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said with irritation. “That man is not husband material. He’s my employer. We are going to have a strictly professional relationship.”
    “We’ll see,” she said in a singsong voice. “I think he is adorable and charming and sweet. Maybe this is a sign that it’s time to move on?”
    Move on. I’d love to move on, except that I was about to dig myself back into Josh’s culinary world by calling Digger and asking for Simmer recipes. My new job was going to make it harder than ever to shake Josh out of my system.
     

FOUR
     
    I spent Thursday at my internship, or “field placement” as my graduate school referred to it, at a community mental health center where I provided counseling services to an array of clients. Draining though those days were, they kept my mind from wandering to my romantic troubles. When I returned home, my car slid on wet leaves as I pulled into my parking spot by my condo. November weather stank. It was freezing, with bitter winds and gray skies dominating the forecast for the next ten days. Now, at four fifteen or so, it was already as black as midnight, and I was missing spring terribly. I walked up to my third-floor condo and immediately turned on all the lights and lit a few sugar-scented candles. I was fighting the urge to get into bed and hide, but I was determined to beat this endless Josh hangover. Last night’s conversation about Simmer had stirred up memories of my frequent visits to see Josh at work, the way he looked after a long night in the kitchen, how his once-white chef’s coat would be all dirty and smelly but somehow comforting. His hair would be mussed up and adorable, and his blue eyes were always filled with exhaustion.... I had to stop! I refused to let this gloomy day bring me down. My interesting new job would eat up a lot of the time that I’d otherwise have spent lolling around, pining over my chef. No, I corrected myself, not my chef. A chef. Just one more chef. No one special.
    I scooped up one of my cats, Inga, and nuzzled her white fur. She’d been terribly scrawny when I’d first taken her in, but she’d gained weight. I was, however, still struggling to keep up with her constant need for thorough grooming. These days, she got the occasional knot and was nowhere close to the matted mess she’d been when Josh had rescued her. I loved having her and loved what a snuggler she’d become. Gato, my shorthaired black cat, was still pissed off that he was no longer an only feline. I frequently came home to rolls of shredded toilet paper that he’d left for me in the bathroom. Gato didn’t fight with Inga, but he clearly had no interest in becoming kitty pals with her, either.
    I had no idea what days Digger was off work, or even where he worked, but I decided to give him a call and at least leave him a message. I still had his cell number programmed into my phone, so I flopped onto my bed and dialed.
    “Hello?” A woman answered his phone.
    “Hi, this is Chloe. Is Digger there?”
    “Chloe who? Who are you? What is this about?” she asked suspiciously. “Do I know you?”
    Who was this girl, and why was she so rude? “I’m a friend of his. I wanted to talk to him about recipes.”
    “Oh, Chloe, right! I’ve heard about you. You used to go out with a friend of Digger’s, right?”
    I sighed. “Yes.”
    “Oh, okay. Good. I’m Digger’s girlfriend, Ellie. Digger’s working tonight, but you’re interested in recipes? What do you need?”
    I explained about Kyle’s cookbook project and emphasized the name Hank Boucher. “I’m sure Digger knows who Hank is. Do you think he’d be interested? What restaurant is he at now?”
    “He’ll definitely be interested. Are you kidding?” she said enthusiastically. “He’s about to be the executive chef at the Penthouse. It’s a new, ultra-high-end place that’s opening in a few weeks. I can’t believe he got the job. Well, I can believe it because he’s so talented, but the competition was