Yes chef, p.22
Yes, Chef, page 22
“They left your freckles,” he says, looking closely at my face with a smirk.
“Evie did tell you they know how to do things like that,” I reply. Using sarcasm as a defense mechanism is slowly losing its effectiveness.
“I like your freckles.”
“I gathered.”
“Your hair looks nice, too.”
“Thank you. I didn’t realize how long it is when it’s not growing vertically.”
“I like your hair both ways.”
I pause for a moment, not being very good at receiving compliments. My go-to is generally to lob them right back. “You don’t look too shabby yourself.”
“I had to get a new tux.”
“Well, it looks nice.”
“Thank you. Shall we?”
James winks and holds out his tux-clad arm for me to loop my own arm through, and I take several breaths and visualize shoving those damn butterflies back where they belong. They had their brief time to roam this afternoon, but if I have any hopes of making it through the night without falling in love with the man next to me, I need those bad boys locked up and far from sight until otherwise notified.
The pictures of the Sullivan New Year's Eve party don’t come close to doing it justice. Not even close. The party is elegance personified. Apparently, Mrs. Sullivan’s family comes from a long line of old money, but instead of opting for the socialite life, she fell in love with her chef of a husband and ran as far away from pretension as possible, learning the trade right alongside him.
But the one thing she did retain from her socialite days was the ability to throw not just any party, but that kind of party. The venue they chose is so beautiful and ornate itself that it doesn’t need much to decorate it. The view of the skyline is the main focal point. The stocked bar is ready and on hand, but servers pass around glasses of champagne and the most amazing array of appetizers you could dream up. A quartet in the corner plays a steady stream of today’s top hits in instrumental form, and above the classic checkered dance floor clad with guests slow dancing is hanging wisteria that makes the room smell divine.
I’ve been to many parties in my life. I’ve been to many a socialite gathering to try to appease my mother, and I’ve even been to a few of the weddings where those socialite friends I’d made tried to flaunt their party hosting skills. But none of those experiences compare to this.
James and I exit the elevator to check our coats while I take it all in. He’s looking at the party when I remove my wrap coat, analyzing his mom’s handy work. “It’s more understated this year, thank God, but I hope she didn’t—”
He stops short when he turns around to hand the attendant his coat and sees me standing there for the first time in my dress. The way his eyes roam appreciatively up and down my figure does nothing to help me tame the butterflies. He brings his hand up to his jaw, muttering something to himself before pulling my hand to wrap around his bicep again. We start walking towards a group of people his mother is talking to before he clears his throat and finally says something.
“That dress is . . . damn, Claire, that dress is stunning. You’re making this so hard—” he begins, but he’s cut off when his mom sees us and walks over to give us both a hug.
“Well, don’t you two make quite the pair all dressed up this evening,” she coos.
I immediately blush for everyone to see. Before either of us can offer up a protest, she shoves champagne and an appetizer in each of our hands and introduces us to who she’s talking to. My blush turns into a blanche as she introduces me to some of the chefs I used to Google in my free time.
James is all easy smiles as they ask about the restaurant we’re working at in Paris. Everyone is eager to see us get a star, apparently. Some of the people in the group have worked with James before, and even though he’s clearly the youngest among them by at least ten years, they eat up every word he has to offer. And although many chefs like to keep their vendors close to the chest, away from their competition’s hands, James freely gives out contacts for varying foods. He spends a great deal of time talking up Martin’s truffle oil.
“I was skeptical at first,” James says, as he keeps my arm steadily through his. “They use avocado oil instead of olive oil as the base.”
“I’ve never heard of that,” a bushy-eyebrowed man who’s a good two feet shorter than James admits. “But now that I think about it, it sounds logical . . .” he says, clearly trailing off to think about all the different attributes to appreciate about the switch in core ingredient.
“Claire here has done the most with it. She can get anything to crisp better than anyone I’ve seen.” At the compliment, all eyes snap over to me. “But her best dish is her mousse.”
“Really?” I ask, a little shocked. “That’s your favorite?”
“I told you before it’s the best thing I’ve ever had. Not just from you, but like, . . . ever.”
The jaws of the audience around us collectively drop at the admission. My blush is permanent tonight, it seems. It’s a good thing the makeup artist didn’t bother giving me any; I would have had no need of it.
I’m peppered with an onslaught of questions about my work, where I went to culinary school, where I worked before Teaks. It feels a bit like a rapid-fire interview, but James fills in answers to allow me to periodically clear my throat or grab a bite to eat or take a sip of my champagne.
As the conversation comes to a natural conclusion, Evie walks up in her deep purple dress, arm linked through a guy’s. He looks like he possesses the kind of snobbery I actively try to avoid. It doesn't look like Evie’s all that attached to him, as she doesn't remember to introduce him to us, and instead she gushes over my dress. “Oh my GOD, I’ve been staring at you from across the room for thirty minutes, waiting for you to end your conversation. Mom said not to bug you, but I couldn’t help it. You look stunning! And your hair! And the makeup! Seriously, I am a magician,” she says, making me twirl around.
“You mean you hired magicians,” James corrects.
“Same thing, let me have my moment.” She grabs my hands and leans into my ear before whispering, “Promise me that if he tries to kiss you at midnight, you won’t turn him down, okay?”
Before I can affirm or deny her request, she’s linking her arm back through her date’s and moving them towards the dance floor. The band has now increased by a few members and is starting to jazz up the music in preparation for ringing in the new year. I’m watching Evie and the guy she never actually introduced us to walk away when James comes up behind me, putting a hand on my lower back.
“Do you want to dance?”
“Sure,” I say, barely managing to get out the word.
He leads me to the dance floor and spins me around, pulling me close to dance slowly to the jazzy music. The one hug he’s ever given me was after the car ride back from the soccer game—the half hug at the game didn’t count—but even that one hug could not have prepared me for this. Dancing in his arms makes me feel safe, secure, and completely in the right place. From our few excursions dancing after Teaks with the rest of the team, I know he can keep a rhythm, albeit a goofy rhythm, but I don’t think that version of James will come out tonight, which is a shame. But the way he sways casually to the music, leading me along, has me feeling a level of comfort I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget.
Thinking conversation might help me not dwell on the fact that his towering frame makes me feel like a little Tinker Bell, and that his hands on my lower back is the most luxurious feeling I shouldn't be feeling, I try to add in some small talk. “Who was Evie with? She didn't look particularly enthralled.”
He sighs a deep sigh of sibling disapproval. “Evie has an issue with taking guys out for a short spin and then moving on without any logical reason. I don’t think she’s gone on more than two dates with a guy. I’ve never met her date tonight, but I sort of just stopped introducing myself after a while. One time, I called a guy by the name of her date that was three guys expired, and that didn’t go over well, so I decided I’d wait until she brought someone around for a bit longer before I introduce myself again.”
“That’s kind of surprising, actually.”
“I know. It’s surprised us all. Lucy is the total opposite; she hasn’t gone on a date in years, to my knowledge. Once she got into medical school, it became her only focus, and now that she’s at that clinic, it’s her entire life. She had to cancel coming tonight because something at the clinic came up.”
“That I can understand—we chefs are a bit overly dedicated to our trade, are we not?” I ask, looking into those denim eyes.
“Regrettably so,” he mutters.
I want to ask more questions. I want to tell him that I’m kind of sort of regretting it too, but I don’t know what to do about it. I have a lot of things I want to say right now, but before I can get anything out, Mr. Sullivan grabs a mic.
“One-minute countdown! Grab the confetti!”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Macarons: an often colorful, almond-based cookie with a sweet filling
The last sixty seconds of the year are mayhem, but in an elegant way. People are tracking down horns, poppers, hats, confetti—anything they can get their hands on. The words Evie whispered in my ear what felt like only seconds ago keep ringing on repeat, and before I know it, my breathing starts to become a little uneven, and there are black spots in the corner of my eyes. I know that logically I’m seconds away from an unjustified panic attack, but you can’t reason with panic when it attacks you suddenly. You can try to breathe through it, remind yourself that everything is going to be fine, and wait for your brain to take back over your emotions.
James notices my breathing, too, and grabs both of my hands in his, pulling me away from the crowd. “Claire, what’s going on? Baby, are you okay? Is it the crowd?”
His sweetness slices through my nerves, and I’m able to gather myself enough to look him in the eyes and whisper out, “I don’t want to mess anything up.”
At my admission, his eyes soften as I hear the countdown going off in the distance. “I promise you, Claire Richards, that you won’t mess anything up. You are incapable of messing anything up. You are a badass—if you don’t mind me saying—and what you do, you own. I’ve never met someone more capable. And if you don’t mind, I’d very much like to kiss you right now. We can pretend it never happened when we enter the new year, and back in Paris it might be a good idea to do that until you’re ready. But I promise you, I won't let it mess anything up. I won’t.” It’s the finality in his voice that pushes me over the edge as the countdown hits its end.
I nod, just barely, and before I can overthink it, James is pulling me into a kiss that I’ve been dreaming about for months. His strong arms wrap around me to hold me in place as he drops his head to press a reverent kiss to my lips. Nothing intrusive, more polite than I’d admittedly like. But that kiss holds the promise to every declaration he just made. Breaking the embrace before I want him to, he looks at me, searching for any sign of regret, but I have none. I have absolutely zero regrets about kissing James Sullivan. It felt right. He feels right.
But what do I do? I hold up my hand for a high five, which he obliges, and smiles while he laces his fingers through mine and we head out to the dance floor to dance with his family and the rest of the guests.
All night, I watch to see if I’ve just ruined the comfortable dynamic we’ve maintained these past few months, but if anything, he seems lighter, happier, and more at ease around me when I expected the opposite. It seems that James Sullivan will be a man true to his promise—which leaves the main question up to me. I swore off workplace romance for a specific reason, but how long can I maintain that promise to myself when the most perfect, supportive man in the world keeps looking at me like I’m a gift?
The star. After the star, I’ll reevaluate. I have to earn that star. It’s a milestone I need to get myself to. I can’t fully explain it, but getting that star and being a part of the team that made it happen is the one goal I want to accomplish because it’s the one goal I decided to pursue myself. And I don’t want to risk it. I need to prove this to myself. So, until then, I’ll be good. I have to be good. Right?
On the flight back to Paris, I can’t sleep a wink. After a week of just getting to exist and live in the moment, I’m ready to roll up my sleeves and work towards a goal again. Some people get “Sunday scaries” after the holidays, but I just get revved up. I feel like one of those toy cars you roll back to tighten up the spring launch system that sends it zooming. I spent a week rolling backward, winding up, and now I’m ready to zip out of the gate.
I can tell that James feels the same way. His leg is jumping up and down the whole flight, and if I didn't know him so well at this point, I’d have assumed it had something to do with kissing me, but he’s been the picture of comfort around me ever since that New Year’s Eve kiss. No, in fact, he’s leaning into me as he tries to focus on his movie as if he’s trying to sneak in any form of contact that I’ll allow. He’s been doing that ever since the kiss, and I kind of love it. It’s not pushy; it’s not testing my boundaries. With every touch, he sneaks in at the small of my back, or when he nudges my shoulder, or when he sits so close that our thighs are plastered together, I can tell that he’s intentionally trying to make me comfortable with the fact that he’s not going anywhere. He’s letting me call the shots, and he’s happy to hang around for the ride.
My resolve falls ever so slightly every time he does it, but I have my priorities straight. And I know he’s an ally in those goals.
Travel James is a little subdued on the way back, which is kind of a disappointment. I’d planned a string of intentional delays to throw at him to see how he reacts. But rather than concentrating on our travel behavior, his mind is occupied by the restaurant. We talk the whole time we’re awake about new dishes to try, any ingredients we might have left out this season, and what we want to highlight moving into the next season. In reality, we could hear back anytime now.
But thankfully, Travel James still manages to get us back to the apartments at a reasonable hour so that, in his words, we can unpack everything before calling it a night. I don’t tell him that I have zero intention of unpacking my suitcase tonight and instead plan to immediately nosedive into my bed, but it’s the thought that counts.
He hugs me goodnight this time, and that’s a welcomed change. His bearhugs are quickly becoming one of my favorite things on the planet. Damn it. I will be good.
It takes all of two days to fall back into our familiar daily cadence. We meet at the café, head to the market to shop for the night’s ingredients, then to the restaurant to begin work, cooking for hours on end, before walking home to sit around and read for a while before calling it a night . . . then we start all over again the next day.
But the subtle differences in the whole schedule make my head swim.
James will usher me through the café door with a hand on my lower back or at my hip. On an occasion, while we’re out and about shopping, he’ll pay attention to something I compliment and then snag it for me for seemingly no reason at all—whether it's an apple I think looks particularly delicious or a little potted plant for my apartment. At the restaurant, he’ll lean just a smidgen closer to inspect my dishes, and instead of patting my shoulders like he usually does, he’ll grab both my arms and give them three squeezes. We go to my apartment like usual, but instead of sitting in our individual chairs, more and more we find ourselves seated on the couch together, sharing my favorite blanket.
And then, every night, he lingers a bit before hugging me and parting ways.
It’s maddening. It’s empowering. It’s respectful. It’s just what I need.
Knowing I haven’t messed anything up as James promised, I throw myself into the job. I practice, James and I brainstorm, and we scour the internet for any reviews about Teaks, good or bad, to see what the general buzz is around what we’re doing.
On our Mondays off, James continues to take me to all the tourist attractions I’d never gone to in Paris. We visit the Arc de Triomphe, and he takes me to the top of the Eiffel Tower. We even do one of those dinner cruises because he insists the terrible food is part of the experience. We see Notre Dame, he takes me to see Water Lilies in its full glory, and we hunt down every macaron Google told us was “the best.” By the end of January, I feel as though I’ve finally seen the city in its entirety.
With my sister’s wedding only a month away, she’s calling me repeatedly to make sure I’m going to my fittings, asking what kind of shoe I’m going to wear, letting me know she’s having everyone’s hair done in an “elegant low bun with a sweeping side part.” I nod for a while as she describes it before I realize she can’t see my non-verbal cues and try to give her affirmation: repeating “uh huh” and “Wow, that sounds lovely.”
Getting my dress made to my measurements in the first place meant alterations would be minimal. I meet with Macy, and we chat about what it’s like to alter wedding attire all day. She loves her job as much as I love mine, so we find no shortage of talking points. Her sleek black hair is in a tight ponytail, but even with it up, it cascades so far down that I wonder how long her hair actually is.
Melissa also frequently reminds me that I should bring a date to the wedding. I want to bring James, and I know he’d come with me, but I don’t know that both of us can walk away from the restaurant for that long. The likelihood of a critic coming in on one of the nights we’re gone jumps when we’re out for an entire week, and I already have a pit in my stomach thinking about missing out. I can’t ask James to do the same thing. Even though it kills me a little bit, I want nothing more than to take him to the wedding with me. I’ll have no shortage of need for emotional support, and I know he’d give it to me without question. But I also know these past few months have healed a lot of the beliefs I’ve had about myself.
