CHAPTER THREE
Claire
Over the next couple of days, I start to notice little, almost inconsequential things about Laurence as I watch him work. I always thought that he was the kind of chef you don’t want to mess with, the kind that you need to steer clear of when he’s working along side you in the kitchen. And that’s partly true. He walks around the Royale like he owns the place; confident and firm in every action he takes. He’s a master of the craft, and he knows it.
But I notice the way he places a gentle hand on my shoulder when he’s walking behind me with hot food. He’s always done this, of course, to make sure that I don’t accidently run into him while we’re moving about. But now I notice how he never seems to do that with any of the other cooks. His touch seems to linger for a little longer than necessary. His touch is so gentle that I sometimes don’t realize he’s there.
When he helps me plate or expedite, I notice the way he leans in. He watches me work with a level of interest that I have never realized before. He glances away sheepishly when I look him in the eye. I can’t remember if this is how he always is, or if this is something completely new. When I hand him a dish, our fingers accidently graze against one another. It makes my breath hitch and my stomach flip.
Kate sends me to take stock of what ingredients we have every Friday morning so that we can determine what we need to order for when we open on Monday. It’s an incredibly time-consuming task and actually requires a lot of attention to detail, which I find myself severely lacking as of late.
My mind keeps wandering. I think about my job here at the Royale. I think about how the restaurant is on a decline. I think about where I should apply in case the Royale really does close down. I think about where my coworkers may end up. I think about what Laurence will do next. I think about Laurence catching me in the kitchen. I think about how nice he smells and how strong he is and how soft his voice can actually be.
I take a sharp breath, clearing my mind. I try to refocus, counting the number of fresh tomatoes and bell peppers we have remaining. We may not have enough to make it through dinner service. We’ll probably have to eighty-six a few items on the menu. I think about telling Laurence this and try to imagine his reaction. No one likes change; least of all a perfectionist like him.
But I imagine our conversation anyways. He’ll probably shake his head and frown at me, crossing his arms across his chest like he always does when he’s disappointed. I’ll explain that it’s not my fault we’ve run low on ingredients. But he’ll find a way to blame me, like he always does. He’ll likely glare at me with his deep, dark eyes and let out a sigh. He’ll have a snide remark ready to go. He’ll likely rub his hand over his jaw, feeling the rough stubble that’s growing in against his calloused palms. His fingers will run over the scar that’s on his jaw. I wonder how he got it. I wonder what it would feel like to press my lips to it. I wonder briefly if he’ll let me.
“Jesus,” I hiss, shaking my head like it’ll erase my thoughts. “What’s wrong with me today?”
“Where should I start?” I hear his low voice from behind. His words are light and almost teasing.
I turn with a bit of start. Laurence has his arm outstretched, closing the walk-in’s massive metal door behind him. I catch a quick flash of his forearm tattoo as the sleeve rides up a bit.
“What’re you doing in here?” I ask him. I don’t need a mirror to know that my cheeks are a bright red. There’s an uncomfortable heat radiating off my face. At least I’m in the perfect place to try and cool down.
Laurence shrugs. “Checking on you.”
There’s something heavy in the air. Something thick that you can slice with a knife. My chest feels unbearably tight. The way he looks at me has my heart beating rapidly. Has he always looked at me like that before? Why does he look so cautious? Why is there a hint of hunger behind his dark brown eyes?
“Why?”
“You’ve been in the fridge for almost half an hour.”
“Oh.” I glance down at my watch and raise my eyebrows in surprise. It’s true. I’ve been daydreaming a little too hard. “Sorry,” I mumble. “I shouldn’t be much longer.”
“It’s fine,” he says. “Take your time.”
I blink. There’s a brief pause.
“What?” he questions.
“Take your time? Who are you and what have you done with my chef?”
Laurence smirks, amused. “What do you mean?”
“You’re not usually this…” I trail off, unable to find the right word.
Nice. Considerate. Thoughtful. Unhurried.
Sweet.
Laurence takes a step closer. The walk-in fridge impressively large, as one would expect from a five-star institution like the Royale. But with all of the different shelves and metal racks in the way, filled with fruits, vegetables, and assorted meats, there’s only so much room to spare. He doesn’t seem fazed by the lack of space. He approaches slowly, watching me. There’s a warmth in his eyes that I’ve never noticed before. That I never thought he was capable of.
My mind is spinning. I don’t know why I’m not pushing him away. I want to. I should. But I don’t know why I like his attention this much. I’ve been working with him for almost a year now, and this is the closest we’ve ever been in one room. The closest we’ve been without yelling at one another, without making harsh comments or huffing in frustration. I’ve got my back against the cold metal of a shelf. I’m too entranced to do anything but stare.
He reaches up with his left hand and tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. My breath audibly hitches when his fingers graze faintly across my cheek. He’s wonderfully warm. He moves slowly, like he’s doing his best not to startle me. The action is surprisingly gently, surprisingly sweet. I’m caught in his gaze, too utterly bewildered to look anywhere else. My heart is pounding loudly in my ear. I wonder for a moment if he can hear it, too.
“Laurence,” I whisper, his name bubbling past my lips. I like the way his name just rolls off my tongue. There’s no effort there. It’s lyrical and enchanting. I want to say it again. I want to get to know every syllable, every sound. And I want him to listen. I want him to be just as entranced as I am with the thought of his name.
“Yes, Claire?” he whispers back. There’s something about the way he says mine, like a careful replay that has my heart leaping into my throat. But I say nothing. I can’t think of anything. It’s as though all the words have just fallen out of my head.
And then the unthinkable happens.
Laurence leans in slowly, tipping my head up slightly with a gentle nudge of his fingers beneath my chin. He brushes his lips gently against mine. It’s soft and hesitant, like he’s asking a shy question. In fact, it’s so soft that I wonder if the kiss even happened. He pulls away after a few seconds. I can tell by his expression that he’s a little nervous, which in and of itself is alarming. I’ve never known Laurence to ever be anything but sure. He’s holding his breath, awaiting my response to all of this.
“What are you doing?” I ask softly.
He swallows, pulls back a little further. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes hurriedly, voice a bit shaky. It’s unbelievably adorable. “I shouldn’t have–”
“No,” I interrupt him, shaking my head. I let out a soft chuckle, not bothering to fight against the smile that creeps onto my lips. “No, I mean why’d you stop?”
I watch as Laurence lets out a small sigh of relief. I grab him by his jacket collar and pull him in, pressing my lips hungrily onto his. I’m absolutely delighted when he begins to kiss me in earnest. He snakes an arm around my waist, pressing our bodies flush against each other. He’s got his fingers running through my hair, balling into a gentle fist. A tiny gasp escapes me when he tugs a little.
My heart is going to explode. He tastes so sweet, and he holds me like he’s never going to let go. I run my hands over his chest, feeling taut muscles beneath his chef’s jacket. I don’t know what’s gotten into him, but I also don’t question it. I let out a soft groan as he explores my mouth with his tongue.
The fridge door swings open rapidly, creaking loudly on its old hinges. It’s Clarke.
“Claire, are you in–” She stops mid-sentence, eyes wide in surprise.
I push Laurence away, but it feels wrong. My stomach’s in knots. I glance away from her, trying to hide my embarrassing pink hue.
“Oh, er,” she stammers. “I-I can come back.”
“N-no, it’s fine,” I insist. I can’t keep my voice steady.
“We were just…” Laurence stumbles, too. He can’t think of a good excuse. He clears his throat. “I should get going.”
“Right,” is all I can manage. I give him a curt nod. I just want to curl up and die at this point. Oh my God what am I doing with my life? Making out in the dark like a horny freshman, apparently.
Laurence tips his head at Clarke as he steps around her and leaves the walk-in fridge. He disappears around the corner. There’s a gleeful grin on Clarke’s petite face, eyes bright and sparkling with excitement. Her expression reaches an annoyingly excessive level of happy.
“Oh my God,” she gasps.
“Keep your voice down!”
“Since when have you two been a thing?”
“There’s no ‘thing,’” I insist, but I don’t know if I entirely believe my own words. “He was just helping me check inventory.”
“In your mouth?”
“Can we please just drop this?”
“Of course not!” She’s practically squealing. “I guess those late-night dishwashing parties have really started to pay off, huh?”
“No, that’s not–”
“I have to tell Kate she’s a matchmaker!”
Clarke is about to turn and leave the way she came, but I manage to snatch her by the corner of her sleeve.
“Please,” I blurt out. “Please don’t say anything. It was just a kiss. We’re not… It’s not a big deal. Okay?”
Something akin to disappointment ghosts across her face, but she finally nods. “Okay,” she agrees.
“Thank you, Clarke.”
“I don’t see why it’s a big deal, though. I think you two would make a cute couple.”
I clear my throat. “Did you need me for something?” I need to change the subject. If we keep talking about this, I may very well die from embarrassment. Is that a possible cause of death? I’m about to find out.
“I’ve totally forgotten,” she giggles.
After a few more minutes in the walk-in fridge, I finally gather the shattered bits of my courage and return to the kitchen. The night is about to begin.
There are a few momentary bursts of orders, but it dies down just as quickly. Overall, it’s nothing we can’t handle. And it’s just as well, because I simply don’t know what to do. Laurence and I aren’t afforded the opportunity to really speak to one another. There’s always something that distracts us, takes our attention away. There are customer complaints to deal with, a shortage of fresh prawns, a spill of sauces on the kitchen floor that needs to be cleaned up as soon as possible.
But that doesn’t stop us from exchanging shy glances at each other from across the kitchen. I’m in the middle of helping Clarke put together several orders when our eyes lock. I’ve never seen him so bashful before, but it brings a smile to my face that I simply can’t fight. We somehow make it through dinner service, but my mind isn’t on the food today. Who can honestly blame me?
When my shift is over, I shuffle on over to the dish pit without complaint. It used to feel like a terrible chore. As Kate had put it, ‘a punishment.’ But a small part of me is starting to like staying late. With Laurence. Alone. I start to wonder what Kate would think about her little team building exercise when Laurence joins me. He starts to refill the sink with hot water and soap to soak the plates.
I shift uncomfortably from foot to foot. What do I say? What do I do? Should I say something first? Or should I wait for him to say something? Maybe he doesn’t want to bring it up at all. But what if he does? My mind floods with all of this different questions and scenarios. It’s just too much all at once. There’s a strain in my neck and a tightness in my chest.
“So,” he begins nonchalantly. “How was your day?” He says these words carefully, but probing nevertheless.
“It was good,” I say slowly, glancing to the side at him. “Started off great, actually.”
He grins, but keeps his eyes on the running faucet. “Do you have any plans tomorrow after work?”
I shake my head. “Just this.” I raise an eyebrow. “Why?”
“I was wondering if…” he trails off. He swallows nervously. “I was wondering if you’d like to–”
“There you two are!” exclaims Kate. I jolt a little, her presence a complete surprise. Kate’s got a disproportionately loud voice for a woman with such a tiny frame. “I just got off the phone with Vincent Arden. He’s made a reservation tomorrow for six people at eight.”
“Vincent Arden?” I echo. I recognize the name.
“The food critic,” says Laurence with a nod.
“Who’s also my ex-boyfriend,” I add on.
The air in the kitchen drops by a few degrees. Laurence is staring at me blankly, and I can see the faintest hint of color in his cheeks. The sink is on the brim of overflowing, but he doesn’t seem to notice. I lurch forward to turn the tap off. There are suds everywhere.
“Yes, and yes,” states Kate. “So be ready. We’ve been doing pretty well these last few nights, but a bad review could tank us. I wanted to let you know so you could prepare.”
“Right,” says Laurence flatly. “Thank you.”
Kate retreats the way she came, leaving an awkward tension hanging around us. I mentally want to kick myself.
“Your ex-boyfriend, huh?”
“We ended things quite a while ago,” I say this hurriedly, practically stumbling over my own words. “He was a real ass.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.”
Laurence seems to ease a little at this, his shoulders loosening a bit. He fidgets with a hand towel, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. His nervousness rubs off on me, my stomach in knots.
“What were you trying to ask me earlier?” I press.
“I wanted to know if… I wanted to know if you’d like to go on a date with me.”
I can’t help but smile. My response is almost automatic. “Yeah. That sounds nice.”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Laurence this relieved.