Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

Ellie

"This is all a celebrity chef needs to get a cookbook deal? A two-line email from his agent and a ridiculous nickname?" I waved the offending printout at my best friend, unable to keep the exasperation out of my voice.

Nicole stretched elegantly in the conference room chair, like a cat soaking up the weak January sun. "Tobias Paul represents anyone who's anyone in food, and the Happy Pirate Leprechaun is a great nickname."

"For the mascot on a box of marshmallow cereal," I grumbled. "Happy New Year to me."

Most days, ghostwriting cookbooks was my dream job. Publishers paid me both to cook and write, which would be my hobbies anyway. In addition to capturing my subject's voice like every ghostwriter had to, I was also a translator, taking the huge quantities and multiple subrecipes of restaurant dishes and turning them into straightforward instructions an ordinary person could follow in their home kitchen. But I was a guide, too, a companion, helping chefs and home cooks connect to each other so everyone could eat delicious food.

To ghostwrite a cookbook successfully, I had to be rock solid: methodical, precise, great at managing money and time, and, above all, patient with people's foibles. But the lack of information on this project left me feeling like I was balancing on an office chair, the wheels on the verge of going out from under me.

It didn't help that Kieran O'Neill was late.

The local chef's victory on the reality TV show Fire on High had triggered a six-way bidding war to publish his first cookbook. Alchemy Press's editor Tad Winthrop had won the auction by promising him a ridiculous amount of money and the services of his most diligent ghostwriter. I would write recipes and stories in Kieran's voice, and Nicole would shoot the accompanying pictures. Today, we were all meeting for the first time to discuss our plans for the next several months of work.

I read the email aloud, hoping that more words would magically appear. "‘Kieran O'Neill wants to write a cookbook about having fun in the kitchen. Call me.' Having fun? Great, thanks, that tells me everything I need to know."

Nicole checked the ends of her long black hair. " Fire on High is the competition show of the decade. I know you only watch historical British people falling in constipated love, but even you've absorbed that by osmosis."

I shook my head. "Not just osmosis. I did watch the whole season, also known as fifteen hours of my life I could have spent learning to knit or finally reading A Suitable Boy ." Or if we were being honest, five historical romance novels.

She dropped the strands. "How could you not like it? Like him ? He goes on a journey ." She waved her hands. "Underdog made good! Figuring out his voice!"

I folded my arms and sighed. "Your jazz hands are super cute, but you know I only watched it because I had to. I'm not trying to yuck anybody's yum. It's just not for me."

I went to the floor-to-ceiling window, soaking in the peacefulness of the view. The Golden Gate Bridge was an elegant red line in the distance, and Marin's hills rolled out like deep emerald velvet in the early afternoon light.

Nicole leaned on the glass next to me, but she wasn't looking at the view.

"I know you believe it's not what cooking is, " she said, the humor turned to concern. "That it shouldn't be about showing off and gimmicks. It should be about caring for people and making them happy. But a lot of people like the performance. The Banquet YouTube channel wouldn't have billions of hits if they didn't."

"But it's so fake ."

"OK, fine, you're never going to watch goofy cooking videos with me. So did you just watch the show through your fingers? Or do you actually know what his deal is?"

I rested my hand on my chest, fake-offended. "How dare you doubt my search engine prowess? I know his full name is Kieran Michael O'Neill, and he's twenty-seven. He was born on December eighteenth."

Nicole smiled. "Of course, he's such a classic Sagittarius."

My eyes rolled to the ceiling. "Yes, if you think an individual's entire personality is determined by where the stars are in the sky at a random date and time."

"Spoken like a true Virgo," she tutted.

" Anyway . He's from Ojai in Ventura County, graduated from Nordhoff High School and then from Santa Barbara City College with a Culinary Arts certificate. He worked at the Pacific Hotel in Montecito for two years, then Steve Yuan brought him to Qui in San Francisco. He went from intern to sous in under four years."

"How did he get his nickname?"

"Pirate because of the black bandanna he wears. Leprechaun because he clicked his heels at one of the judging panels and became a meme. Also because he's short and redheaded." Not that he could help either of those things.

"Favorite ingredient?"

Which he'd been asked in every interview. "Citrus. He likes how it ‘wakes up food.'"

Nicole threw up her hands. "OK, you know a bunch of facts. But you don't know what he's like ."

"I guess I'll figure that out once I meet him. If he ever gets here."

She growled. "I don't get it. This project is so not your bag. Why did you say yes this time? Before you give me a ridiculously complicated answer, I need sustenance." She turned around and plucked one of the wan supermarket croissants from the plastic tray in the middle of the table, leaving a greasy silhouette behind. "Want one?"

I shook my head. "Sad pastry."

"Sad pastry is better than no pastry."

I eyed the drooping croissant in her hand. "I beg to differ."

"So picky."

"I prefer ‘discerning.' One, I said yes because Tad asked me especially. He said he needed his most reliable person." I prided myself on never making promises I couldn't keep and on always delivering with a smile.

"The world won't end if you say no to him occasionally," she said with the tiredness of having had this conversation many times before. "You don't always have to be available."

I ignored the niggling edge of her comment. Being available wasn't an issue when I didn't have anywhere else to be. "I owe him for being so good about Max."

She softened a little. "You owed him two and a half years ago. And it wasn't like you were behind on the La Estufa cookbook for no reason. Your husband died. And you've been amazing since then. You're beyond even."

"Maybe." Tad had told me to take all the time I needed, no questions asked. He'd sent ready-made food to stock my freezer and a book of Auden poems he loved, and checked in with me every week until I was ready to work.

"Not maybe, but whatever. So I know what Tad wants. But what do you want, Ellie?"

I watched a little boat scoot toward the Emeryville Marina, silently cheering for it to make it home.

I knew what I wanted.

Certainty.

After spending a decade holding everything together for my younger brother while our dad was nowhere and our mom may as well have been, Max and the Wasserman family had been the safest of harbors. I learned that when I visited them, his father Ben would always kiss both my cheeks with a smack, then pour me a beer and ask what I'd thought of the latest Warriors basketball game. That his mother Diane would pull me into the kitchen to taste a sauce and debate whether it needed more salt or lemon, then press her new favorite novel into my hands.

After Max and I got married and he'd been hired at UC Davis, I'd known that every time he came home from a long day teaching Flaubert and Balzac in French to undergraduates, he'd tell me how much he loved seeing my smile. That he would bring me red roses every Wednesday. That every Friday afternoon we'd drive back to Berkeley for Shabbos dinner.

I'd known too that once he'd won tenure, we'd buy one of the old-fashioned clapboard houses near the university, and we'd have a baby. A sweet baby with Max's dark eyes, who'd grow up in a home full of love and warmth. Who'd know in their bones they were wanted.

All of those certainties dissolved in a late-night phone call from Paris two and a half years ago. No more Max, no more home, no more sweet, dark-eyed baby.

"Seriously, though. Why not go out with someone who's, like, Max's opposite?" Nicole asked through the haze of memory.

I blinked awake. "Why on earth would I do that? He'd drive me up the wall."

"I know Max decided you were his soul mate on day one, but for most people the first date is supposed to be fun . Why not go out with someone just for fun?" She pointed to the printout. "Are you against fun?"

"Oh, for Pete's sake, I am not against fun!"

Two male voices got louder and louder outside, and Nicole tapped my arm. "Then prove it. Here he comes."

Before he walked into the room, I'd thought I'd known what Kieran O'Neill looked like. But Nicole was right—there were facts, and there was experience.

On-screen, he was handsome in a fey kind of way, pale-skinned and wiry and high-cheekboned. But in person, with his wide mouth smiling and his eyes crinkled in laughter? He was mischievous Puck from A Midsummer Night's Dream, with hair like an autumn bonfire hanging down to his jaw and silvery green eyes. All he needed was a crown of leaves, and to be bare chested instead of wearing a holey old band T-shirt. Its neckline had split away, his jeans had rips to match, and his Chuck Taylors were so old that the black canvas had faded to dark brown.

Maybe you weren't supposed to notice the scruffiness once you saw his face, but his face wasn't going to help me buy the home I'd always wanted.

"Let me introduce you all," Tad said, like we were at a cocktail party and not in a room that smelled like lunchtime pizza. "Kieran, this is Nicole Salazar, who'll be shooting your book."

Kieran grinned. "Nice to meet you, Nicole. Steve told me all about you."

She chuckled. "I'm surprised. Your boss still owes me twenty bucks from when I beat him at Ping-Pong."

He flailed his arms in pretend shock. "But no one's ever beaten him."

She blew on her fingernails. "I'm just that good."

I just barely repressed my eye roll at their banter.

Tad finally turned to me. "And this is Ellie Wasserman, your ghostwriter."

When we shook hands, his was rough in the right places for someone who'd worked with knives and fire for a long time. His grip was strong, too. Though I didn't know why chefs insisted on having knives tattooed on their arms. It wasn't like they were going to forget what they did for a living.

"Pleased to meet you, Kieran," I said. His skin was warm, and when he smiled back at me with all his teeth, it stretched the tiny scar below his lower lip. I blinked a few times, but that delicate little line still pulled my attention.

"The mysterious Ellie Wasserman," his lips said, smiling wide. "But I guess that's a ghostwriter's job, to be all spooky."

He waved his fingers in the universal sign for "spooky," and my distraction went up in smoke. Just what I needed, someone who didn't take my job seriously. I narrowed my eyes at him, and his big smile shrank.

"Let's get started," Tad said, turning to the table.

Once we'd sat down, I laid out my planner and my notebook, lining up my black Pilot pen next to them. Nicole pulled out her reporter's notepad and opened a new voice memo on her phone.

Across from me, Kieran took out nothing and jammed his hands into his armpits.

His eyes darted around the room, over my shoulder, looking anywhere but at Tad, who was describing the publishing process. Finally, Kieran picked up one of the cheap Alchemy ballpoint pens. Maybe he'd write something on his hand? No, he just clicked the pen open and shut. Open and shut. Open and shut, open and…

Pop!

The pen exploded, and a spring shot across the table and landed on my notebook. Tad stopped speaking. I carefully pinched the spring between my thumb and index finger and put it to the side.

"Shall I carry on?" Tad asked.

Kieran said, "Of course, my bad."

He smiled and mouthed Sorry , at me. I shook my head. It was obvious why I was getting double my fee. I'd have to earn it.

Kieran

Cookie, I thought when I looked at Ellie.

Not that I wanted to eat her. I wasn't a cannibal or anything.

But she reminded me of the cookies my mother baked when her bridge group came to our house. The smell of them in the oven was all rich vanilla and spice, oh-so-sweet.

Ellie was a little shorter than me, with endless curves that swooped and dipped, creamy skin sprinkled with cinnamon freckles up and down her arms and across her round cheeks. Her short hair fell in soft honey-colored curls, and her big blue eyes… well, that's where the whole cookie idea fell down, but they made me think of my favorite pair of worn-out jeans.

But back to those cookies. Every time, I'd tiptoe to the cooling rack and reach for one perfectly round, warm cookie when I thought Mom wasn't looking. And every time, out of nowhere, she'd slap my grubby hand away, snapping, "Not for you."

Ellie may have looked warm and round, but she had "not for you" written all over her. It was in her extremely professional handshake, just the right amount of grip. The old-fashioned, belted, button-up black dress with no wrinkles, the matching ballet shoes with no scuffs. The only hint of color was a thin gold necklace that caught the sunlight where it threaded under her collar. Everything plain and boring and tidy.

She was going to hate me. She'd already cringed at my stupid ghost joke. Why did I always run my mouth around pretty women?

"Kieran?" my editor Tad said.

Damn it, not again . "I'm listening, sorry." I'd forgotten my stress ball at home, so I tapped on my leg instead, hoping that'd be enough to keep me present.

"We're aiming for publication on March seventeenth next year," he continued.

"Saint Patrick's Day," Ellie said with a calm nod as she wrote something in her planner. Her handwriting was all elegant curves and slashes. "You want to lean into the leprechaun persona?"

"Exactly."

I tried not to wince. I knew I was the most Irish-looking person alive, but I'd thought the Happy Pirate Leprechaun joke would die eventually. Instead, it kept going and going. "Sounds great," I lied.

The nickname had happened in the big episode 5 challenge, meat and potatoes. I'd come in second-to-last in the previous two major challenges by being overambitious and running out of time, and Edna, the head judge, had told me she would lose patience soon if I didn't stop trying to show off. I'd been nervous, and I'd fucked up. I'd parboiled potatoes for too long and wrecked my plan to roast them and serve them alongside prime rib. But I'd thought fast, crushing the potatoes and frying them into little cakes topped with sour cream and salmon roe, then scattering everything with fresh dill. Hart, the front-runner, had crashed and burned with a tough, gristly piece of beef shank, and I'd won for the first time ever. I was so happy that I'd jumped in the air and clicked my heels like a little kid.

Now I was stuck with this dumbass name. But Tobias had told me that I needed to lean into it. Everyone would know who I was, and that meant my restaurant would get more press and that I might be successful enough that my parents would think I'd made a good life choice for once.

"The manuscript deadline will be August eleventh," Tad continued.

Over seven months from now? Plenty of time. It was just a few recipes and some random stories that I wouldn't even write.

"Which I know is a tight turnaround," he said.

Wait, what?

"But, Ellie, I'm confident you can keep the project on track."

"You bet," Ellie said, as if that didn't sound ridiculous. "Has there been any further correspondence about the book since you forwarded me Tobias's message?" She held up a printout with a few lines on it.

"I'm afraid not," Tad said, not meeting her eyes.

She was kind of cute when she looked miffed. No, Kieran, down.

"But I'm sure Kieran can fill us in on his vision," he said quickly.

"That would be helpful," Ellie said. She leaned forward, and I needed to look at her face, not at her chest, because I wasn't a horny teenager. Even though it was fantastic. Crap.

"I'd love to know what you mean by ‘fun,'" she said, clearly not impressed.

"Exciting, I guess? So much of home cooking is doing the same thing day in, day out. I want people to mix it up."

My mom cooked the same six dinners every week: London broil, steak hash, pork roast, pork hash. Salmon on Fridays, spaghetti on Saturdays. I'd learned early on to eat because I was hungry, not because anything tasted amazing.

"And how would you do that?" Ellie asked coolly.

Warmth crept up my neck. "I don't know yet," I tried to answer calmly.

"I'm sure Ellie will help you figure that out," Tad interrupted.

"Sure," she said, her eyes narrowing. "Who's your audience for this book?"

It was like having a nightmare where I was simultaneously falling from the sky naked and taking a test I hadn't studied for. "Everyone?" I tried.

Ellie rubbed her temple, like I was giving her a headache. "Can you be more specific?"

I felt myself digging into defensive mode. "How?"

"Well," she said slowly, "do you have any authors that you like? Someone who you'd want to be compared to? You'd be targeting similar readers to them."

I shrank in my chair, hearing my teachers' disappointment and my parents' anger for the first time in a decade. "Nope," I muttered. "I don't use cookbooks."

My failing grade was written all over her face. "You want to write a cookbook, even though you don't use them or know why someone would?"

Shame and anger flared hot and bright, and I opened my mouth, but Tad said loudly, "OK! You two will have a lot to discuss. Kieran, why don't you go away and think a little more about what you might want and then ask Ellie to schedule a one-on-one meeting. I'm sure you'll work it out."

Ellie looked like she would rather schedule a meeting with a bathtub full of banana slugs, but she just smiled tightly and said, "I look forward to hearing from you, Kieran."

"Good!" Tad said.

I don't know how he was so chirpy as the meeting wrapped up. Who was I kidding? I'd made a lot of progress in becoming a functional human, but this project demanded things I straight up struggled with. I had a career that didn't involve reading or writing for a reason.

Maybe Tad was oblivious to what a bad idea this was, but Ellie Wasserman was looking at me like I was a plate of dog food she had to choke down. As for me, I wasn't sure whether my sudden stomachache was an incoming ulcer or just a sense of doom. Probably both.