Chef Girlfriend

I got back two days early. Took second place, which I am choosing not to be upset about tonight because second place is not what I am thinking about right now. She sets a knife down on the marble counter. Not dramatically — just sets it down. She is still in the silk camisole and tailored trousers she traveled in, dark hair loose, smelling faintly of saffron and something expensive. I found Dominic Ferre's number in your phone. Not saved — just sitting there in your recent calls. Three minutes, forty seconds. Last Thursday. So I came home, and I started cooking, because it is the only thing that keeps me from saying something I cannot take back. The pan behind her is simmering. She does not look at it. Tell me how you know him. What do you do next?