"I hope you don't mind garlic," he says, adding a sprinkle of chives over the plate. "I present pan seared Chilean sea bass with white wine lemon butter, sautéed asparagus with garlic, slivered almonds, lemon peel, and whipped mashed potatoes."

  "You didn't have to go through the trouble," I say, impressed.

  Dude Taco sits next to me, waiting for scraps.

  "It was nothing. You can thank my dad for the dinner idea though. It was the special at the restaurant tonight." He shrugs. "It's Monday night, right? They usually do a lighter meal like fish coming off the weekend. I would have made it anyway. And it's a shame Jazmin didn't want to stay. She's a picky eater. Some people are coming by later so it won't go to waste. Always a party here." He keeps up conversation while checking his phone every other minute.

  I take a bite of the tender asparagus and say, "Well, I'm glad I get to eat it while it's still warm. Delicious."

  Dude Taco whines.

  I take another bite and as my plate empties, I learn the various minutia of his parents' restaurant: the employees, politics, the great napkin dilemma of 2005, and more information than I ever cared to hear.

  It's impossible to get a word in edgewise, but that's fine because the food is good. Really, good. He rattles on about the recent difficulty in getting fresh mussels from PEI out to Texas. I learn about Rose, the pantry lady and her trouble with her green card. There is also concern about sourcing tomatoes this spring with a shortage out of Florida.

  "Sounds like you keep on top of things at the family restaurant."

  "You bet. And you wouldn't believe the stuff that goes on at the coffee roasters."

  I spend the next half hour, while I finish the better part of a bottle of wine, hearing about his coworkers, bosses, and the mystery of the coffee stirrers that keep going missing.

  "I tell you, someone's stealing them."

  I don't even want to know why.

  Just then, Bash launches from his seat and says, "I hope you left room for dessert. I made brownies. But not just any brownies. These are dirty brownies, stuffed with Oreos and Reese's peanut butter cups. I got the recipe from the coffee shop. My parents would never serve these at the restaurant." While he slices them, he confesses that he didn't actually use Oreo's from a bag and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. "I made them. Homestyle. From scratch."

  "Impress—" I start, but he goes on, plowing right over the last syllable.

  "I had a craving. But don't worry, they're not that kind of brownie." Before I can ask what he means, he continues, "I made the candy over the weekend, but had to pick up some cocoa. There's this place uptown that has the most incredible variety of—"

  I don't hear the rest of what he says because I'm in heaven. Chocolate loving, gooey, sweet, smooth, delectable, ecstatic heaven.

  "You did save room," he says when I lick my fingers clean.

  Dude Taco whimpers.

  Bash's potatoes still sit in a pile on his plate, his asparagus spears hardly touched, and his sea bass, a sad waste. I should ask for a doggy bag or maybe he's saving it for the dog.

  However, I could eat like this every night. I pour myself the last of the wine, lean back in my chair, and ask, "So, what's on the menu tomorrow night?"

  He smiles and says, "I'll have to check, but usually they do a scaled up version of taco Tuesday and their homemade guacamole is killer. I'll see if I can get the recipe. Same time tomorrow night?"

  "Sure," I answer, spotting the reflection of my painted red lips in the hall mirror. Maybe there's some magic to them after all.

  Despite Bash's incessant talking, the night was a reasonable success. Whoever said the way to a man's heart is through his stomach never tasted Bash's cooking.

  I pause at the door, give Dude Taco and pat on the head, half expecting Bash to say good night, or at least walk me out. Instead, he's back in the kitchen. Over the vent fan I call, "Would it be okay if I take a couple of those brownies home?"

  Chapter 16

  Smashed Potatoes

  I spend the next few days scraping through Mr. Bouche's demands at work, completing the daily dares in the UBoss program, along with checking in with my accountability partners: DaisyDuke31, MelodyMiles, and ShellsXOX. They cheer me on when I skip out of the office at lunch and go to the movies solo—ordering at least three items from the concession stand—and turn up the music loud at home and dance before Kat gets home. Naked.

  Today's dare is to go shopping for an outrageous outfit. The rules state: no leggings, sweatshirts, or cotton. Think Lady Gaga, Prince, and the showbiz greats. Don't be inhibited. Color is your friend. Be daring. Mix and match patterns. Be bold. Spread your wings.

  This is a job for Katya, but since I haven't told her about the UBoss program, I can't come up with a clever reason that I'd want to go shopping. I never go shopping. She knows this. As a fashionista, she hates this. However, her being busy with classes this week has made it relatively easy to sneak in my dares. However, the outfit poses the biggest problem. I can't pull off some of the crazier getups I see in the various boutiques I shop in the Village not because I feel uncomfortable, but rather I don't feel sexy, feminine, or like myself—more of a caricature, Miss Cartoonton, and I know that's not the point of the program, which emphasizes authenticity and listening to my gut. Mine grumbles, craving some of Bash's dirty brownies.

  I'm nearly home when I veer into an upscale boutique I'd ordinarily never give a second look. I spot the outfit instantly.

  When I get back to the apartment, I check in with my UBoss girls: I almost gave up on today's dare, but then tried one last store on my way home. The outfit was on the display in the front. It was meant to be. I picked out a fitted, light pink cashmere sweater and a navy blue maxi skirt. What do you think?

  ShellsXOX writes That doesn't sound very outrageous. No offense.

  I reply There's a slit that goes all the way up my leg—Angelina Jolie-style.

  Vavavoom! MelodyMiles says.

  DaisyDuke31 chimes in It'll look fab with a red lip—when you go out on your Valentine's Date.

  The mention of my Valentine's date reminds me of my blog, sorely in need of an update. I title my latest post Going with my Gut.

  #2 The Man-Bun-Barista (name changed for privacy)

  Appearance: dark hair, lidded eyes with the occasional bulge—probably the results of a caffeine deficit or surplus—, tattoos, slim, a bit wiry on second glance. Looks like he might be growing a beard? Definite hipster vibe—slightly greasy or maybe in need of a shower?

  Behavior: amazing cook, chef, and baker. Extremely talkative. Actually, overly so. Hardly let me get a word in, which was fine because my mouth was full of food, people!

  Connection: has a dog named Dude Taco. Invited his sister to stay for dinner. Didn't make it out of the kitchen. Didn't kiss. Didn't do anything other than eat. Not complaining.

  In summation: Bash has a shaky three stars. If he were a restaurant, it would be a Michelin five star rating for sure, but he's merely a man with incredible kitchen skills and a seemingly inexhaustible ability to talk. I'm not into the silent type, but he swings to the other extreme talking incessantly while the music pumps and the dog runs wild.

  Another turn off was the multitude of texts he received, somehow managing not to break speech and answer them at the same time. And he's jittery. Not nervous I don't think, but constantly in motion like a toddler on chocolate and coffee. Maybe he infuses himself up with a mega dose of caffeine while at work. Oh, and have I mentioned he goes to the bathroom every twenty minutes? I've started timing it.

  I've taken to updating the blog with the dinner menu, not having much else to report. I spent the last couple of nights indulging in pulled jackfruit and black bean tacos with colorful pineapple and heirloom tomato salsa. Dessert that night: S'mores bark, which was a triple layered threat of chocolate, graham cookie, and marshmallow. I got photographic evidence so I'd never forget the meals. Sadly, I'll also never forget about his grandmother's hip replacement, his conspiracy about the stirring sticks that routinely go missing at the coffee shop, and various other pieces of information that hold no relevance to my life—or his. He's a walking Wikipedia of useless chatter. A total bum out, but… the food redeems him!

  The other dinner was a pasta dish with burrata, fresh basil, and a spicy, creamy, I don't know-what-y sauce that was so divine I swear I had an orgasm. That also could have had something to do with the bottle of Rosé I polished off. By the end of the night, I was feeling, how shall I put it? How would Kat put it? In a word, frisky. It might be the red lipstick. But Bash wouldn't know he doesn't let me talk and if I eek out a single word, he bulldozes right over me.

  I was so full when I left though, that even if I had the energy to bake cookies to entice Spencer to come over, he couldn't because he's out of town. Tomorrow's daily dare is for self-pleasure and with any luck, I'll have the apartment to myself.

  I don't include the last bits in the summary, but only moments after I click publish there's an email notification with Tori asking me for the recipes.

  I reply I'll do my best.

  My bedroom door flies open. "Never mind the recipes, I want leftovers."

  I raise my eyebrows.

  "What? I subscribe to your blog so I get instant updates when you post. It seems like you have a growing audience. And not just Tori, Marc, Lydia, and the rest." She peers over my shoulder at the blog dashboard and clicks the stats button. "Whoa, you've had thirty-thousand hits. My, you're popular."

  "So, what haven't you publicly professed about Man-bun? I feel like you're keeping something from me. Are his bedroom skills as legendary as the ones he has behind the stove?"

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

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

  I shake my head.

  "You haven't marinated his eggplant?"

  "Nope."

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

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

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

  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Be right back," he says.

  I put on my coat.

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

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

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

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

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

  "Bye."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  I nod.

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

  I throw her a lifted eyebrow of doubt.

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

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

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

  He's in the kitchen.

  I sit at the table with a bottle of wine.

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

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

  I sidle up behind him in the kitchen.

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

  He startles and then says, "Behind."

  "Behind?" I ask.

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

  "Behind," I repeat.

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

  His eyes dart from counter to stovetop.

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

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

  #Fail.

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

  There's a rapid knock on the door.

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

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

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

  Bash goes silent as the urgent knocking continues.

  "Cilantro lime."

  Bash gets to his feet.

  The person desperately calls, "Chocolate mousse."

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

  Bash pulls open the door.