CHAPTER FOUR
I’m admittedly very excited for my date with Laurence. He hasn’t told me where we’re going or what we’re doing. It definitely isn’t ideal that we have to go after work, but it’s honestly the only time that a date would be possible. Whenever Laurence isn’t in the kitchen, I cover for him as his sous-chef. I’m his second-in-command, and there always has to be at least one of us at the Royale to make sure things run smoothly. After dinner service it is.
But today feels like it’s taking forever. Orders are coming in steady, and they’re leaving at an equally steady pace. These are the worst sorts of days. There are no windows or clocks in the kitchen, so we have no real sense of time when we’re at our stations. All we know is the pace and the rhythm of new chits off the printer. When things start to slow down, that’s when we know it’s almost closing time.
A new order comes in, this time with a note in italics: VIP. The chit is for table nine. It takes me all of two seconds to realize who our guest could be. Laurence places the chit on the rail.
“I want to make him something off-menu,” he says to me.
“Why?”
“You know him. Let’s make him something that he’ll like.”
I nod and hum, “It may help the Royale get a better review.”
“Exactly.”
“Don’t you have any ideas?”
“I want to see what you come up with.”
I throw him a glance. “Really?”
He nods and gives me an encouraging smile. “Show me what you’ve got.”
“Okay,” I say with a grin. “Just give me a second to think.”
“Take your time. I’ll keep an eye on the kitchen.”
I make my way to the cooking station in the back which nobody is currently using. I search my mind for a recipe. I need something that’s off-menu, but not something that’s totally crazy and out there. I need a dish that Vincent’s sure to love. When we were together, cooking for him was one of the worst things I had to do. He’s a critic by nature, probably even more so than Laurence. I couldn’t make him dinner without him noting exactly what he thought was wrong about the dish. Of course, he would put it as nicely as he could, but it didn’t stop me from practically losing my mind. Thinking back, it was probably one of the reasons why we broke up. I couldn’t handle the constant criticism.
I finally land on a modified version of Chicken Marengo. I plan out the recipe in my head. At most, the mise will take me ten minutes, and the actual cooking will take me less than fifteen. If all Vincent decides to complain about is the wait time, I’ll consider it a success. I rush over to the walk-in fridge and grab the ingredients that I’ll need.
Chicken Marengo calls of chicken cutlets, a sweet onion, a half-pound of mushrooms, a yellow bell pepper, white wine, beef broth, tomatoes, butter, flour, vegetable oil, and salt and ground black pepper to taste. Everything can be cooked in a single skillet, which makes my job all the simpler. I place a non-stick skillet on the stovetop, drizzle a bit of the vegetable oil in the pan and let it heat up. I can feel the heat of the flame on my face. But more importantly, I can feel Laurence’s eyes on me as I work.
I consider myself skilled with a knife. Before long, the chicken cutlets have been sliced into thin paillards, the mushrooms have all been diced, the bell pepper is seeded and julienned, and the tomatoes are all quartered into bite-sized chunks. I toss the chicken into the skillet first, watching them as they turn into a beautiful golden brown. The vegetables are next, sizzling as they come in contact with the hot surface. I stir the ingredients around gently, waiting for the vegetables to soften before adding the rest. I decide to add a half a tablespoon of butter to the recipe to give it a richer, creamier flavor.
Laurence walks over to inspect my work. He seems impressed. I scoop up a bit of the sauce with a spoon and hold it up to his lips, an offering. I don’t know why I’m so surprised when he actually parts his mouth and allows me to give him a taste. I watch, engrossed, as he drags his tongue across his bottom lip. Thoughts of our kiss flash through my mind. I have never before been so jealous of a spoon.
“Thoughts?” I inquire, my voice a little shaky.
“It’s delicious,” he answers honestly.
He helps me with the presentation. He arranges the dish like some sort of sculpture, perfectly centered and beautiful to look at. Laurence carefully drizzles the buttery sauce over and around the chicken like he’s painting. But I’m not watching him plate. I’m stuck watching him. There’s a focus in his eyes, something that borders on tender. I watch his strong hands spin the plate slowly as he inspects the meal from all angles, all sides.
“Do you want to drop it off to him?” he asks quietly. “Maybe he’ll enjoy seeing a familiar face.”
I shake my head, maybe a little too fervently. “I’d really rather you do it. We didn’t end things very well.”
Laurence chuckles, but nods in agreement. There’s something incredibly handsome about the way the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles. He takes the plate and heads to the floor, throwing me a wink. I glance nervously from side to side, wondering if anyone saw, but everybody is hurrying about their business as usual.
“You’re staring,” Clarke points out.
I turn to see her at my side. “N-no, I’m not,” I protest.
“Look, I haven’t said anything to anyone, I promise. But you’re making it really obvious when you stare at the Chef’s ass like that.”
I rub my face in embarrassment, darting my eyes away and casting them to the floor. God, this is embarrassing. “What can I say?” I mutter. “It’s a nice ass.”
***
Laurence
“Ah, you must be the Chef,” he says dryly as I place Claire’s dish before him. The rest of his dinner guests seem impressed, letting out a chorus of oohs and ahhs. Vincent, however, seems indifferent. “What exactly am I looking at here?”
“We’ve prepared for you Chicken Marengo with a sautéed vegetable side covered in a white wine-based sauce,” I say clearly.
I had met Vincent just once before at a year-end dinner party back when Claire and I were both in culinary school, but I don’t think he remembers me. He’s put on a little weight since then, and that bitter expression I remember him always wearing has become a permanent fixture on his face. I don’t know what Claire used to see in him. But I’m grateful to know she had the good sense to leave. What does he have that I don’t? He’s just a critic, after all. It’s a role for those who know they can’t cook, but like to hear their own opinions.
I shake my head, trying to refocus. Now’s not the time to be jealous. Now’s the time to work a little charm and sway this dinner party into the Royale’s favor. A few of the female guests that have accompanied him tonight keep glancing up at me, whispering to one another in amusement.
“Is that the Chef?” whispers one.
“He’s too hot. He has to be a model,” whispers the other.
“Why don’t you ask him out? He’s totally your type.” whispers the third.
Vincent clears his throat, gathering their attention. His company pipes down as he picks up a fork and knife to take the first bite.
Claire is watching from the kitchen door’s window. I can feel her eyes on the back of my head. I could sense how nervous she was when I left for the floor. There’s just something so adorable about how wide her eyes get, framed by heavy, thick lashes that make her look so curious and sweet. I swear to God, if Vincent gives anything but a compliment, I’ll drag him out to the alley and introduce him to my fist. Kate probably won’t like it, but I don’t care.
Claire’s too sweet for the world of haute cuisine. I remember the first time we had a class together. She practically bawled her eyes out when our instructor told her that she had ruined the cut of beef with her sloppy knife skills. I didn’t pay her much attention then, too focused on my own studies, but now I regret not getting to know her better. Whatever happened between that day and her working here at the Royale, she’s learned to be one of the most skilled chefs that I have ever known.
Vincent takes the first bite. He chews slowly, a contemplative look in his eyes. He’s stoic, unreadable. He chews for what feels like a ridiculously long time before finally swallowing. He inhales deeply, stroking his chin as he nods in thought. I have my fist balled, ready to deck him if he says one bad thing about Claire’s dish.
“This isn’t bad. Quaint, even,” he finally says. “Reminds me of my old girlfriend’s home cooking.”
I freeze where I stand.
The way he refers to Claire as his old girlfriend makes my stomach tie up in knots. How dare he say her name so casually, like old friends, old lovers. I can’t help but imagine them together. My mind goes off on a tangent. I can see his chubby little fingers on her body, his greasy moustache brushing against her soft lips. He’s seen her, known her in ways that I’ve never been afforded the opportunity. The thought sends a chill up my spine. I clench my fist to try and bring myself back to reality. He hasn’t said anything bad about Claire’s cooking, but I still want to try and find an excuse to punch him in the eye.
“In fact,” continues Vincent, “this really does taste like something Claire used to make me.”
I don’t like the sound of her name rolling off his tongue.
“She doesn’t happen to work here, does she? I heard rumors she was working at the Royale.”
“She does,” I say carefully through gritted teeth. I shouldn’t have told him the truth. I should have lied. Vincent’s eyes brighten up. I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.
“That’s wonderful!” he exclaims. “We sort of lost touch, but I’m glad to see she’s doing great.”
“Yes,” I nod. “Wonderful.”
“Would you mind if I pop into the kitchen to give her my compliments? Maybe get a tour? I’d love to get a sense of the Royale before I write up my review.”
I swallow hard. Yes, I do mind if you pop into my kitchen and talk to my sous-chef.
We didn’t end things very well.
But before I can protest, Vincent’s already standing up from the table. I want to force him to sit back down, to actually finish the meal. But he’s already brushing past me and headed for the kitchen. The ladies at his table are digging in to Claire’s dish in his place, visibly pleased.
“This is fantastic!” exclaims one of the women.
I turn on my heel and catch up to Vincent, who simply pushes on the swinging doors into the kitchen. Several of my chefs look up, surprised by his unannounced presence. He glances around the kitchen, inspecting the layout. He clicks his tongue. “I expected it to be bigger,” he hums. His eyes finally rest on Claire, who’s nervously tugging at her jacket sleeves.
Sweet, kind Claire. I want to wipe that worried expression away. I want to try and make her laugh, to make her forget about the man who’s now regarding her with such a disgustingly awful amount of interest. He eyes her from head to toe like some sort of merchandise.
I hate it.
“Long time no see,” he smiles at her. I don’t like his tone. He sounds far too familiar with her.
“Er,” she stammers, “hello, Vince.” I can tell she’s uncomfortable by the way she shifts from foot to foot. She has her arms folded across her chest, defensive. I watch as Vincent stretches his arms out wide like he’s going in for a hug, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t give him an opening. He brushes it off like he’s gesturing to the room. I can’t help but smirk at his sorry attempt.
That’s my girl, I think to myself.
“What are you doing here?” she continues. She can’t bring herself to look at him. Or anyone, for that matter.
“I wanted to give my compliments to the chef,” he explains simply. “Thank you very much for the meal.”
The meal you took one bite out of.
“Thank you, Vince,” she says softly.
“Would you mind giving me a tour?” he asks.
“A tour?”
“I’d love to see how things operate.” He takes his place beside Claire and places a hand on her back. He looks directly at me and grins, a fire in his eyes. “Unless, of course, the Chef needs you.”
He knows. He knows there’s something going on between us. He smiles at me like it’s a challenge. He knows that he’s won time alone with her. Maybe this was his plan all along; to see Claire again. And I know Claire’s too polite and accommodating to say no. He’s got his grubby little hands on her and I want to scream. I don’t’ want him anywhere near her. But I also can’t tell him to shove off. We need this review to go our way.
A bad review could tank us.
“I’m sorry,” she says. It’s a surprise to Vincent, but especially to me. “I’m afraid we’re very busy. I’m sure you understand.”
Vincent’s grin drops for a second, but returns with a bit more force. “Of course,” he shrugs. “You haven’t changed a bit, Claire. Always such a hard worker.” He reaches into his blazer’s inside pocket and pulls out a business card. He hands it to her. “Why don’t you call me some time. We can catch up and talk about your work.”
Claire takes the card with a brisk nod, tucking it away in her apron pocket. Vincent gives her a polite smile before walking back the way he came. He doesn’t even acknowledge me as he leaves. I’m fine with that, of course. I’d be monumentally happy to never see him again in my life.
***
Claire
Laurence doesn’t look happy, and I don’t blame him. Vince has always been a piece of work. The other chefs have momentarily forgotten about their stations and are looking back and forth between me and Laurence. I clap my hands to get their attention.
“Back to it, please,” I order clearly.
Laurence throws his head in the direction of Kate’s office. I wipe my hands on a nearby towel before starting after him. He closes the door after I enter. Kate’s away for the evening, meaning we have a private place to speak.
Except there’s no speaking involved.
The moment the door shuts behind me, he takes one big step to close the distance between us. Before I know it, he’s kissing me, lips crashing desperately against lips. He has his arms wrapped around my waist, holding me flush against him. He’s delightfully warm. I run my fingers through his hair, pulling him as close as possible. His tongue explores my mouth, slick against my own. My God can he kiss.
“You okay?” I gasp when our lips break apart from the briefest second.
“Yeah,” he says, immediately kissing me again. My heart is racing. I run my fingers down his chest. His is racing, too. “Vince. Didn’t like him.”
“I can tell.”
“Didn’t like him touching you.”
I pull back a bit to give us a chance to breathe. “Jealous?”
Laurence rolls his eyes, but smiles all the same. “Maybe.” He kisses me again, hungrier this time.
“After work,” I manage. He’s planting heated kisses on my neck. It sends chills up and down my spine. “Do you just want to–”
“My place or yours?” he asks, picking up what I’m putting down.
I don’t know what’s gotten into him. I really don’t mind, either. The way he kisses me, the way he holds me so tight, the way he practically growls in my ear makes me too dizzy to care.
“Mine,” I answer.