Yes chef, p.11
Yes, Chef, page 11
I give up on the concept of rest and decide to take a shower and give myself a little spa day. If I’m not going to be working, I’m going to pamper myself. The first thing in order is a long, searing hot bath. I practically scald my skin off by the time I’m done exfoliating, shaving, and basking in the steam, but the end result soothes my throat even further.
It wouldn't be a spa day without good facial care, obviously, so I wrap myself up in my big, fluffy robe and slap on my usual pink clay mud mask. Do I know what this is supposed to do for my skin? Not really. Melissa swears by it, so I take her word for it. I don’t want to risk experimenting with facial products I don’t have the time to put research into.
Letting the clay settle in, I walk into the kitchen to make something to eat. I’m plating my omelet when I hear the handle jiggle on my front door. Panicking, as any rational single woman living alone in a foreign country would do, I pick up the first utensil within reach—which just so happens to be my chef’s knife—when James casually walks through the front door, another mystery bag in hand.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asks, looking me up and down, his eyebrows raised practically to his hairline. And it’s right at that moment that I remember I’m only in a robe . . . and my face is pink. Not blush pink, but clay-mask pink.
“Resting . . .” I trail off, putting my knife down.
He rolls his eyes but keeps them anywhere but on me. I don’t know if he knows I have nothing on under this robe or if I’m just paranoid, but logic leads me to assume that he’s put two and two together.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, then I realize he’s been in and out of my apartment several times without me unlocking the door for him. “And how exactly are you getting in?”
He has the decency to look a little shy before answering, “Well, since you’re not going anywhere while you’re sick, I borrowed your key so I could get in without you having to get out of bed. But looks like you’re on the other end of the pestilence and feeling a bit spry.”
“Whatever medicine you got worked, so, um, kudos to you.”
When he still doesn’t look at me, I realize that I’m still in just a robe and that I should probably put something a little more decent on.
“I’m going to, um . . . I’ll be right back.” Darting into my room, I do my best to close the door without slamming it, but old doors aren’t exactly cooperative.
“I need to head out,” I hear muffled from behind the door. “I was just dropping the cheese from Theo off before heading to Teaks, but call me if you need anything, okay?”
“Okay!” I yell from my room. And then remembering my manners, I add “Thank you!”
He mumbles a “no problem” as he heads out the door and I sink into my bed, robe still on, trying not to die of mortification. I smack my hand to my forehead, and I am rewarded with the reminder of the other reason I should be mortified: pink clay all over my palm mocks me as I shuffle to the bathroom and wash away everything but my now semi-permanent pink blush. When it comes to James, I have a feeling that blush won’t be going away any time soon.
Chapter Eleven
Dry white wine: characterized by its crisp, refreshing taste and high acidity, dry white wine pairs with a variety of foods. Depending on the grape variety and the region in which the wine is produced, flavors vary from citrus to green apple to pear and tropical fruits.
After a few rounds of semi-heated debate, I’m back and in the kitchen after only three days of absence. And I say semi-heated debate because while James could confirm that I no longer had a fever, the sore throat that was obvious with my lack of vocal cords made me sound a lot worse than I actually felt. In the end, I bartered a few coughs drops for the ability to get back into the swing of things.
The following week was without incident. I hated being away from Teaks for all the reasons I tried to explain to my sister. I missed the rest of pear season entirely. Michael and Gabe were glad to have me back and Charlotte actually gave me a hug that warmed me straight to my bones. I joked that I wished she’d hugged me from the get-go because my chills would have likely gone away instantly. At that remark, James turned to me, incredulously saying, “You didn’t say you had chills!”
I simply replied, “Chills and aches are one in the same, are they not?”
I was answered with a flat no and an eye roll as he skulked into his office.
As it was nearing the month of November, I got my first pang of homesickness. It hit me out of the blue as I walked to Teaks one afternoon. Seeing nearly all the leaves on the ground, I started to crave cranberry sauce. One thought led to another, and I seriously debated setting up a trip to go home for Thanksgiving. But even if I did go back, it wouldn’t be the same.
My immediate family wasn’t one to make a big fuss out of a holiday unless we were having clients over. No, a Richard’s family Thanksgiving was hardly something to get homesick about. I was homesick for the Allen side of the family. My dad’s mom, my Grandmother . . . my favorite person in the whole world.
Grandma Allen would go big for Thanksgiving when we’d travel down to see her. She cooked every side you could ever associate with the holiday—everything from cornbread stuffing to green bean casseroles, never using the can because she said that didn’t count—and she’d make enough of it to feed three times as many people who were sitting at the table. My dad’s siblings were a boisterous bunch, and my dad seemed like a different man when he was hanging out with them. He seemed like he was actually himself, and I missed that version of him whenever we got home, and the robot father returned.
I’m always grateful I look like my dad’s side of the family, but I hope I take on more than just the looks. All I wanted to be was Grandma Allen when I grew up. She and my grandpa loved each other until the very end, and when I realized I was settling for something other than that, it was a wake-up call I never wanted but desperately needed.
She had a fiery take-shit-from-no-one personality but delivered everything in the honey-suckle-sweet accent that made you uncertain of whether you’d just been scolded or not. Losing her was like losing my compass, and I still don’t know whether I could point north with her missing.
James picks up on the melancholy that’s settling in and nudges my shoulder, asking, “Where did you go?”
“Thinking about Thanksgiving.”
“Is this your first one away from home?”
“Not really.”
“Care to explain, chef?”
“It’s a little complicated, but it’s less about missing the holiday and more about missing the way I loved celebrating the holiday, and knowing I can’t have that version again.”
“Why can’t you have that version again?”
“It was my Grandma who made it special, and she passed a little over a year ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Everyone says I look just like her when she was my age, and I can’t think of a better compliment. This was the grandma who showed me apple butter, by the way.”
“Well, for that alone, Theo would love her.”
“Everyone loved her. She was the best.”
“What would she do that made Thanksgiving great?”
“Oh, everything. That woman knew no boundaries when it came to celebrations. She pulled out all of the stops.”
“She sounds fun,” he says, looking over and assessing my face.
“I miss her a lot.”
“Sounds like for good reason.”
“I have a random idea,” I spout before I can process whether it’s actually a good idea or not. “What if on our Monday off the week of Thanksgiving, we cook the team a good ‘ol American holiday meal?”
“I think that’s a great idea. In fact . . .” he pauses, pulling out his phone. “I’ll do you one better. We were sent tickets to take the staff to a match that looks to be . . . yep, on that same day. We can do football before the turkey dinner. It’s a different football, but the sentiment is still the same.”
“Really?” I all but squeal. “I’ve been dying to go to a game!”
“You should have said something. We get tickets sent over all the time.”
“Well, next time tell me. I would go in a heartbeat.”
“Noted,” he says as we walk through the backdoor with our morning haul in hand.
It’d been a year since I’d looked forward to any holiday. They all had the same ache and pain associated with losing the one person who went above and beyond to make them memorable, but I feel it again now. I feel that excitement that comes with wanting to celebrate with the people around you, and I have James to thank for it.
Saturdays at Teaks are by far the most exhausting, but now that we’re out of busy season, there’s an ease that I wouldn’t have expected—and for once we close up a little early. To celebrate, Gabe and Michael rally the troops, insisting that we should go dancing on this rare occasion that we have a window to be able to.
There are plenty of reasons I shouldn’t go: my leg hurts; I’m not exactly the most filtered when I’ve had too much wine; I love to dance a little too much and could easily get carried away . . . but dadgummit, I want to go. After I realize that my first instinct of declining the invitation is just a honed response Henry trained in me, I’m suddenly the biggest supporter of the idea. Charlotte and Elliot politely decline on account of going home to their spouses, which leaves me, Gabe, Michael, and a few of the front-of-house attendants . . . and, to my complete surprise, James decides to join us.
I’m not exactly wearing the best “going out” clothes, but it’s late, and it’ll probably be dark wherever we go. One of the main reasons I always wear black is because you can get away with it pretty much anywhere, in any context. So even though my loafers are not stilettos, and my plain black T-shirt leaves absolutely zero skin showing, I’m not going to bother trying to change and then meet up with them wherever they end up deciding to go. I’m not that picky.
Gabe navigates our crew two blocks away from our restaurant, and I can feel the buzz of excitement off of the street. People stroll by in groups, keeping contact with everything from arms slung sloppily around shoulders to hands gripped tightly in a way that prevents any room for misreading romantic attachment.
We pass a few places before ducking into an arched ornate emerald-green door that has no signage, but Gabe turns to give me a knowing look before knocking a few times. A burly, bald man who is everything I’d hoped for in a bodyguard lets us in. After winding through a few dark hallways, we make our way into an open space that makes my jaw drop. When I think of a classic speakeasy, this is the place . . . but disco. A heavy-based DJ spins at the head of the room with a tasteful light show illuminating the otherwise dark emerald velvet booths grazing the wall. The dance floor has no less than a dozen disco balls spinning and reflecting lights from the DJ booth in a way that immediately makes me want to dance. People fill out the intimate dance floor, swaying to a song I’ve never heard before but is so catchy that I could likely sing along with the next chorus.
I feel a nudge at my back, and Gabe points towards the bar to my left, and we file through to get a drink. I keep it simple with a glass of white wine—it’s risky business carrying red when you can’t see one foot in front of the other, and liquor and I don’t always get along well. Tonight is not the night to give it “one more shot,” pun intended. Before I can get through even a few sips of my drink, Michael and Gabe are herding everyone out to the dance floor, and it takes all of two seconds for me to lose myself in the music. Song after song, I can’t find it in me to be tired, and for the first time in a long time, I'm feeling the unabridged freedom of fun that comes with just letting go and seeing where the night takes me.
That is, until I see James at the bar getting another drink. Two girls in slinky dresses that would be considered tube tops on any other figure have sidled up next to him. Suddenly, a feeling I haven’t had in over a year starts to spread its inky green slime all over my good mood.
I have no right to be jealous, I remind myself. In fact, I have no reason to be jealous. In fact, I’m not jealous at all . . . no, no, that was just a flashback to a feeling of old. No jealousy over here. None of that. I swore that off a long time ago. And I swore off anyone who would produce that feeling a long time ago. Nope, no green slime for me, thank you very much.
Before I can spiral too far down this very not jealous path, Gabe grabs my hand and pulls me into an embrace that’s a little more intimate for my liking. But, to my surprise, he leans his head down to my ear and whispers, “Don’t look now, but he’s been staring at you all night, and you need to keep the upper hand, Claire.”
“Who?” I ask, genuinely curious. He can’t mean who I think he might mean because who I think he might mean is currently talking to two bombshells with boobs a size I will never be able to replicate no matter how much padding I stuff in my bra . . . not that I’d want to. Because, again, I don’t care.
“You can’t be that oblivious, can you, mon ange?”
“I really don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“All right, then stick with me this evening and see what happens.”
“I’ve followed you the whole night, have I not?”
“And it’s working.” He cuts me a direct glance.
“Honestly, Gabe, I don't know what you’re talking about.”
He pulls back his head to look me in the eye and lets out a chuckle I don’t know how to decipher. But I let it go. Loosening his grip on me, he leads me to the middle of the dance floor to join Michael, who looks like he might be three sheets to the wind and having quite the time dancing with a petite, sweet-looking girl—who’s dressed a in a sultry, chic way. Looking down at my outfit, I’m starting to regret my “going out attire.” Sure, I like what I’m wearing, but I’m not being courted or pursued or danced with. Gabe doesn’t count. Once we got over his bedroom-eyes-phase and moved on to best friends, we’ve been purely platonic ever since. I didn’t feel a single thing when he grabbed my hand and pulled me in to dance close.
There’s only one person who produces involuntary butterflies for me at the moment, and I’m pointedly ignoring him and the Victoria's-Secret-wannabe he’s currently standing by. Definitely, no need to acknowledge that when he accidentally brushes my arm while reaching to sample one of my dishes, the touch sends tingles up my spine. No need to spend time thinking about how any time he’s around me, I feel about twenty degrees warmer, and I don’t know if it’s because he radiates heat or because he makes me radiate heat. No sirree. Nope, not going down that road. Not thinking about how when those denim eyes catch mine, I momentarily forget how to form coherent sentences. That would be an absurd way to spend my mental capacity. God. I read too much. That’s the issue.
I need another drink.
“I’m going to go get another glass of wine,” I whisper-yell to Gabe.
“Oh, great idea!” he yells back. But as I turn to leave, he grabs my arm and spins me back around. “Wait! No, better yet, I’ll go get you your drink. White wine, yes?”
I nod and watch him weave through the thin crowd up to the bar, where he-who-I-am-not-thinking-about is standing. Alone. Blessedly alone. But, like, I don’t care. I see the two of them exchange a few words and whatever Gabe says causes James to tense up slightly. They’ve never really gotten to be buddy-buddy now that I think about it. Gabe looks like he’s up to some sort of shenanigan at all times, and for a straight-laced guy like James, that’s probably always annoying.
Gabe returns with my drink in hand, and I make an effort to lose myself in the music again. I may not have sultry-chic stilettos on, but my practical leather loafers can outlast any spiked heel on the dance floor, and I have to use every weapon at my disposal at this point.
Three more glasses of wine and an indeterminate amount of songs later, I’m starting to question a lot of things. Like why is this music so hypnotizing? Why was the white wine getting sweeter by the glass? I never get sweet wine; I always get a dry wine. Why don’t I go dancing more often? Why didn’t I move to Paris sooner? Why did I let myself date an asshole for two fucking years? I must have asked that question out loud because Gabe looks at me with wide, amused eyes.
“Mon ange, I think you are at your limit. Might be good to get you home, no?”
“No, no, I’m great!” I screech. “Fabulous, really! And with these shoes, I could go all night!”
“I don’t doubt that for one second petite danseuse,” he says then pauses. “But I’m afraid of the lashing I’ll receive tomorrow if I let you go any further.”
“That’s silly,” I protest. “Come on, one more song, okay?”
“One more, but then we’re getting you home.”
“See if you can keep up,” I say, winking.
I avoid Gabe for three more songs before a strong set of hands comes down on my shoulders. There’s no need to look; I know who those hands belong to. The butterflies in my stomach know who those hands belong to. I’ve watched those hands work in the kitchen for too long to now think about them in an innocent manner. I know what those hands can do, but sadly I don’t know what those hands can do. I shouldn’t know what those hands can do.
Oh my God what is wrong with me. Those are my boss's hands, and I should not be thinking of any of these things. Damn you, wine. I blanch and turn to see that Mr.-grumpy-gills put his grumpy pants back on, and he’s now looking down at me as if he wants to sabotage my sourdough starter just for kicks and giggles.
“I think it’s time we get you home.” His gruff voice is firm and commanding, and he leaves little room for disagreement.
“Ugh, what is wrong with everyone? I don’t want to go home with anyone yet. I’m having a good time, and these loafers really are packing more than their weight. Do my legs look sexy? No, but I can dance for hours. Oh my god, I didn’t mean to say sexy—”
He cuts me off as if he never heard that last question, thankfully. “He’s trying to take you home?” he asks, nostrils flared and eyebrows comically raised.
