Romance Impossible

by Melanie Marchande

  ***

  So Chef Dylan did have a soft spot. It made sense, but it wasn't a possibility I'd ever considered before. Aiden was clearly important to him, so I took my responsibility with him seriously. We had a good conversation after work, where he confessed how stressed and overwhelmed he was feeling. Like I guessed, he had never actually worked in a restaurant before. I told him that if he came in early the next day, I'd help him run through the same drills I'd once used on myself, until he was comfortable handling anything.

  He seemed very grateful for the opportunity. I was somewhat confident he'd actually show up.

  After I'd jotted down a few notes for the following morning, I switched on the TV to unwind before bed. There wasn't much on, a lot of reality show marathons and some live musical performance that was being simulcast across a few networks. Until now, I'd almost forgotten that the holiday season was rapidly approaching.

  Ugh. Better not to think about that.

  A familiar face flashed up on my screen. I paused, feeling my heart thump-thump traitorously in my chest. It was an episode of one of Chef Dylan's many reality features, one of the competition shows where he yelled at people for an hour straight. There was a time when I would have switched it off in disgust, but...

  He really did have a nice face.

  Shelly had a point, after all.

  My ears felt hot. Come on, Jill, get it together.

  He wasn't yelling in this particular scene. He was speaking low and intently to the aspiring chef across from him, very close, looking the young man right in the eyes.

  "...and you have to trust those instincts, because they're never going to lead you wrong. I've seen you made an incredible amount of progress since you first came here, and it's unbelievable. I would have written you off in the first challenge. But you wouldn't let me. You kept on pushing forward, and when it comes down to it, that's all that matters."

  The guy had tears glistening in his eyes. "Thank you, Chef."

  They hugged, and I tried desperately to convince myself that it was just a show of false compassion for the cameras. But Chef's face showed nothing but genuine respect. He might be a hell of an actor. I'd been fooled before.

  But I had my doubts.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Blanch

  When we blanch a vegetable by quickly plunging it into boiling water, then into an ice bath, it cooks just enough to brighten the colors and flavors. Enough to make it better, but not enough to make it limp. The idea is to shock the vegetables into life - nothing more.

  - Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

  ***

  Max

  ***

  "Okay. You have customers who've been waiting forty-five minutes for their entrées, and the phone's ringing. You're the only one working the dining room. Go."

  Aiden's eyes were bigger than I'd ever seen them before, which seemed impossible. Jill had been running him through these hypothetical scenarios all morning, watching him discover and develop this own coping mechanisms. It was a painfully slow process, but I never would have guessed it was possible at all. Credit where credit was due - I would have given up on someone like Aiden if he wasn't my nephew, but Jill clearly saw something that I couldn't.

  She was watching him with a proud smile on her face.

  "Good work," I muttered, as I watched Aiden mime a conversation with an empty table. "I have to say, I'm impressed."

  She glowed. "Thank you."

  Head held high, with a smile and a flush of pride on her cheeks - she looked so happy, and this was exactly what I wanted for her. She deserved to be proud. She deserved to be praised. She deserved someone who could really appreciate her for everything and everyone that she was, and...

  What the hell makes you think you're the first person in her life who can do that?

  It was silly. It was presumptuous. I knew all that, but for some reason I couldn't shake the feeling that she craved validation. And coming from me, the notorious perfectionist, it had to be worth more than the average person - right?

  I wasn't being conceited, I was just being honest.

  "I think he's doing really well," she said, suddenly. I shook myself out of my thoughts.

  "Remarkably well," I agreed. "Thanks for this, Jill. You're very selfless."

  "Don't believe it," she said. "It benefits me as much as it does you."

  "Well, that's as may be," I said. "But when you boil it down, isn't everything selfish?"

  "I don't know," she said. "I think some people do things out of a pure sense of altruism."

  "Isn't altruism just another word for self-gratification?" I watched Aiden zoom around the tables and chairs, having a hard time believing this was the same kid I'd hired a few weeks ago.

  She glanced at the floor, her arms folded across her chest. "I guess," she said. "I don't know. I don't really think about it that way. Human nature is what it is, you know? It doesn't really matter how you look at it, as long as it helps you understand it."

  This immediately struck me as some Kumbaya bullshit, but I bit my tongue.

  "Hmm," I said. "I suppose you're right."

  She looked at me like she knew exactly what I was thinking. And that, really, was the most unnerving thing that had happened to me in months.

  "Can I ask you something about him?" she asked, softly. He was too absorbed to hear, but I still kept my voice low.

  "Shoot."

  "You started to say something." She looked up at me. "When we talked about him - you said he couldn't just work anywhere."

  I nodded, slowly. This was one of those things that stayed inside the family, but Jill...she was a special case. She deserved to know why he was here.

  "He fell in with a bad crowd," I said. "Got into trouble with the law. Only did thirty days, out for good behavior. But it's still on his record. It makes things hard, out in the workforce."

  Jill nodded, slowly, her mouth curved into a slight O. "That makes sense."

  "If you ask me, he didn't even..." My frustration was starting to seep through, raising the volume of my voice. I tempered it. "My point is, he didn't hurt anyone. He didn't cause any harm. I won't pretend like he didn't know what he was doing, but it was pot. For Christ's sake. Enough for a trafficking charge, but if he didn't put it in his bag, somebody else would've smuggled it. What fucking difference does it make? Is it worth ruining a kid's life over?"

  I still got angry when I thought about it. Angry at Aiden, angry at his supposed friends who dragged him into it - and angry at the system that felt the need to make an example of a stupid, confused kid who just wanted to seem like a badass.

  "That's awful," Jill murmured, still watching him. "Good job, Aiden!" she called out, switching on a smile. "Let's run through it one more time."

  ***

  I made the decision while she was running through the drill with him one more time, just before lunch service. Once the afternoon lull settled in, I called her into my office.

  "Yes, Chef?" She was wiping her hands on her apron, standing in my doorway.

  "Please," I said, gesturing at the chair. "Sit down." I made sure to keep smiling, lest she think this was something bad. Not that she seemed nervous to be talking to me. Not anymore.

  "I'm sure you've noticed that I never got around to filling the sous chef position," I said. Her mouth twitched, hesitantly, not quite sure if she should be smiling yet. "I know you're more than qualified. It's just a question of whether you're interest, really. It means longer hours, more responsibility. But you're halfway there as it is. Your work with Aiden - and just in general, really, I'd be lucky to have you."

  Her face broke into a grin.

  "Of course," she enthused, jumping to her feet to shake my hand. "Thank you, Chef. Thank you."

  She bounced out of the room, and I could hear her whistling in the kitchen for a while afterwards.

  I'd done well with her.

  No. You didn't. She did well with herself. You've got absolutely nothing to do with i
t.

  ***

  We ran into each other at the wine shop again, which I supposed was inevitable. I expected her to tense up when she saw me, hugging her bottles of Moscato protectively, but she just smiled. It was her day off, and she was dressed in dark jeans and a deep purple sweater that clung to the shape of her upper body. The chef's coats that I typically saw her in left nearly everything to the imagination. But this - this was different. As she reached up to a high shelf, the sweater hitched upwards, revealing just a hint of the creamy skin of her lower back before she hopped back down.

  "Hi, Chef," she said, tilting her head in the direction of the bottles I had tucked under my arm. "Business, or personal?"

  "Personal," I said. "I'd buy this place out of business if I needed to supply the restaurant."

  She nodded. "Of course. How stupid of me. Must be all that Moscato rotting my brain."

  Taking my cue from her, I smiled. "You know you have a problem. Admitting it is the first step."

  "A delicious problem," she agreed, looking down at the bottles she was holding. "Have you ever actually tried it, by the way? Or is it just beneath you?"

  "Once," I said. "That was enough."

  "Chef," she said, making a tsking noise. "You, of all people, should know better. Tasting just one label is never enough. Ask your brother, he'll agree with me."

  "Of course he will," I replied. "Any excuse to take someone else's side against me."

  "One of these days," she said, turning to the cashier. "One of these days, you're going to taste this, and you're going to love it. I promise you."

  "I'm a bit frightened," I said. "I don't know if I want to be assimilated."

  "It doesn't matter," she said. "See you tomorrow, Chef."

  I couldn't wipe the smile off my face as I paid for my wine. Things were going so well between us.

  Naturally, that was the surest sign that everything was about to go horribly, spectacularly wrong.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Mise en Place

  A mise en place isn't just for photographing cookbooks. Measuring out your ingredients and laying them out beforehand allows you to perfect your timing. And timing, my friends, is one of the most crucial components that separates the gourmet from the merely adequate.

  - Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

  ***

  Jill

  ***

  Holly, one of the servers, was poking her head in the kitchen.

  "Excuse me, Chef Jillian?"

  I came forward, wiping my hands on a towel. "What's up?"

  She cleared her throat, lowering her voice a little bit. Her eyes flicked towards Chef Dylan at his station, and then back to me.

  "There's a customer out there," she said. "Wants to meet him."

  I chewed on my lower lip. "What kind of vibe are you getting? Does she want to meet the guy who cooked her amazing food, or does she want an autograph session?"

  "Neither," Holly muttered, glancing at Chef again.

  "What? Is it bad?" My throat was starting to tighten. The last thing I wanted to witness tonight - or ever - was a legendary fight between Chef Dylan and an irate customer.

  "No," said Holly, quickly. "It's...it's good, I think, but...do you want to come talk to her?"

  I smiled reassuringly. Holly was an experienced server, but she'd never worked for a bonafide celebrity before. Then again, neither had I - but I felt like maybe I could fake it a little better.

  "How's my hair?" I asked her.

  She gave me a thumbs-up, and then led me out into the dining room, pointing to the table.

  "There," she said.

  The woman's eyes were practically glued to the kitchen door. Her face fell a little bit when she saw me, but I kept my smile glued on as I walked towards her.

  "Hello," I said. "I hope you're having a nice evening. I understand that you wanted to speak to someone from the kitchen?"

  "Chef Dylan," she said, a little louder than was strictly necessary. Someone from the next table turned their head, just a little. "I want to meet Chef Dylan. It's why I came here."

  "Well, I hope the meal was a nice bonus surprise," I said, with a joviality I didn't feel. "Chef Dylan is very busy, but he usually comes out to the dining room to mingle whenever he has a chance."

  She smiled humorlessly. "I'm only in town for tonight. I know he's here. I'm sure he can spare five minutes, if you just ask him."

  There was something in her eyes that made me very uneasy. I felt an absurd instinct to protect Chef, somehow, but I knew I couldn't. The last thing we needed was a story circulating about how Chef was too rude and stuck-up to meet with a fan in his restaurant.

  "All right," I said, smile still pasted on firmly. "I'll see what I can do."

  I felt ridiculously nervous, walking up to Chef. He was absorbed in his work and didn't seem to notice me, so I stood behind him silently for a moment, trying to formulate what I was going to say.

  "Well? You going to stand there all night?"

  I almost jumped out of my skin. He hadn't turned around, but I should have guessed that he knew I was there.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I know you're busy, but there's someone out there who wants to meet you."

  "All right," he said. Without hesitation, he turned around and tossed away the kitchen rag that was slung over his shoulder. "Keep an eye on all this? I'll just be a minute."

  I nodded, picking up a spoon. Of course, this was no big deal to him. I felt stupid for worrying, but still, the unpleasant feeling in my chest didn't go away. Once I was sure that the food could go unwatched for a moment, I went over to the door, peeking through the tiny round window.

  Chef had turned up the charm. Even from here, I was sure I could see the blush that was blooming on the woman's cheeks, every time he smiled at her.

  Ridiculous. Pathetic. She thinks she has a crush on him, because she saw him on TV once or twice? Grow up.

  An acrid smell was pricking at my nostrils. Had something bubbled over into the bottom of the oven? What was that? I didn't hear anyone letting out a colorful volley of curses, so...

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I had completely forgotten about the food.

  "Fucking cockbite!" I shouted, running back to the stove so fast I almost crashed into Liam, carrying a bowl of pesto.

  "What did you say?" somebody asked, but I was frantically trying to salvage the burning sauce from the stove. Smoke was gathering in a thick cloud above me, and I waved my hand uselessly against it.

  "Somebody, get the smoke detector, please! Before it goes off!" I shouted, to no one in particular. The line cooks stared at me, frozen. After a moment, Liam rolled his eyes, sighed hugely, and lumbered off to take care of it.

  "What the hell is going on in here?

  I could hear Chef Dylan, but my eyes were watering and I couldn't quite see him. Still coughing, I stepped out of the smoke and swiped my face across my sleeve.

  "I'm so sorry," I started, babbling, because what else could I possibly do? "I'm sorry, Chef, I don't know what happened, I just turned my head for a second-"

  Obviously a lie. It might have felt like a second, but it must have been much longer. But what else could I say?

  Chef held up his hand to silence me. He was staring at the ruined mess on the stove, like he didn't quite believe what he was seeing.

  "I'm sorry," I heard myself saying again. Everyone was staring at me, and I could feel the telepathic messages: shut up shut up shut up SHUT UP SHUT UP! But I ignored it. "I'll make it again, just - just let me make it again. It'll only take a minute."

  When I'd finally managed to stop babbling, silence reigned. For one, two, three seconds.

  The three longest seconds of my life.

  Finally, he turned to look at me. His eyes were veiled fury. I braced myself.

  "Go home," he said.

  My heart plummeted.

  "Are you..." I managed to whisper.

  "We'll talk about it tomorrow," he said, turning awa
y from me. The conversation was clearly over, and at least he wasn't firing me right now.

  Some consolation.

  ***

  Walking into the kitchen, I heard soft laughter coming from somewhere behind the heat shelf. My stomach clenched like a fist.

  A woman was leaning up against the prep table. No. That's not allowed. I actually had to bite my tongue to stop myself from shouting at her to get off. Because Chef Dylan was standing right there, smiling. Clearly, she was allowed.

  And she was a tall, elegant blonde with perfectly sleek hair - the kind I could never maintain in the kitchen, not without some kind of magical spell. Then again, she wasn't working. That was obvious, from the way she was dressed.

  What is she doing here?

  I slipped into my prep corner. Not once, not even during my "audition" on my very first day here, had I felt so unwelcome in this kitchen. They didn't even seem to notice that I'd walked in, continuing to talk in hushed voices like they were sharing some kind of secret. I stole glances at her while I gathered my supplies. Perfect pantyhose, sleek black skirt with a slit just long enough to show some leg, and a crisp, lavender blouse.

  All right, okay, deep breaths. I was being completely ridiculous. Acting like I'd walked in on Chef Dylan fucking the woman, not just talking to her. Not that either one was any of my business. But both seemed equally out of character. That was why the hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end; this was some version of Chef Dylan I'd never seen, some warm, secret part of him that I'd never been given access to. Halfway through chopping some vegetables, I realized why it was bothering me so much.

  And in that moment of utter, gut-wrenching humiliation, Chef Dylan finally decided to notice that I was there.

  "Jill," he said, suddenly, his voice lighter and more jovial than I'd ever heard it directed towards me. "I didn't even hear you come in. Lost track of time."