Beckett and I were fighting.
Jordan Harris had accepted the settlement, and everything was going to be absolutely fine. So naturally, it was the perfect time to be at each other's throats.
I didn't know if it was the residual stress, or maybe just our usual pattern that led to us locking horns every six months or so. I mean serious, knock-down drag-out fights - not literally, most of the time, mind - but not the usual light bickering that defines most of our conversations.
"This could have easily been avoided, is all I'm saying," he insisted. "Just like the thing with Jill. Just like everything."
My hackles were up. "You don't know anything about what happened with Jill," I snarled.
"You're right," he said. "I don't have to, because it's always the same sad goddamn story with you, isn't it? 'Oh, I couldn't help myself, I'm just out of control with my roguish charms and my brutal honesty, and it's not my fault if people can't handle how genuine I am. I really don't know why she's crying, honest.'"
"If you're so in love with her, why don't you go ask her why she quit?" I stood up, abruptly, pacing the room. "Which she did, by the way. Quit."
"I don't doubt it," Beckett said, bitterly. "You always find a way to deflect the blame, somehow."
"She couldn't put up with me!" I shouted. "Just like Jordan Harris couldn't, just like all those other people - who cares? Some people just can't stand the heat. Get the fuck out of my kitchen, right?"
"No one can stand you," he said. "You're a fucking arrogant prick."
"Takes one to know one." It wasn't my best work, but at least I nailed the tone. I sounded deadly calm.
"What the fuck does that mean?" he snarled.
"You never grew the balls to say it out loud, but you always think you're right. So you hide it. You want a fucking parade? It doesn't make you a better person than me, and it never did."
He stormed out, after that, slamming my door so hard that it would have shaken the china on the shelves, if I had any china. Or shelves.
I realized, with a sudden sick feeling, that I would probably never see Jill again.
Beckett called later to apologize, as he always did. But I knew he was right, more than he was wrong.
I knew, for the first time, the extent of the damage I'd done. And this time, I was going to bear the brunt of it.
Because despite what I'd thought of her when we first met, Jillian Brown didn't need me. She didn't need anyone. She'd be just fine on her own.
But I wasn't sure the same could be said about me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Revenir
To revenir is to fry quickly in fat, just enough to warm through. No more. It also means to return - to come back to something, and I'll be the first to admit I don't understand what that has to do with frying anything. But there are some questions you just don't ask in French kitchens.
- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes
***
Jill
***
I still thought about him every day.
Maybe it was my work. I got a new job quickly enough, at another restaurant, lower rent, but that was fine by me. Just another step on the ladder. I'd never really upgraded my lifestyle working for Max, except for that sofa. Heidi and I would do just fine, with our '70s townhouse and our nuclear orange mac and cheese.
I'm kidding, of course. I'd never feed that crap to an innocent dog. Only myself.
The point was, working in a kitchen again, it was hard not to think about Max. I'd incorporated so many little tricks, so many things that I never thought twice about - until he was gone.
And he was. Gone. That was it. No more.
I couldn't admit, not even to myself, how much he still weighed on my mind.
Time passed, so quickly and so painfully slowly, somehow, all at once. I climbed higher on the ladder. I climbed higher than I ever would have, if we'd never met. I could admit that now.
He'd made me better. Just like he said he would.
Every day, he was the first thought in my mind. Every night, I remembered his smile. Someday I would make an effort to forget. Someday, I would give myself the permission to stop loving him, to move on with my life.
But not today.
Not yet.
Just one more night, dreaming of the life I'd walked away from. No - the life I never could have had, no matter what I did.
In my dreams, we're still together.
I was angry with myself. Furious. How much of my life was I going to waste, pining away for men who'd never love me back?
There was no good answer. All I could do was move forward.
Move forward, and dream.
***
THREE YEARS LATER
"Order up!"
I sighed, wiping my brow on my sleeve as I leaned against the counter. The night was finally winding down. Most likely, we'd have nothing coming in but dessert orders, and those weren't under my jurisdiction.
As exhausted as I felt at the end of every night at this job, I wouldn't trade it for the world. Kitchens were where I belonged. I'd known that since before I could even operate a stove on my own, toddling around my mom's kitchen demanding to help with the preparation of Thanksgiving dinner - the only time of the year she bothered to turn on the stove.
I was washing my knives and drying them, all laid out in a very particular way that Max had once showed me.
Max.
My heart still twisted when I thought about him, and I was starting to think it always would.
"Knock knock," a voice came from between the doors, just as they swung open. A moment later, my boss, Chef Shaw, walked into the kitchen with his arms spread wide. He had a bit of a flair for the dramatic, but I loved him for it.
"Beautiful," he said. "Just what I like to see. A house full of happy customers, and a staff that's bone tired from a day of honest work."
"How can you tell?" I went up to hug him, grinning. "Welcome back, Chef. How was Barcelona?"
"Breathtaking. Same as always. We had a look at a few houses, but I'm not sure yet. It's a commitment, you know?"
"You should absolutely do it," I said. "Now that you've unshackled yourself from this place. Live the dream."
"Do it, Chef," one of my line cooks piped up from behind me. "Chef Jillian keeps this place running beautiful."
"I know," said Chef Shaw. "But it feels so strange to be away. This place was my baby for so long."
I nodded, bringing a stack of plates to the dishwasher. "I know what you mean. I've only been head chef for a few years, and I already feel like it's a part of my DNA. I'm guessing it's pretty hard to switch it off."
"But necessary," he said. "I'm just glad I'm leaving it in capable hands."
"Thank you, Chef." I still wasn't very good at taking complements gracefully, but I did my best. Being the head chef at a five-star restaurant puts you in that habit pretty quickly.
"But I do want to ask you something," he said. "Do you have any plans for Valentine's Day weekend?"
Clearing my throat, I considered this. "Nothing I can't break," I said, because that sounded better than "no."
"Never mind, if you're busy," he said. "I can do it myself."
I immediately regretted my white lie, because Chef Shaw had been married for a dog's age to a lovely woman, someone who deserved his undivided attention on the fourteenth - for once in her life. He'd been working in restaurants for decades, where Valentine's is the one mandatory working night of the year. Mrs. Shaw needed a proper date night. "No, please, by all means," I said, quickly. "It's really fine - I'd be happy to work. Spend the weekend with your wife."
"Thank you, Jill," he said. "But really - are you sure?"
"Absolutely," I said. "What do you need me to do?"
It must be something other than the usual "show up here and work yourself to the bone," so I was naturally curious. If he had me on special assignment, who'd be minding the shop?
"I'd like to send you to a charity food and wine tasting." He watche
d my reaction. "I've got a few friends who'll be happy to step in here and keep the place running at full capacity, so don't worry about that. The charity's - well, it's pretty important to me. I want to put my best foot forward. Do you remember my mother, Tabitha?"
I did. Not too well, having only met the woman a few times, but I knew that Chef Shaw worshipped her, and she'd recently passed away after a long struggle with bone cancer. The fundraiser, as he explained to me, was for the American Cancer Society, and it meant a lot to him personally. He wasn't up to traveling again so soon after his trip, but he wanted to make sure that the catering was handled by someone he could trust.
Of course, I said I would. I didn't even hesitate.
I had no idea what I was walking into.
***
We'd arrived at the banquet hall a little on the late side. It was unavoidable, with traffic and luggage mix-ups at the airport, but I still felt vaguely responsible. Harried, I had no patience for the dour-faced woman who had to look at our vendor credentials for a full five minutes before she'd let us through to set up.
The place was gorgeous. Huge vaulted ceilings, beautiful round light fixtures hanging in just the right places. There was a loud, indistinct chatter echoing throughout the room, as everyone readied their wares.
As I approached our assigned spot, I heard a sound that made my heart drop into my stomach.
"...and put that one over there - no, over there, I fucking - I swear to God-"
I looked away just in time, before his eyes met mine.
"Wow," said one of the servers, her voice sounding remarkably distant for someone standing right behind me. "Look, it's Chef Maxwell Dylan."
Around me, the world slowed almost to a stop. But not quite. For a moment, all I could hear was my own heartbeat, pounding in my ears. Then all the sounds of the room slowly came back, first as low murmurs, then the dull roar that I suspected was closest to reality.
Someone took the totes I was carrying and set them down.
"Are you okay, Chef?" One of the servers was talking. To me, I realized belatedly.
"Yes," I said, automatically. "Are you guys okay to get started without me? I just need to run to the restroom."
"Yes, Chef."
I beat a hasty retreat, grateful that I'd opted for sensible kitchen shoes instead of something more formal. After some debate, I'd realized nobody would be seeing my feet anyway from the other side of the booth. Thank God. Otherwise, I definitely would have snagged my heel on something and gone ass over teakettle.
Ass over teakettle. Where the hell did I pick that expression up?
I knew the answer. As I splashed cold water on my face, I tried desperately to make myself forget.
Just ask someone organizing the conference to move you to another booth. It shouldn't be a problem, if you just explain...
But no. What kind of message would that send to him? I could dress it up any way I wanted with my staff, tell them I'd gotten a better location or that we were being moved because of some unavoidable organizational snafu. But Chef Dylan would know.
I walked back to our assigned spot, my head held high. There was simply nothing else to do.
The setting-up process was so hectic that I almost didn't have time to think about the man who was standing a few feet away. When I hadn't heard his voice in a while, I finally gained the courage to turn and look - he'd gone. Maybe he wasn't going to be working the whole night, after all. I breathed a premature sigh of relief.
Jaime, my sous chef, sidled up to me.
"Everything okay, boss?"
I nodded, not quite trusting my voice.
"You look nervous," he said. "You got nothing to be nervous about."
"It's not that," I said. "It's..." My eyes flicked over to the adjacent booth, but I didn't let myself look for long enough to tell if he was there.
Jaime was watching me carefully. "Oh yeah," he said, finally. "You used to work for him, didn't you?"
I nodded, twisting something over and over between my fingers. I had to look down to figure out what it was. A cocktail napkin. Where had that come from?
"Come on," Jaime said, finally, taking my elbow and guiding me back to our booth. "Don't even look at him. You're going to do great."
He wasn't going to ask what happened. It was none of his business anyway, and truth be told, I didn't know what I would say. Whatever he was assuming must be much, much worse than reality. Which was...what?
We fell in love, and we were both too scared to do anything about it, so I ran away.
That didn't sound very good.
I kept my mouth shut.
***
"Are you going to the after-party?"
Jaime was referring, somewhat wryly, to the complementary after-hours food and drink gala that all the staff of the event had been invited to. It was in the attached restaurant and bar, and I hadn't been planning on it, but a drink did sound awfully nice.
Surely, the likes of Chef Dylan wouldn't deign to be seen there.
"Yeah," I said. "I think so."
I had a quick shower back in my hotel, and changed into the sleek maroon dress I'd brought for this very occasion. It would have been a piteous waste if I hadn't found an excuse to wear it, really.
The restaurant was nice. A little too nice. Something about it reminded me of Eric, back in L.A., there was a cold clench of panic in my chest. I forced it down, walking up to the bar and ordering a glass of white wine.
"Hello," said a voice from the next seat down.
I gripped the edge of the bar.
"Hi," I said, before turning to look at him. "I didn't think you would be here."
Max raised his glass in a sort of shrug, or maybe it was meant to be a toast. To what, or to whom, I couldn't imagine.
He looked tired.
"It's so good to see you again," he said, very quietly. "To see that you're..." he was hesitating. I tried to remember if I'd ever seen him at a loss for words like this, with anyone else. "...I mean, obviously I've been hearing things. I knew you were doing well. But it's nice to see it, all the same."
I nodded, accepting my wine and taking a long sip.
I thought about trying to escape, but there was no one else to talk to. My young staff had found themselves in a raucous crowd, about as far from my style as was humanly possible - and I just couldn't deal with it. I'd rather sit here in awkward, progressively drunken silence with the second man who'd broken my heart.
"You know, it's funny," said Max, after a very long time. I blinked, and realized that the bartender was nowhere in sight anymore. Neither was anyone else, for that matter.
He was smiling humorlessly, staring at some fixed point on the wall that I couldn't quite make out. "I used to dream - and believe me, I know how ridiculous this sounds - I used to dream about rescuing you from that place. I could see that you wanted better. That you deserved better. And when I finally saw my opportunity, completely by chance, it felt like...I don't know. Fate. Providence, if you believe in that sort of thing. I hadn't been able to stop thinking about you, for so long."
He sighed, squeezing his eyes shut tightly for a moment. He pressed his thumb and forefinger against them, for a moment, and then finally spoke again. "Now, of course, I can see things I couldn't see back then. You were happy there. Shortcomings be damned, you were doing your best and taking pride in your job until my pompous ass came in and started slinging arrows. It was for your own good, I told myself. But I was being selfish. Like always."
I opened my mouth to protest, but he raised a hand.
"Please," he said, looking at me. "Don't. I might be harsh on myself, but it's nothing I don't deserve."
I kept my lips sealed.
"I can see now," he said, his eyes fixed on my face, "I can see it so clearly, what I couldn't see before - or didn't want to. I fell for you that night, in Giovanni's. I fell for you, because you looked lost. You looked like you needed someone. Me, I thought."
His eyes dropped. "I know now, o
f course, how stupid that was. You didn't need a white knight, and if you seemed unhappy it was because of me. Because of the things I said. For a long time after you left, I told myself I'd get over you. Because the fact that you walked away - that meant you didn't need me. And it's like you said: I need to be needed. For a while I'd almost convinced myself it was over. But I still woke up every morning, and you were the first thing I thought of. The last thing in my head when I went to sleep.
"The way I was taught, you break people like horses. It's the only way to get through to them, sometimes. But eventually, you find that you can't relate to people any other way. It's nasty, it's brutal, but it becomes second nature. I'm not trying to make excuses. I don't know what I'm trying to do. But Jill, I just..."
Max took a deep breath.
"I want you to know that I....care for you very much, and I always will. It started out as something - well, less than flattering, but it didn't take me long to realize how wrong I was about you. By the time we were in New York together, I'm sure you remember..." he drifted off here for a moment, lost in the memory. "My feelings had grown into something completely different. I'd gotten to know you, who you really are, I'd seen you perform under pressure and I was completely taken with your grace. It was the same thing you showed me, all those years ago, at Giovanni's, and I started to realize it was a character trait. You never lashed out. You held yourself with pride. Not vanity - pride. I hadn't seen that in a long time."
I couldn't have said anything if I wanted to.
"Excuse me," came a voice from somewhere. I blinked, and shook my head. One of the waitstaff was standing awkwardly, a few feet away, holding an empty drink tray in front of his torso like a shield.
Max just lifted his head, slightly, to look at the young man, his eyes hollow and unseeing.
The server cleared his throat. "We're closing up," he said. "I'm sorry, but you'll need to leave."
"Fuck off," Max growled, turning back to his drink. The server took a step backwards, paused as if he meant to say something - then thought better of it, and skittered away.
Romance Impossible Page 22
