"What is your favourite way to prepare salmon?"

It was the fourth time Quinn asked the question and he had gotten the same response every time. The current candidate was referred to him by one of the best up and coming chefs in New York but had so far squandered the recommendation with his attitude. All sizzle, no steak his mother would have said. Not much sizzle, in fact. More like a splatter.

The overly mannered hipster chef sat back in his chair, a look of sheer delight on his face as he considered his response. For the love of God, don't say sous vide.

"Sous vide," he announced confidently. Quinn frowned and studied the guy's resume, regretting leaving his reading glasses behind in the hotel room. He was closing in on 40 and he felt every one of those years.

The chef's name was one word, all capital letters: ZIP. For fuck's sake.

Quinn liked to look at an actual resume and talk to a chef before he took the next step of watching them in an actual kitchen. He skipped over the next few questions, his mind pretty much made up. He only had the patience for one more.

"What's your favourite dish to make?"

This time there was no hesitation. "Vegan scallops with pickled ramps and a ginger-beet foam."

Quinn pinched the bridge of his nose. So much was wrong about that, he wasn't sure where to begin. He decided to start with the obvious. "What in God's name is a vegan scallop?"

"Portobello mushroom seared to perfection that looks like a scallop. The foam is finesse!" ZIP actually kissed his fingers like a stereotypical cartoon chef. It looked even more ridiculous given he had a huge, old-timey moustache that curled all the way up his cheeks.

'How about a side of artisanal air?' Lucy would have said. Quinn tried to hide a grin behind his hand. Although he felt like laughing in the guy's face, he figured he shouldn't actually be that rude. No doubt this one would go straight to the tabloids to talk about what an asshole he was, and Quinn had already been well down that road. No fucking thanks.

"It was good to meet you," he said, shuffling his resume to the back. "But you're not what I'm looking for." There, sweet as pie. He'd held back the snark; Lucy'd be proud.

Handlebar Moustache sat back in his chair, a baffled look on his face. He wasn't getting up.

"That means bye." Quinn glanced towards the door before reviewing his notes. No one else was scheduled for that day. There was one more chef on his list, but she wasn't available to meet until the weekend. His heart sank. He wouldn't be on a plane to Nova Scotia that night after all. It was a long shot to think he could make it back for closing night at the brewpub, but he held out hope anyway.

When he looked up, the failed candidate was still there, his face a mask of stunned surprise.

"ZIP along, now. Off you go," Quinn said, a hard edge in his voice. The young chef grabbed his newsboy cap and bolted out of the chair, probably to a waiting unicycle. What is it with these young guys, styling themselves like mutton-chopped, Edwardian cricket players? He sighed. The city was making him irritable.

He interviewed chefs for days. Their common, defining characteristic seemed to be a giant ego and the certainty that they alone had invented molecular gastronomy. He needed a lot more than that. His new executive chef needed to be experienced, creative and passionate about food. The person also needed to show calm and steady leadership in the kitchen. Sure, someone could be all smiles in an interview, but how would they react when things went wrong? Would they take it out on his staff? He couldn't have that.

He'd worked his way up from busboy to Michelin-starred chef and learned from all manner of bosses, good and bad. Nothing pissed him off more than the ones who kicked down. He had to find the right chef for his flagship New York restaurant — his only restaurant, after selling Vegas and London.

It was a sentimental favourite — he started there as a busboy, worked his way up to executive chef and it was his first to earn a Michelin star. It was also the first place he ever filmed a TV show; a short, six-episode run but it led to a lucrative career in TV. It usually ran like clockwork without him, but after his name was dragged through the tabloid mud the year before, trusted long-term staff began to abandon ship.

Staff turnover was dizzying, and he no longer felt like he could continue to carve out a nice life for himself in Nova Scotia while letting New York run itself. It was time to make a tough decision: stay and rescue his own restaurant, or let it go. Fish or cut bait, as they said in his adopted home town.

He drained his espresso and zipped his jacket, shaking his head as he left the cafe. As far as bullshit names went, ZIP took the fucking cake.

Quinn stuffed his hands in his pockets as he left the cafe, regretting leaving his gloves back in his hotel room. The November wind was biting, and they'd be getting some snow later that day. He wished Lucy was waiting for him back in the hotel room to warm him.

He hoped she was OK back home. He was due to call her, but he had an important errand to do first.

Quinn was recognized on the street with a couple of shouts, and he nodded and smiled; posed for a couple of selfies. It seemed like ages since he was public enemy number one. Now, he was back in the public's good graces, thanks to Lucy and a little book he wrote at the lowest point in his life — the year before when all the shit went down. Downfall: Memoirs of a Disgraced Chef was currently sitting at number one on the New York Times bestseller list, which still shocked him beyond belief.

With everything going on in her life and the new business they created together, Lucy was still his biggest supporter. If it wasn't for her, his book wouldn't exist. She read his pages, gave him feedback and let him talk through his writer's block. She even rescued his manuscript from the trash when he was fed up with it, encouraging him to keep going.

She deserved a little gift. He wasn't sure what exactly, he'd know it when he saw it.

It was one small thing he could do to try and make her smile. She was still so sad. The events of the past year had taken a toll, but she refused to talk about what happened. That doesn't seem right, he thought every time she shut down. Nothing he said or did seemed to help, and it was killing him.

A cab hurtled by, seeming to go out of its way to hit a large puddle of muddy slush and spraying his legs in the process. "Fuck," he shouted, brushing off his jeans. Christ, I miss Nova Scotia.

For the first time, the pace and noise of the city annoyed him. He hated the feeling of people all around him on the sidewalk, practically stepping on his toes and breathing down his neck in stores and cafes.

In Nova Scotia, Quinn could breathe. He got used to the open spaces, the rolling hills, the endless expanse of sea and sky. He longed to be back in his own bed, cooking for Lucy in his kitchen in the large, elegantly renovated barn, making sure his garden was fully put to bed for the winter. Cooking meals using food he grew himself in his own backyard was especially satisfying, and he was looking forward to growing more diverse produce in the spring.

Legs soaked through with slush, Quinn paused wondering whether to abort the mission and head back to his room to clean up or press on. The Wanderer was the only place he stayed in when in New York, a discreet, boutique hotel with loads of character — nothing like those expensive, staid business hotels. Not that he was a huge celebrity, but he was well-known. He wanted to stay somewhere he could work, and not be recognized too much. Not that New Yorkers really gave a shit whether or not you were a celebrity; you couldn't throw a rock without hitting a big-name star on the street.

He always tried to get the same room in the Wanderer every time, the one with the tub right in the bedroom. It wasn't as nice as his tub back home, but it was large enough to fit his six-foot-two frame. The only thing missing was Lucy. And he missed her like crazy.

But the Wanderer was about 10 blocks in the opposite direction. He decided to forge ahead. He figured he had brushed enough mud and snow from his clothes to still be welcome in any upscale Midtown store. If not, screw it. They'd either take his money, or he'd find someone who would.

The idea came to him earlier in the day when he saw a couple window shopping, strolling arm in arm to pause and admire the designer store displays. He was ashamed to realize that with everything that happened over the past year — Lucy's family tragedy, his fall from grace, building a new business together — he'd never bought her a decent present. Nothing noteworthy, anyway.

He knew she was fiercely independent, and he admired her for it, even though he had more than enough money and wanted to share what he had. She wanted none of it, insisting on splitting the bill when they went out, right down to the cheapest meal. He laughed whenever she'd hand over pocket change — 'toonies and loonies,' as they called dollar coins in Canada — for her contribution to lunch. It was 50-50 all the way with Lucy, and it charmed him.

She wanted nothing from him — it was certainly a change from the string of women he dated just before her. "Gold diggers," his trusted manager Miranda had called them, but he thought the term was a bit harsh and outdated. Still, he remembered being dragged through the city on more than one occasion with his ex, Natasha, while she demanded he buy her expensive jewellery, shoes and other gifts. It was something Lucy would never do.

She'd been through an awful year, and he wanted to surprise her with a treat; something special. He headed up Fifth Avenue past the New York Public Library and wished he had more time to get lost in it. He settled for a quick stop into Barnes & Noble where he picked up three books he'd been wanting to read. He continued past Saks, Louis Vuitton and Burberry, none of them grabbing him. He saw the Prada store up ahead and the plan suddenly came together.

Lucy was stylish and elegant and loved expensive, designer things — but she was also from the Maritimes. The region was made up of earnest, hardworking people just like the ones he grew up with in Cape Cod, and Lucy was no different. She saved her money to buy a handful of carefully chosen designer pieces and completed her wardrobe with a series of clever imitations. Her favourite piece was a fake Prada bag; she called it a Frauda. He smiled as he pushed opened the door, imagining the look on her face when he gave her a real one.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Allen." The sales clerk was young and tall, in a short, black dress as sleek as her glossy ponytail. She glanced at him shyly under impossibly long, curved eyelashes. "Hi," he said, glancing at the wide array of colourful bags. She moved to his side in a flash. "I'm just looking," he said over his shoulder, turning to examine a large, pink pocketbook.

"Is this for Lucy?" she asked. Startled, he looked up. "Yeah."

"I've read your book," she explained, putting her hand on his arm. "She's a very lucky girl." The eyelashes fluttered.

Christ. His TV shows and now his book afforded him the lifestyle that allowed him to shop in a place like that, and he understood his privilege. But he still rankled at the loss of privacy, and how everybody and their dog seemed to know intimate details of his life, especially since the book came out.

"Thanks," he said, getting down to business. "There's a handbag she admired online; it's from the latest collection. It's leather, square-ish — about this big," he said, gesturing with his hands.

The salesperson looked at him in surprise "Did you write that down?"

"No. I paid attention."

She stared at him in wonder, and he shifted uncomfortably. An awkward few seconds ticked by before she started, as if realizing she'd been staring at him with open longing. "That sounds like our Double Saffiano. Let me show you some colours." Suddenly all business, her cheeks were as pink as the pocketbook he'd been looking at.

He followed as she led him deeper into the store, looking around until he finally saw it. "That one," he said, pointing. "In black." Timeless, classic and beautiful. Just like his Lucy. "And I'd like it customized with her initials."

"Certainly," the salesperson said, more formally. "That will take three weeks."

"I'm leaving Saturday evening." His tone left no room for discussion.

"We'll see what we can do," she said smoothly, accepting his black card. Celebrity had its perks after all. Even the B-list level of celebrity he enjoyed.

Satisfied with his purchase, he left the store acutely aware that he hadn't eaten since breakfast. It was about a half-hour walk to his hotel on Broadway, and more than an hour's walk to his favourite no-frills noodle place in Chinatown. He nixed the idea; the day was getting away from him. He needed to Skype Lucy soon and to see her face, even if it was just on a screen.

He walked on, deciding to hop a cab back to his hotel. He'd order something quick from room service or grab some street food and then get back to work tweaking the business plan for the brewpub. He stepped off the sidewalk and into the street, sticking his arm out to hail a cab when he saw it. He dropped his arm and stepped back onto the sidewalk.

It's crazy. It's too soon.

Quinn stared at the iconic storefront, the pull to go inside irresistible. She wouldn't want it. She isn't ready. You'll freak her out.

There were a hundred reasons not to. And only one to do it — the only reason that mattered. He was desperately in love.

He suddenly felt someone bump into his arm. "Sorry," he muttered absently.

"Move, buddy. What, you think you own the sidewalk?" A squat, balding man in a beige trench coat shot him a filthy look as he passed by. "Fucking tourist," he spat over his shoulder.

Quinn barely registered the insult, moving as if sleepwalking until he reached the door to Tiffany's. He went inside.