She must see something alarming in my eyes, because she clutches my arm and stares into my eyes. “Can you tell me your name? Or wait—how many fingers am I holding up?”

     I smile, touched by her concern. “Sean. Sean Bracelyn. I’m one of the owners here.”

     “Oh. You’re the chef?”

     “That’s me.” I try not get too excited that she knows who I am.

     Her forehead is still creased with a frown. “Are you sure I don’t need to call anyone? An ambulance or maybe Bree?”

     The thought of my sister storming in to tell me what a dumbass I am has me clambering to my feet in a hurry. I pull Amber up with me, not wanting to leave her sitting on the floor next to a dead turkey.

     “What’s with the bird?” I ask.

     “My sister asked me to bring it.”

     “Because showing up with a plate of cookies is cliché?”

     She laughs and shakes her head. “Your sister wanted it for some photo shoot. Don’t worry, it’s stuffed. I didn’t just drop a freshly-killed animal on your floor.”

     “Too bad. I’ve got a killer recipe for spatchcocked turkey with anise and orange.”

     “Spatch—what?”

     “Spatchcocked,” I say, putting a regrettable emphasis on the last syllable. “It’s where you lay it out flat with its legs spread wide and the breast—you know what? Never mind.”

     Christ, I need a do-over. It’s not every day a guy comes face to face with the girl he’s had a crush on since he wore Batman Underoos. I rake my fingers through my hair and try again.