“Wait, what's the chef's name?" she asked. "I think I read about him in ELLE."
"Ooooh, ELLE," Elliott mocked. "He must be a big deal, then."
"He is a big deal!" Emerald said, slapping him with the menu. "Or at least he's cute!"
I wanted to yell Enough. I wanted to redo the whole night- the outfit from Emerald, seeing Kyle, my orders off the menu.
"His name is Pascal Fox," I said quietly, way too quietly for normal conversation, and unintelligible in this loud restaurant.
The open kitchen's steam and smoke masked Pascal a bit, but I still caught a glimpse. Even though he was getting a lot of media attention, he didn't look like a man who cared about photo shoots and celebrity. He looked like a serious chef with a lot on the line. He sprinted sideways through the narrow galley, threw something out. His chef's jacket was rolled to his elbows, revealing a mural of indecipherable tattoos.”