict, instead of four people in the panel, we will have seven. Three experts—Japanese locals, this time—from the industry. This is last-minute, but everyone is unprepared so I think is fair. Plan your mise. Don't run out by the time we come around."

"For sure," I nodded. Most of what he said, I'd somehow anticipated. The reason behind adding a couple of experts to the line-up however, not so much. "Did something happen?"

"Ay what did I tell you? It is not my place to say, Leroy. Stop asking tito," Pao gave a look of warning. "You're making it very hard for me you know, very tempting."

I shrugged, playing it off. "Just saying, sir."

"Don't 'sir' me." "Yes chef." "Ay this... we talk later. Right now, you must focus on the win. Red team best team." "Yes sir." "I think I have enough Leroy for today." "More later." "Okay maybe but first you must promise you win." "No promises." "I understand now why only Banilla can stand you. But if there is a next time, I still want you to choose me." "Yeah he can take me." "... in a fight, right?" "..." "... in a fight, right?"

*

The nerves were kicking in ten minutes before go time.

Not gonna lie—we spent the past couple of challenges in the kitchen at a station of our own, serving up dishes to a fixed panel and the occasional extra but not once did we have unknown guests sitting three feet away with a full view of the culinary space, watching us prepare their food right in front of them.

Sure, the crew back in station twelve had every opportunity to see me go at it every now and then but they were family. Casually hanging out with the fishermen on the superyacht back in Bali, too, had some context. They were locals letting me in on their ways.

Here, they were going to sit and watch.

"Cameras rolling in five, Chef Cox." A crew member came up to me with nod, fixing the mic on the lapel of my jacket. "You ready?"

"Yeah. Thanks man."

I had the menu up front, chalked out in English and Japanese thanks to Google. The rocks were hot and red—ready for a good sear above the grill and slithers of smoke rising up top. Crew gave the cue. The yokocho alleyway was now open to the public.

Regulars fell into a single file heading down the street, stopping every now and then to peer into the narrow dining space and catch a glimpse of the chefs behind the grill, or at their menu displayed at the storefront.

I lost track of the number of ladies who'd stopped outside my place, stared at my menu, took one look at me, and ran off giggling to Du Bellay and Layla's stall right across mine. I turned to the assistant standing out-of-frame.

"Something on my face?"

He shook his head, looking just as confused as I was.

Just then, a man in a suit headed right past the entrance and straight for the first counter seat without a moment to spare. Didn't even look at the menu. Just sat down, poured himself a glass of complimentary iced water, and nodded.

I got to work.

The sizzle of the chicken as soon as they hit the grill erased all traces of an awkward silence. It was the smell—a savory, garlicky fragrance in the air that brought the experience together; made it all come alive. I reached for the seasoning I'd come up with the night before, adding a dash to the heat and watching, smelling the sear; the browning on the wing. Edges crisping at every lick of a flame.

And then on instinct, as though compelled by a part of me I could never shake, my gaze turned to the only guest in the store. The left-most counter seat. For some reason, I'd expected to meet his eyes.

Instead, I saw the flame of the grill reflected in his glasses. And he was smiling.

It wasn't me he was looking at—it was the food.

His food. The one I was preparing, right now, for him.

The moment crystallized into something small. Something that lived only on the tip of a wick; the crest of a candle. I did not know what it was or how it came to be, but part of me understood its purpose. A sign that I was close to checking off that box I'd come here to deal with.

I took in the moment, as though afraid it might never return, then held up a hand. It caught the man's attention.

"Spicy? Zero. One. Two. Three."

He understood at once. "Three. I like."

I laughed. "I like spicy too."

He removed his blazer, laying it across his lap with a smile. "Good."

*

I made the cut. Hit the quota. Early.

People started filling the seats moments after my dishes hit the grill and the smells started wafting. The line that began to form outside my place, too, helped. Nerves were the last thing on my mind; by then, I'd seen a ton of guests (with and without company) come in bright-eyed and curious, drop random compliments about my looks, take a bite of their first course, and forget my face entirely. Good. Assets were cool and all, but this wasn't some pageant.

Some of them tried to tell me about how they'd heard other regulars on the street talking about my place. I understood some of it, but couldn't return a single word in their native language.

Either way, the crew in charge of my store had to cut the line short and drop me a cue to clear the counter seats in the next ten minutes for the panel.

And like I said... no sign of snow all day meant I'd yet to have my fill of sharp, icy wit. Not forgetting the occasional signature move: push-up-glasses. A classic.

"Leroy!"

Carter was first to enter the izakaya, leading their group of seven into my place with open arms. I stayed at the grill and stared. Genuinely did not know what he expected me to do with the open arms. I was not a hugger.

"Ay my boy! We are ready to be surprised." Pao came right after, rubbing his hands together and dismissing the awkward pause initiated by Carter. "How was your evening?"

I waited, watching the rest of the panel stream into the store. Amelia. Two chefs in their whites—the experts, I assumed. And then, bringing up the rear... a bang.

Yamazaki and Vanilla. Side by side.

"Good," I said to Pao. Then turned to the tail end of the group. "Even better now."

Our eyes met. Candle and snow.

Something was up. I knew the moment he walked in but a closer look at his eyes under the light and I could tell today was not his day. The air was stale; almost dull, the way no one was really looking at each other and how he was visibly distancing himself from the spotlight. That, or someone was dumb enough to have things done this way and he hadn't the energy to reason with the unreasonable. Either way, something was off.

I looked at Yamazaki. He smiled, but averted his gaze soon after.

"Let's get started then," Carter clapped his hands together, making for the seat right down the middle. The one directly in front of the chef. "Can't wait to see what you have in store for us, superstar. You set the bar this morning. I want to see more of that."

Nothing happened this morning. Carter dropped by, saw me picking out a bunch of squid, was impressed, dropped a compliment or two, said hi to the fisherman who pretty much did not know who he was, and left. There were seven seats lining the counter; it didn't take a genius to figure out which one of these would land the most screen time.

So I stopped him. The dude blinked.

"That one's reserved."

Aside, Amelia and Pao caught on sooner than I'd expected—hands flying to the lower halves of their faces to suppress a laugh. I could almost hear them. Here we go again.

My gaze rested on the one person that seat was reserved for but he was so out of it, pausing to glance around as though searching for the random special guest. I nearly blew my cover, stopping short of spelling it out for him. Sit your pretty ass down the middle, Vanilla.

Just imagining it put a fucking smile on my face and I was this close, this close to losing it.

"Oh! Haha. Cool," Carter sort of laughed. "Who's it for?"

I looked ice in the eye and beckoned. His gaze lowered to my finger, caught completely off guard and rendered speechless. He bowed his head at the rest of the room staring his way before quietly clearing his throat and drawing towards the seat that was his—a smile blushing the corners of his lips.