Chapter Two
Paris
“No, no, no,” the instructor thundered, and Kevin looked up, wincing in sympathy for the student at the preparation area near the front of the room. This was the fifth time she had been called upon to demonstrate in the class today, and—unfortunately for her—for the fifth time she had failed to perform up to the instructor’s expectations.
This wasn’t a technically difficult recipe; they were preparing a crème anglaise to use in another recipe. The sweet custard was the base for the cake they would be making in the next part of the class and was the easiest component of the recipe. Unless you count hulling the strawberries, he mused, whisking a precise measurement of hot milk into his mixture.
“Monsieur Hartley, would you be so kind as to explain what Mademoiselle Gandall has done wrong?” Oh great, now the instructor was calling on him. His least favorite thing in the world, being the center of attention.
Lifting his eyes from the bowl in front of him, he stared across the room at the woman standing there, her face slowly turning red. “The heat Miss Gandall used to prepare the milk was not quite enough. The milk and vanilla must be fully boiling before it is whisked into the eggs and sugar,” he said in his not-quite-fluent French. In the months since coming to Paris, he had picked up more than enough to manage the classes or kitchen coursework. Still, each time he opened his mouth the instructors winced, and he knew they found his accent offensive. He just couldn’t get his mouth to make the sounds the way they did. “Ignorant American” was something he had gotten accustomed to hearing.
“Correct,” the instructor said, turning to look at the poor young woman down the length of his highly elevated nose. “You will begin again.” Her cheeks now flaming, she held her head high, chin lifted as she nodded in response. Discarding the ingredients in her bowl and wiping it clean, she prepared to begin again. And again. And again.
Four hours later, the instructor released the class after reminding them of their cuisson devoirs, the homework they needed to complete before attending class again the next morning. Kevin dutifully straightened his assigned area, only becoming aware that he wasn’t alone when he turned to leave the room. He was startled to see the woman still standing at her area, staring down. There was a single piece of flat paper lying in front of her on the countertop, and he frowned, his stomach clenching in sympathy for her because he knew what it probably was.
“You got called up?” He stepped closer to her, looking down to see that yes, it was a summons to the school’s office. Ability to pay, while important, was not the primary criteria for continued attendance at this school. Their reputation was such that there were always many applicants on the wait list. This made it so if a student wasn’t making the grade, or if an instructor felt they were not going to represent the school favorably, they could quickly be replaced by one with greater aptitude or promise plucked from the list. Being called up to the office always seemed to be the first step down that road.
“It might not be what you think,” he said encouragingly, lowering his voice. “I was sent to Madrid for a month last year. The letter for that looked just like the one you have here.”
He wasn’t lying. The stationary was the same. However, his letter had held the information in the first paragraph that an opening had become available at the school in Spain for a recommended course. So, he had gone to Madrid for two months, immersing himself in precise pastry preparation techniques. Attempting to focus on regional disciplines in order to master Spanish dishes, all the while trying to learn yet another language, falling back on his stilted French when he failed to make his labored Spanish understood. Successful completion of the course meant he returned to Paris with an extra notch in his belt, and immediately rewarded himself with the purchase of a motorcycle.
“This isn’t a letter telling me I’m good enough to go to Spain,” she said in English. He was so shocked at her usage, it felt as if he had to switch language gears in his head. Kevin had been exclusively speaking French long enough he no longer had to translate before he opened his mouth, and now, speaking English aloud just sounded damned odd in these rooms, under this roof. Sacrilegious, somehow. Blasphemous. “Don’t look so stupefied, Mr. Hartley. I don’t think I’ll have a reason to be competently conversant in French for much longer.”
There was a hitch in her voice, and he gritted his teeth. He knew what it felt like to have your dreams pulled away, yanked out from under your feet like the tattered remains of a worn-out rug. Becoming a chef, that had always been his dream job. After high school, he had worked every job that would hire him, from security to construction, putting every cent aside that he could for school. He counted every penny, stretching dollars until they screamed, cooking every meal for himself in an effort to both save money and keep up the limited skills his foods instructor had instilled in him.
Then his mother got sick, and Kevin stopped working to assist in caring for her. He moved home, where he and his father switched off days, taking her to treatments and appointments. The collapse had started small, just him helping out by dipping into his savings to make a house payment, buy medicine, or pay for the doctor. Slowly, drip by drip, the demands had worn away at the money in the bank until at the end, there was barely enough to pay for her funeral.
He didn’t begrudge any of it and would do it again in a moment if the need was there, if it would help keep his mother on this earth just a little longer. However, it had meant no Paris for him, no cooking school, and no career path. For more than a year after her death, he had slogged on that way. Working whatever jobs came available, but without the drive he had before. Off track. Then one day, his father kickstarted his dream again, much as Kevin started his bike.
“Boy,” his father said, staring across the table. “Your mom would be one upset woman. She’d be hot, all over mad at me if I didn’t speak my mind.” They were sitting at the dining room table, and his father had just polished off a second serving of the cake Kevin made for dessert. “You need to go, son.”
“Go where, Dad?” Distracted from the conversation, he looked at the cake and an idea struck him about how to plate it. If he were cooking somewhere, he would do this…
He reached out and sliced the thinnest sliver of cake possible, then dragged the container of fresh, heavy whipped cream towards his plate, using the bowl of the spoon to create a pattern of cream on the plate before positioning the cake in the middle. He then scooped more whipped cream and swirled a dollop onto the edge of the cake, lifting the cream into a peak. Voila, he thought, glancing up at his dad and freezing in place at the look on his face.
“Paris” was the only word spoken, and Kevin slowly shook his head.
“No can do, Dad,” he said, picking up his fork and looking at the cake, thinking it unexpectedly looked dry and tasteless. Ruined. “I have a two-month contract for the Mallets security still to complete. Then, I’ve promised the preacher I’d help his son out with that construction job. Paris isn’t in the cards for me this year.”
“Next year is yours, boy,” his dad said gruffly, and Kevin nodded, knowing it wouldn’t be in the cards for him next year, either. Especially if he decided to begin dating Mimi. She’d be high maintenance, take a wad of cash to woo. He jumped when his father slammed a fist onto the tabletop, roaring words that echoed around the small room. “Don’t do that. Don’t patronize me. I know what you did, son, and this is when you let me make it right. We get a schedule, look at what’ll be needed, and we’ll sort through things. A boy shouldn’t have to give up his dream the way you have. If your mom knew…” He paused and cleared his throat. “Let me make it right.”
When his father put it like that, Kevin didn’t have a chance at refusing him. Shaking his head, he reached across the table, covering the clenched, quivering fist with his big palm. “Okay,” he murmured, gaze locking on his father. After a long moment, his dad nodded, breaking their stare. If it could, if it were meant to be, they would work together to make it happen.
He thought, I might not be able to fix it, but at least I can offer her a friend. “Kevin,” he introduced himself softly, reaching out and holding his hand steady, perpendicular to the floor. “Please, call me Kevin.”
With a weak and watery smile, she reached out, touching her palm to his and he felt a zap clear down to his groin. That electric connection made his cock stand up and take notice, and he narrowed his eyes, looking at her. He had a sudden vision of her kneeling in front of him, his hands twisted tightly in her hair. Her mouth would be hot around him, hands bracing and balancing against his thick thighs as he moved her. Her moans around his cock would vibrate through him. As if it were a movie, he saw his head thrown back, her head bobbing back and forth in front of his groin, taking him to the back of her throat, deep and fast.
He felt her tugging, pulling at his hand, futilely attempting to extricate herself. “I think I’ll keep this until you give me your name, Miss Gandall,” he said, closing his hand tighter around hers, watching as she blinked rapidly at his words. “Or, you can agree to go to dinner with me tonight. Select between the two, and I’ll grant your hand an early release,” he said playfully. What the hell is my mouth doing? He watched her face tighten and close down, fear chasing the sadness from her features. Averting her eyes, she stared down at the letter.
It seemed she wasn’t going to go for either of the offered options, and he slowly relaxed his grip. Okay, maybe she was having a crappy day, but he had offered to take her out, and she hadn’t even had the good manners to turn him down. Instead, she’d pulled away as if he were the beast in some fairy tale. With a sigh, he released her and began to turn away.
“Jos,” she said with a sniff, interrupting his movement. “Joselyn, but my friends call me Jos. It’s nice to finally meet you, Kevin. And, after a day like today, I’d love to go to dinner with such a sweet man.”
With a smile, he clasped her hand again, tugging her towards the door as he repeated her name, breathing it out, delicate as spun sugar, “Jos.”