SAM:

"Puckett! you're entitled to a day off, you know!"

"Huh?" I looked up from the huge pile of Dover sole I was filleting, to find chef Renee Ziegler, arms crossed, leaning against the opposite wall, watching me, with the usual, flat expression on his face. You can never tell what that man is thinking. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I'm not the only person who's noticed that you practically live in this kitchen."

"Should I transfer to different one?"

"You're missing the point...it's like you never leave the hotel."

"Well...uh...I'm here to learn."

"You're the most disciplined person I've ever met...or the craziest."

I looked back down at my cutting board, and smiled sadly. If you only knew the real me...and the real reason I can't bring myself to leave...

Sometimes, though, they'd force me to take a day off, and I'd wander, aimlessly, through the streets of London, taking in the sights...but it wasn't any fun without her.

I never let a day go by without calling, texting, or emailing...telling her that everything was fine, and asking what she was up to...which was mostly being an underpaid (and completely unappreciated) lackey, at her new position at S.B.S. in Seattle.

Unfortunately, even with high college grades (like hers), entry-level newscaster jobs are practically non-existent; you have to work your way up through the ranks, and it can take years. Still, Carly and broadcasting were made for each other, and I knew it was what she really wanted, so I frequently offered encouragement, especially when she seemed frustrated.

CARLY:

'Eyes on the prize!'

I looked up from Sam's latest text message, and smiled. Only thirty-seven more days...

SAM:

I perched, nervously, on the edge of my chair in the spacious food and beverage director's office, wishing I'd had time to exchange my grungy chef's jacket for a clean one, and listening to the BBC radio broadcast playing softly in the background, while I watched Edward Marshall pacing back and forth, endlessly, behind his mahogany desk, reading a huge sheaf of papers in a manilla folder he carried, his footsteps muffled by the deep plush carpeting under our feet.

Finally, he sat down, and looked across the desk at me.

"Well, Miss Puckett, there is a sous chef's position open at our Seattle property."

"Great!"

"Unfortunately, it's in their high-volume restaurant. I know that your talents and interests are more suited to gourmet."

"Oh, uh...well, I guess it would still be okay."

He leaned back in his chair, and was silent for a moment. "If you were to take that spot, when a position opens up in one of their four gourmet rooms, which it eventually will, you'd be one of the first in line."

I nodded.

"I've notified their F&B department that you might be interested and, based on your final evaluation, plus the two letters of recommendation in your file, they're offering you first right of refusal."

Easy choice. "I accept."