Timothy takes me under his wing, and together we answer press questions, take numbers, and run interference whenever someone he deems unacceptable tries to get too close to Macon. I quickly learn about press-publicist vendettas and backbiting.

“That bitch,” Timothy hisses in my ear after waving off a woman with promises to keep in touch. “She completely misquoted Macon in an interview. Made it sound like he was ungrateful for his success with Dark Castle.”

One thing I know for certain about Macon is that he never takes his work for granted.

“Then why did you agree to set up another meeting?” I ask Timothy.

He shrugs lightly. “Her magazine is too popular to ignore her.”

That pretty much sums the whole thing up. Here, Macon is a commodity, a product carefully crafted and handled. It isn’t that he’s fake; his genuine nature is still there—that’s what makes him so appealing—but it’s as if a glass wall has been dropped between him and everyone else. And what we get to see is a picture, not the true man.

Everyone here is the same. All of them walking around in their own glass cases—everyone in on the lie. I hate it. Hate that I have to trail behind, acting as though the most important thing in the world to me is Macon’s image and what people think of him.

I am a chef, not an assistant. I want to learn how to make noodles in Hong Kong, Tokyo, and Shanghai. I should be taking wok lessons with my friend Sammy in Beijing. We met in cooking school and exchanged emails when he took a job at a luxury hotel in China. Visiting him was my first stop.

The invitation is open ended, but the wait chafes. Sam’s texts chafe. She’ll come back soon. Great. Wonderful.

I miss my kitchen, miss the rhythm and flow of it when my staff and I were preparing a big dinner. I miss the scents of good food sizzling in hot pans. I miss the alchemy of food. Cooking for Macon is challenging in that I have to come up with health-conscious meals that taste so good he doesn’t know what he’s missing. So far, I’m only half-successful because the man wants his desserts, and he wants them badly.

Sitting with other assistants at a table in the back of the room, I try to suck it up. I shouldn’t complain; I signed up for this, begged Macon for a chance to make amends. And Macon hasn’t been the asshat I expected him to be. That’s part of the problem. I like him. I’m attracted to him—that’s an understatement. My body is not my own anymore. He’s taken control of it, made it fluttery, overheated, wanting, needy. I’m a strange mix of giddy and anxious all the time.

Worse, my mind isn’t my own either. I think of Macon when I go to sleep, and I think of him again when I wake up. And for once, thoughts of Macon aren’t haunted or angry but of things that make me smile—his ridiculous jokes, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, even the way his jaw works when he eats an apple.

“Lord,” I mutter, taking a sip of white wine. I disgust myself. I’m sitting here all . . . moony. While he’s up at the front, chatting with a tableful of equally beautiful people.

By the time the event is over, I’m contemplating trying hypnosis to get the man out of my head. We’re to meet up outside, where a line of cars is pulling forward to pick up celebrities. Over the sea of people milling around and conversing, Macon spots me. The stern expression that is his natural resting face lightens, a subtle curving of his lips, a lift of his slanting brows. But it’s the emotion in his eyes that gets me. When Macon looks at me, it’s as if I’m the only thought in his mind. It’s always been that way, only now, instead of seeing resentment and irritation in his eyes, I see genuine pleasure.

In that moment, everything melts away: the horrible tension in my neck, the tetchy feeling in my belly. Warmth and a flutter of anticipation fill me instead. Macon still uses a cane—this one is ebony with a silver skull handle, which makes me smile—but he wields it well, his gait more of a swagger.

He looks every inch a star, ruggedly gorgeous, in a gray bespoke suit that emphasizes his height and capable shoulders. He doesn’t wear a tie but has his white shirt open at the collar, exposing the hollow of his throat. He steps to my side, his hand touching my elbow. “There you are.” As if I’m a child he lost track of.

I bite the inside of my cheek because the snappish feeling returns, and it isn’t his fault that I’m moody.