by Cassia Leo
The only time I lost control was when I walked out on him during the most important service of his life. And I would argue that I was fully aware of what I was doing.
Now, I have no clue. I’m stepping out onto a tight-rope without a net.
The elevator doors slide open, and I step out into the lobby. I spot him immediately, sitting on a modern gray sofa by the faux fireplace across from the reception desk. He stands as he sees me.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say the expression on his face looks like genuine remorse. But I’m not falling for that.
I point at the apartment entrance leading outside and he follows, reaching the door first so he can open it for me.
“Your chivalry is wasted,” I say, trying not to breathe the intoxicating scent of his skin.
He’s wearing a gray Arsenal Football Club T-shirt with faded jeans, and I distinctly remember Edward being a Chelsea fan. Maybe Edward and Ethan aren’t as similar as I thought?
Yeah, right.
“Chivalry is never wasted,” Ethan says as I turn around to face him. “Especially not on someone such as yourself.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t want your chivalry,” I say, trying not to think of the parts of him I do want. “I believe you came here to apologize. Go ahead. Your two minutes are running out.”
He flashes me a tight smile, then that expression of remorse is back. “I behaved badly today.” He ignores the way I huff in response to this admission. “I know there’s no excuse for the way I embarrassed—”
“Humiliated!” I shout. “You humiliated me in front of a bunch of people who probably already thought I’d lost the plot. And if they hadn’t, they certainly do now.”
He’s silent for a moment, then he takes a deep breath. “You’re absolutely right. I should not have spoken to you like that in front of your coworkers. I was—and I know this is no excuse—but I was a bit shellshocked by the implication you weren’t interested enough to do your research on me. Interested enough in the position, I mean.”
He appears genuinely pained by this admission. He obviously hasn’t spoken with Edward about this or he would probably know the real reason why I didn’t google him. Maybe Edward and Ethan aren’t that close.
“You’re here to tell me I hurt your precious ego, so you took it out on me?” I say, nowhere near ready to let him off for his appalling behavior.
He looks very uncomfortable now. “Look, I know it’s a bad look, but I promise I’m not usually like that. I just—” He cuts himself off and glances around uneasily before he continues. “I promise I’m not saying this to justify my behavior, but if you’d looked me up properly, you’d know I pride myself on being even-tempered and equitable with all my employees. I don’t even feel comfortable calling them employees when they’re really my equals… Like you.”
I recall the words I spoke to Minka earlier about how I was so busy trying to prove I was Edward’s equal.
Ethan holds up a finger to stop me as I open my mouth to speak. “Hold that thought. I brought you something.” He hurries off in the direction of a black Lexus parked on the street, grabbing a white plastic bag out of the front seat and hurrying back to me. “Can you hold this?” he asks, holding the bag open by its handles.
I grab the handles, and he proceeds to pull out a white, cardboard box containing something that smells divine. “What is this?”
He opens the box and winces as he seems to remember something. “Bollocks. I forgot the silverware,” he says, looking back and forth between my face and the white box a couple times before he finally shrugs. “I suppose that’s what fingers are for.”
As he digs his hand inside the box, I can’t help but think of all the other things his fingers might be good for.
His hand emerges from the box and, pinched between his thumb and forefinger, is a piece of chicken covered in a green sauce. “Taste this.”
It’s not a question, but it’s also not a demand, and somehow this makes me more receptive. With a sigh, I open my mouth slowly, watching him as his gaze is fixated on my lips, a longing in his eyes I recognize very well. It’s the same expression I saw on Edward’s face the day we met at Javits Center.
Ethan places the morsel of food on my tongue and I have to resist the urge to close my lips around his fingers. But the urge is soon forgotten, immediately replaced by the orgasmic sensory explosion in my mouth.
My eyes widen as I swallow the bite of food and say, almost gasping with pleasure, “Pipián?”
He smiles. “You do know your sauces.”
I lick my lips clean, hoping to get another taste. “Did Edward tell you it’s my favorite?” I say, very likely doing a bad job of hiding my disappointment.
He shakes his head. “Actually, Judy enlightened me.”
I look into his dark eyes, searching for a trace of deceit, but I don’t think I know him well enough yet. “Judy remembered that?”
His smile softens. “Not to minimize her amazing memory for that type of stuff, but Judy keeps fastidious notes on all her most promising students. She has a binder full of your old essays and some notes on things she learned from you.”
I’m speechless as my mind struggles to comprehend his words. Judy learned something from me? But as I try to temper my obvious shock, I realize something else he’s implied.
“You read her notes about me?”
He looks uncomfortable again, and he seems to grasp for a distraction as he digs into the plastic bag I’m still holding and retrieves another box. He places the first box back in the bag and looks up at me. “I’m a fast reader,” he says as he opens the second box. “So, do you accept my apology? Will you please come back to work with us?”
I stare at him for a moment, wondering why I feel like he’s hiding something from me. “It’s going to take more than a well-made sauce to ply me into submission.”
My choice of words elicits a wicked smile from him.
“I mean that it will take more than food to get me to take another chance on Forked,” I clarify.
He tempers his devilish grin. “Well, I might have something else to offer, but first,” he says, pulling something out of the second white box, which looks like a piece of a croissant, “taste this and tell me what you think.”
I eye him warily. “That’s not poisoned, is it?”
He cocks an eyebrow. “I reckon it’s a bit late to wonder about that, young lady.”
“I’m twenty-nine years old,” I reply, then I open my mouth obediently.
He places the food in my mouth. “And you don’t look a day over ninety-two.”
I try not to roll my eyes as the piece of bread partially melts on my tongue, and I chew the rest slowly. “What is this?” I ask, unable to get a good grasp on the soft-yet-crunchy texture and sweet-yet-salty flavor. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever eaten.
He smiles as he understands he’s stumped me. “It’s a play on brioche feuilettée au sucre. It’s made with yeasted biscuit dough instead of brioche, so it’s more—”
“American,” I say, finishing his sentence as I savor the sweet, caramelized aftertaste of the pearled sugar between the flaky layers of buttery biscuit dough.
“Exactly,” he says. “I want to serve these as the complimentary bread course, but I was hoping to get your opinion first.”
“My opinion? On what?”
He chuckles. “Do you think they’re good enough for a bread course? Or do you think they’re too sweet? Or should I chuck them in the nearest bin?”
I look up at him in confusion. He’s seriously asking for my opinion on what he should serve for an entire meal course?
“But I’m…just a hostess,” I reply, aware I haven’t yet accepted his apology.
His expression is somewhat serious as he shakes his head. “You’re so much more than a hostess, Alice.”
Something about his words, and the way he delivers them, makes the breath catch in my throat.
I swallow the emotions rising inside me. “The
bread is perfect,” I say without exaggeration.
His smile returns as he places the box back in the bag and takes the handles from me, not noticing how I flinch slightly at his touch. Or, at least, he pretends not to notice.
“If you come back, we’ll start you out at $25 an hour,” he says, upping the offer from the original $17. “And we can evaluate you for the sous chef position in ninety days instead of six months.”
That light-as-air feeling I had after my chat with Judy is back, and I can’t hide the uncontrollable smile spreading across my face.
“Will I see you again tomorrow?” he asks, and for a moment I get the feeling he’s not just asking if I’m coming back to work.
I shake off this thought and, after a brief silence, I nod. “But only because I want to know how to make that sauce.”
“Some things are better kept secret,” he says, a grin lighting up his gorgeous features as his gaze slides down the length of my body. “See you tomorrow, Alícia.”
He turns around and heads back to his vehicle before I can reply. He must have learned that name from my father. But, why would the two of them be discussing the pronunciation of my given name?
The thought of Ethan plying my dad for information about me makes me uneasy, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t also quite flattering. Ethan is either very interested in working with me or very interested in screwing me. I just wish I could figure out if he wants to screw my career or my body.
I slide my phone out of my pocket to send Minka a text asking if she needs anything from the corner bodega before I head back upstairs, when I notice an email notification on my screen. It’s from Le Cordon Bleu in reply to the paid internship I applied for on a whim almost two months ago.
I tap the notification to open the email.
Dear Ms. Lopez,
We would be delighted to welcome you to our culinary arts instructor internship programme. Our Paris university currently has a few places opening up in late August. The starting pay is a monthly stipend of 600 Euros. Lodging is included in our onsite hotel in the 15th arrondissement.
If you’re still interested in learning from our world-class instructors, please reply to this email by July 15th. We look forward to hearing from you.
All my best,
Bette Martin
Culinary Arts Director
I read the email a few more times before the information sinks in. In less than an hour, I went from almost quitting a career in the culinary arts to having two job offers on opposite sides of the globe.
Somehow, between the dozens of internships and the multiple unsuccessful job interviews in the past two months, I completely forgot I’d applied for the position at Le Cordon Bleu. Now, I have to give Bette my answer by July 15th.
Doing the math, I realize this is about a hundred days away from now. Ethan is supposed to evaluate me for a raise and promotion in ninety days. That’s cutting it awful close.
There’s no doubt I’d rather have the sous chef position than the internship. Paris is beautiful, but I’d rather be broke in Manhattan than broke and friendless in Paris.
I can’t leave the promotion up to fate. I have to give this job everything I’ve got, lay everything on the table, or I’ll be forced to take the internship. After all, at some point, I have to take my fate into my own hands.
Heading into the lobby of the apartment building, I mentally commit myself to earning the sous chef promotion in ninety days. The woman behind the reception desk smiles as she watches me dig my pants out of my butt-crack. If I’m going to pull this off, I definitely need a properly fitted pair of jeans.
Chapter 6
ETHAN
I turn off the alarm on my phone and stare at the ceiling as my blackout blinds automatically begin to rise, letting in the gray light of a dewy spring morning in New York. If I’d known I would be going to sleep and waking up with Alice’s face at the forefront of my mind, I’d never have offered her the hostess position. The last thing I need in the middle of a hectic restaurant opening is to catch feelings for my brother’s ex-girlfriend.
This would be so much easier if she weren’t so bloody talented and beautiful. The fact that she doesn’t know how brilliant she is only makes her more attractive.
My motivations for hiring her may not have been exactly pure, but there is no denying Alice is testing the limits of my patience, and my desire to keep my hands to myself. More to the point, her father, Cristian—knowing my reputation—warned me not to get involved with Alice, or he would recommend my funding be revoked.
I don’t really need the venture capital. But the thought of letting Alice get the best of me, the same way she did with Edward, truly worries me. I’m supposed to be impervious to these types of setbacks. To be perfectly honest, I thought it a sign of weakness that Edward allowed a significant other to have so much power over his professional success.
Nevertheless, with my help, Edward seems to be dusting himself off and charging headlong toward that second Michelin star he so craves. But there’s no doubt he would still be floundering if I hadn’t swooped in to help with his restaurant opening last month.
And despite his outward show of gratitude, I know Edward still resents me for being the more successful twin. The fact I dropped out of uni—or culinary school, as the Yanks call it—also pisses him off to no end.
But I earned my success. It took a lot of hard work to turn my educational failure into a professional empire.
I may have a reputation for bedding a few coworkers, but I’ve never allowed a relationship to get in the way of my business. And I’ll be damned if I allow Alice to be the first woman to get the better of me.
Glancing down at the bulge in my boxer briefs, my cock quivers happily at the thought of letting Alice have her way with me. I shake my head as I adjust the fabric to give my cock a bit more room.
Of course, all these thoughts lead down a very dangerous path, and I soon find myself conjuring up memories of my first year of uni, when I was forced to withdraw from the program after what could only be termed a catastrophic breakup.
My split from Priya gutted me and, for a moment there, I lost my faith in myself. I almost quit cooking entirely. It’s not lost on me that our breakup was similar to what happened between Edward and Alice.
I wiggle my limbs to get the blood flowing—and to shake off thoughts of my sexy new hostess—then I leap out of bed, eager to take my daily cold shower. The shock of the cold water will surely break me out of these treacherous thoughts, and douse the fire in my boxer briefs.
“Who did it?” I ask Ollie as she shows me two deep gouges in a section of the dark wood floor near the double doors leading into the pastry kitchen.
“The Viking service guys. When they delivered the replacement for the proofing cabinet that wasn’t working. Someone came out of the kitchen and surprised them. They dropped the new cabinet, and now that one’s not working either.”
My blood pressure rises as I think of how this will impact our schedule. We’re six days from opening, and this is the fourth thing that’s gone wrong since I left the restaurant early yesterday to grovel at Alice’s feet.
I take a deep breath and pat Ollie on the arm. “I’m certain you’ll figure it out. Just…coordinate with Viking to make sure a new cabinet is delivered by Thursday. We need those for the bread course.”
Ollie nods. “I’m on it.”
As Ollie pushes open the double doors, presumably to give Judy the bad news, I have a sudden thought. “Ollie, wait! If they can’t get it delivered, make sure to ask if there’s a warehouse or supplier nearby where we can pick one up.”
She flashes me a thumbs up and I resist the urge to offer to take care of the problem myself. It’s not that I don’t trust Ollie. I have no doubt I hired the best front of the house manager for the job.
My concern is that we designed the construction of the water line, which feeds into the proving cabinet, for that specific model. If we can’t get the same exact model,
I may be forced to make adjustments to the plumbing lines, which may require approval from the code inspector.
Worse, if I can’t get the same model, I may have to rethink the entire tasting menu for opening night. The bread course is meant to compliment the amuse-bouche, which precedes it, and the cold salad course, which supersedes it. If I have to change the salad, I’ll have to change the fourth course, and so on. Obviously, this would be nothing short of a disaster.
I decide to take this brief moment of respite, when no one is bombarding me with the latest setback, and use it to examine possible changes to the menu. I need to prepare myself, should it come to that.
I head to my office and take a seat in my desk chair, opening up Mise en Place, the menu-planning software program I commissioned from a developer. I can add a recipe for a new menu item and the program will cross-reference the ingredients with our inventory. Off the top of my head, I begin writing an amuse-bouche recipe that makes more sense when followed by a charcuterie course. I’ve barely typed three words before my mobile vibrates in my pocket.
Looking at the screen, I sigh when I see Edward’s name. I’m about to answer, when Alice appears at my office door. Quickly tapping the button to reject the call, I tuck the phone away in my pocket.
“Alice,” I greet her, perhaps a bit too excitedly. “Good morning. It’s wonderful to see you. Please have a seat.”
She looks confused by my request but acquiesces without protest. “I just wanted to thank you,” she says as she takes a seat across from me, and I can’t help noticing she’s not wearing the same color jeans as everyone else. “I didn’t get to thank you last night. It must have taken a lot of effort to read Judy’s notes, and find my friend’s address, and all that.”
I wave off her gratitude. “The apology was mine to make. Though it is very much appreciated, your gratitude isn’t necessary.”
Why do I sound so stiff?
I attempt to relax, but one glance at her curvy body, and all I can think of is the many other ways she can show me her appreciation.
