Malcolm glanced at his watch once more. Almost half past eleven. He was damn exhausted, too.
“Come on,” he pleaded out loud.
The door at the back of the building opened and he held his breath.
“Malcolm?”
Damn.
“Hi, Lance,” he said to the British sous-chef who worked with Dusty. “I was hoping you’d be Dustin.”
“He should be out any second.” Lance frowned. “But I thought you were in New York.”
“Yes, I was. I’m back now.” Malcolm smiled. “For good.”
Lance returned his smile. “Dustin will be thrilled. I’ll leave you to it. It’s great to see you.”
“You, too.” He waved as Lance walked out to the parking lot. He turned back to the door, waiting anxiously.
Finally, three minutes later the door creaked open, slow as molasses, it seemed to Malcolm. Dusty appeared in the doorway.
His eyes
