They talked about the best restaurants in the city—ones he had been to, ones she had only read about, given her whole no-money problem. They even delved into Manhattan real estate, if only because no meal in New York was complete without mention of a street address or a co-op. There wasn’t a single mention of why they were actually there.

When Russell ordered a second glass of wine for each of them, Portia didn’t refuse. He leaned forward and looked her in the eye. “So, tell me, I hear you work with Gabriel Kane.”

The wine must have muddled her brain. “Pardon?”

“Don’t go coy on me.” He grinned, his blue eyes shining with schoolboy charm. “When I asked Cordelia about your experience, she said you work with Gabriel Kane.”

Portia’s head jerked back. Why would Cordelia say anything about her cooking for Gabriel?

But a second later, it hit her. Cordelia had known Gabriel was an investment guy all along. She had used his name as bait to get the meeting. No wonder her sister hadn’t shown up.

She ground her teeth. “You know him?” She tried to smile, trying to figure out how to salvage the lunch. She wouldn’t out and out lie, but she saw no reason to tell this guy that she not only didn’t work for Gabriel in any investment capacity, but that Gabriel had made it clear what he thought of her opening a Glass Kitchen.

Russell gave a modest shrug. “I know of him. Who doesn’t? But I’ve never met him.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his forearms encircling his wine. “I have the greatest investment opportunity, one I know will blow Kane away. I’ve tried to get in to see him, but no luck. When you invited me to lunch, I figured you must have heard about it. I take it you do legwork for Kane.”

Portia blinked. “Legwork?”

“You know, get the lay of the land. See if something is worthwhile to show Kane?”

“You’re here because you have an investment opportunity you want to present to Gabriel?”

He smiled, excited. “Yes! This is awesome.”

Suddenly he seemed exactly as young as he looked. This was a man who thought he was getting the chance of a lifetime. He had no money to invest. He needed investors.

Disappointment seeped through her, every ounce of wine making itself known.

“Not so awesome,” she replied wearily.

Russell’s blue eyes stopped sparkling. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not here about your project.”

“Kane didn’t send you?”

“No.”

Freckles she hadn’t noticed before popped out on his pale skin as he hunched forward.

For a half a second he just sat there. Then he glanced at her expensive St. John suit and managed a guileless smile. “So,” he said, “even if you’re not scouting for Kane, are you looking for your own investment opportunities?”

He looked so dejected and sweet with those freckles and tousled red-brown hair, not to mention so fruitlessly hopeful, that she felt a nearly maternal need to comfort him, despite her own stinging disappointment. She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “I wish I was.”

“Then why did you want to meet…” His voice trailed off as he looked at her hand on his. “I’m being stupid, aren’t I? Now I’m embarrassed. Your sister told me you were divorced and had just moved to New York.”

A heartbeat passed as she tried to make sense of what he was saying. Then it hit her, blood searing through her cheeks, and she jerked her hand way. To her horror, Russell blushed, too.

“Look,” he said awkwardly, “lunch was nice and all. I mean, I enjoyed meeting you. But, well, I’m not—I have a girlfriend.”

Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again.

But before she could think of what to say, he jumped to his feet.

“Listen, I’ve got to go. But I’m glad you invited me to lunch.” His blush deepened. “I mean, you’re great. And if I was the kind of guy to have a fling, I would love having a fling with you.” If possible, he blushed even more. “Sorry, that came out wrong. Okay, anyway, gotta go. Thanks for lunch!”

Then he was gone.

She was mortified, aghast. But seconds later, she was frantic. Forget that he thought she was trying to have a fling with him. He’d left her with the check.

She scrambled into her purse, praying she’d find more than she knew was actually there. Sure, she expected that she, or rather Cordelia, would pay for lunch when it was meant to be their pitch to him, sans wine and steak. But steak! For lunch! The minute he’d ordered wine, Portia had assumed he would pay.

And it was all Cordelia’s fault. What had her sister been thinking, giving him the impression that she could help him gain access to Gabriel Kane?

Portia really was going to kill her sister.

Her hands trembled, a trickle of sweat forming beneath her fancy suit as she pulled out her credit card and handed it over. Not more than a few minutes later, the waitress returned. “Ma’am, I’m afraid your card was rejected.”

She cringed. “You’re sure?”

“Sometimes the machine just doesn’t like the card. Do you have another?”

“Well, no.” Part of Portia’s alimony deal with Robert was that he would pay her expenses for six months while she got settled—but she had only the one credit card, which he obviously wasn’t paying. Why was she surprised?

“Then it’ll have to be cash.”

Portia rummaged through her wallet again, but no wad of bills miraculously appeared. She started counting out what she had, but didn’t come close to the $150 bill.

All she could do was call Cordelia. But Cordelia still didn’t answer. Neither did Olivia. Not that Olivia had more money than she did.

Portia counted her money again.

In the end, she left her driver’s license with the manager and ran across the street to the ATM.

As soon as she paid, she went straight home. With every step she took, her anger grew. I can’t believe Cordelia did this to me, she raged as she took the steps to the town house. I am absolutely, positively going to kill Cordelia, she promised herself as she slammed into her apartment.

She came to a dead stop when she heard the noise, and a smell biting at her nose.

“Portia, is that you?”

“Cordelia?”

Portia marched into the kitchen to find Cordelia there, an apron tied over her perfect clothes. The counters and stove were covered with pots and pans. Fingerprints and swipes marked the thin coating of flour that covered the surfaces like a child’s watercolor painting project.

“What in the world are you doing?” she gasped.

Cordelia laughed, delighted, though there was something off about the look in her eyes. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Making a mess! And where were you at lunch?”

Cordelia paused mid-stir. “Oh my Lord! Lunch! Sorry. But just look at this. I’m cooking and baking! I woke up this morning,” she rushed on, “thinking of food. Just like how it happens to you. I have the knowing!”

“What?” Portia tried to make sense of the scene. After a second, she noticed that Cordelia’s clothes weren’t so perfect, after all. In fact, for the first time she could remember, her sister wore wrinkled pants, the blouse not coordinating with the rest of the outfit. And her hair. Cordelia usually spent a great deal of time at the salon having her tresses professionally done. Portia speculated that Cordelia hadn’t been to the hairdresser in a while.

“Cord, are you okay?”

Cordelia whipped around, spoon in hand, some sort of liquid flying across the room. “I’m fine! Don’t I look fine? Of course I look fine. You’re just saying that because I forgot about lunch. I am sorry, Portia.”

“Okay, sweetie,” Portia said carefully, coming closer. “Not to worry about the lunch.”

Behind her, she heard the front door open and close.

“Hey!” Olivia called out, then stopped in the kitchen doorway. Her long, curly blond hair was pulled up in a messy twist, her full lips shiny with a nude gloss, her standard yoga attire fitting like a second skin. “What happened in here?”

Portia and Olivia exchanged a glance. Portia shrugged carefully. “I came home to this.”

“Why isn’t she cooking at her own place?”

“I wondered the same thing.”

“She looks off.”

“Don’t mention it to her. She’s sensitive.”

“I’m standing right here, and I am not one bit sensitive. I’m cooking! It’s perfect. And it’s a sign that opening a Glass Kitchen in New York is going to be even more perfect! I’ll be able to cook, too!”

Portia and Olivia exchanged another glance. “Everything is burned,” Olivia mouthed.

“I know,” Portia mouthed in return, picking up a bowl filled with wilted lettuce swimming in dressing. She sniffed and tasted. Butter lettuce with, perhaps, a raspberry vinaigrette.

Olivia walked up to Cordelia, as if approaching a wild animal. “Sweetie, give me the spoon. I’ll keep stirring, then you can tell us all about waking up with the knowing.”

It looked like Cordelia would protest, but then her fake cheer and shoulders sank, like a rock in water. She relinquished the spoon, then walked over to one of the stools and sat.

Olivia set the utensil aside, then sat next to her.

Cordelia looked around, seeming to notice the mess for the first time. “I don’t have the knowing, do I?”

Olivia took her hands and squeezed. “Probably not.” She leaned forward and pressed her forehead to Cordelia’s. “Which you didn’t want anyway, remember?”

Portia turned away from them, wishing not for the first time that she had the same confidence with people that seemed to come to Olivia as easily as breathing. Portia focused on the pot on the stove and tasted whatever it was in the pot. She grimaced. “It’s not the worst stew I’ve ever tasted.”