7. Avery
7
AVERY
B efore I enter the cafe, I pull up my email for a quick refresher on exactly what to look for when I go in.
Ms. Ross,
Thank you for your willingness to reschedule our meeting to earlier in the afternoon due to a last-minute schedule change on my part. As penance for this crime (and so it will be easy for you to spot me), I will be wearing an embarrassingly large chef’s hat and a penciled-on mustache.
Respectfully,
W. Brooks
With an amused smile, I glance around in search of my mentor.
Unsurprisingly, he’s very easy to spot.
Sitting smack dab in the middle of the cafe is a man wearing an almost two-foot-tall toque, staring at his phone.
That has to be him.
He must have caught my movement from the corner of his eye because he looks up as soon as I start toward his table.
I can see a bit of sandy brown hair peeking out from under his ridiculous toque. He’s got a strong jaw, a proud nose, and there are laugh lines around the corners of his mouth and eyes.
Even with the ridiculous mustache he scrawled on his face, it’s clear that he’s handsome to the point of distraction.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Is looking like a model one of the required qualifications for being allowed to teach at this academy?
When he stands and extends his hand for me to shake, I can see he’s around my height but he’s got at least thirty pounds of pure muscle on me.
“Avery Ross, I assume?” he asks with a mischievous smile.
“What gave it away?” I ask, matching his grin.
“Well, every other woman who came in has avoided me like I’m mad and dangerous. That and you’ve got flour on your cheek. Dead giveaway for a baker.”
I laugh and brush off my cheeks.
“This might work better,” he says, handing me a wet wipe from the little caddy on the table.
“Thank you.”
I give my entire face a wipe-down just in case.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. How about we order before getting down to business?”
“That sounds perfect.”
In a few moments, we’re settled back at the table with our order markers.
“So, are you planning on wearing that the entire time?” I ask, gesturing vaguely at his face.
He quirks a brow. “Would you like me to?”
If he keeps using that tone, I’m going to want him to do a hell of a lot more than wear a silly hat.
What part of “be a model student” and “no more fantasies” do you not understand?
I take a breath and try to compose myself.
“If it brings you joy, Mr. Brooks, then by all means, go ahead. I’d hate to stifle your, uh, self-expression.”
“How very open-minded of you.” He laughs. “And anyone who can bake like you do can call me Wesley.”
Heat rises to my cheeks. I know I’m blushing, but only because of the compliment he just gave me. I am not in any way imagining saying his name in an entirely different context.
Nope.
Not doing that at all.
“You haven’t even tried anything I’ve made yet. You might think it’s garbage.”
“I highly doubt that, but I appreciate the humility. That’s rare in a chef.”
“Don’t I know it.” I grimace.
“Want to swap horror stories?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
Wesley laughs, probably at the eagerness of my tone, then launches into a story about the first head chef he worked for that has me nearly in tears.
It’s nice to know his wit extends beyond silly costumes.
I don’t want to darken the one bright spot of my day by talking about Henri. That jerk takes up enough space in my head as it is.
So instead, I tell him about some of the most unusual requests I’ve gotten during my time at Brookside. Most of the time, he just shakes his head in disbelief, but a few times, I manage to get him to laugh.
It’s an intoxicating sound, full, rich, and very contagious. I’m nearly desperate to hear it again.
When our lunch arrives, I’m awestruck. The food is perfectly plated and a feast for the eyes.
As soon as I taste it, it’s clear that they didn’t sacrifice substance for style—a lot of places tend to do that, but not here.
I don’t usually throw the word perfect around for a dish, but I’m tempted to here. I might have even found my new lunch spot. It would certainly beat bringing takeout or a PB&J to the breakroom and having Henri hassling me the whole time.
Wesley seems to enjoy it as well. The moan he makes after his first bite is downright sinful.
I can’t help but wonder if he’d make the same noise when he tastes me.
When? Not if? Get a grip, girl.
Just last night, I’d told myself there would be no more drooling over my teacher. I needed an education that employers would recognize—not another man who will inevitably ruin my life.
I promised myself I wasn’t going to do it again, and then what did I do today? Oh, that’s right, I started fantasizing about yet another one of my teachers.
To be fair to me, I’d said that with Phillip in mind, not Wesley.
That is a cop out and you know it.
Honestly, I should just check myself into a convent and be done with it. It would save me so much trouble in the long run.
I mean it, too. Every guy I’ve liked has been a bad choice in one way or another.
I should have known I was doomed to misery after the Declan Waynes incident.
It was the first day of kindergarten and I thought his racecar lunchbox was the coolest thing ever. I knew in my tiny child heart that we were going to be best friends forever.
I mustered up my courage, marched over, and said I liked his lunch box.
He screamed in my face that cars were only for boys, not stupid little girls, and then he bit me hard enough to draw blood.
Things only went downhill from there.
With the way Wesley’s eyes light up when he talks about anything in the culinary world, it's hard to remember all the reasons being attracted to him is a bad idea.
“Don’t get me wrong, I love cooking. Being the head chef and getting to experiment with the menus and cooking styles is my dream come true. I wouldn’t have started my own catering company if I didn’t live for it.
“But desserts?” He hums contentedly. “Desserts are my reason for living. You’d think after a stressful event, I’d want nothing to do with the kitchen when I get home, but nine times out of ten, I’m elbow deep in bread dough almost immediately after I get in the door.”
“Kneading dough is very therapeutic. I imagine that has something to do with it. On the rare times that I bake bread at home, I always picture our head chef when I’m in the kneading phase. Although, I have to say after a full day surrounded by the stuff, the last thing I want to do when I get home is look at a kitchen. If it weren’t for my son, I’d be living on frozen taquitos and chicken nuggets.”
“Now this is important. You will be judged harshly depending on how you answer,” he says sternly. “Dino nuggets or regular?”
“You are such a jerk.” I laugh. “I was actually worried there for a minute.”
“And I notice that you haven’t answered the question. This is serious, Avery.”
He says my name like he’s savoring the taste of it, and I swear my heart skips a beat when he says it.
“Well?” he prompts.
“I have a two-year-old son. If I had anything other than dino nuggets in my fridge, I think he’d call Child Services and report me.”
The way he laughs ought to be illegal with the way it affects my body.
“I think I might have done the same to my mama if she ever brought home round nuggets one day.”
“I’m almost afraid for you to try my desserts now,” I tease. “It seems like you’re a hard one to please.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I’m just very particular with my tastes.” His eyes drop to my lips. “I’m sure you’ll have no problem pleasing me.”
He can’t have meant…
No, definitely not.
It had to have been a slip of the tongue after a stressful morning. There’s no way someone as attractive and successful as he is would see anything worth having in someone like me.
And yet, there he is across the table, staring at me like he wants nothing more than to take me home and have his way with me.
It’s like we’re frozen in time.
I don’t even know what to say. All I can do is stare back at him.
“I mean in the kitchen, of course,” he finally adds in a flustered tone.
I nod woodenly.
“Of course. The kitchen. Yes.”
“So, while we’re on the topic of kitchens,” he says, swallowing hard, “we talked about our backgrounds a bit, but what I really need to know is what you’re looking to get out of these sixteen weeks.”
“Freedom.”
“Excuse me?”
“I got the job at Brookside Manor because my friend Mia advocated for me and basically trapped the owner in his office until he tried my baking.
“I don’t have any formal training or certificates to be able to prove anything to anyone. I learned by baking at home for the fun of it and got some fancier tricks from the content creators I followed.
“But even with my decent online presence and my experience at Brookside, it’s not enough because I don’t have some stupid piece of paper.
“I’m grateful they took a chance on me there—I promise I am—but I’m tired of being looked down on and treated poorly by my head chef because I’m not classically trained like he is.
“When I tried applying to other places to get away from it, most of them wouldn’t offer me anything other than dishwasher or kitchen porter and maybe work my way up.”
I bury my head in my hands. “There’s no way I can support myself or my son on that. I need that pastry chef certification from Age Gap Academy or I’m going to be stuck there forever.”
A few tears drop onto the table, adding to my embarrassment.
This is beyond humiliating. I really hadn’t wanted to cry today.
All I wanted to do was make a good impression, and I’d fucked that up in more ways than one today.
Kyle was right. I’m not good for anything but making a scene.
“I’m not really good at the whole dealing with sad women thing, but it looks like you might need these,” Wesley says softly.
A travel-size pack of tissues slides into my field of view.
That little bit of kindness bursts the dam inside me. All the tears and hurt I’d been holding back from dealing with Henri and everything else comes flooding out.
I know I’m embarrassing him and making a horrible first impression, but I just can’t seem to stop.
“Oh, shit. I was just trying to… I didn’t mean to make things worse. You, um, don’t move. Just wait here, okay?”
As he walks away, I hear him muttering to himself, “Just wait here? Yeah, that was comforting. Why am I so damn bad at this?”
If he comes back to this table and you're still a pathetic mess, he is never going to respect you.
Dry your eyes, suck it up, and stop being such a baby, then maybe you can salvage this dumpster fire of a meeting.
A few moments later, my eyes are bone dry and he’s come back to the table with a little box.
He opens it and shoves it toward me first.
“Cupcakes?”
“Well, the tissues didn’t seem to help and I like dessert when I’m having a shitty day, so I thought…” Wesley shrugs. “One’s chocolate, the other one is lemon ricotta.
“I was going to get two chocolate ones, but I didn’t want you to think I was stereotyping you with the whole woman-chocolate thing, so I figured I’d get two different ones and let you pick first.”
I can’t help but laugh.
“What?” he asks anxiously.
“I’m sorry.” I smile apologetically. “It’s just for someone who claims they’re really bad at the whole crying women thing, you’re doing a fantastic job of it.”
He rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “I didn’t mean for you to hear that.”
“It’s sweet of you to worry at all, especially after how much this must have embarrassed you. I'm sure you didn't need any of the nonsense and dramatics I put you through today. So, thank you for putting up with me.”
A look I don’t understand passes over his face.
It almost looks like he’s working himself up to say something, but my phone alarm goes off, putting an end to our meeting.
“I have to start heading back now or I’m going to be late. I’m sorry we didn’t get to plan things out a little more.”
“Based on what we’ve talked about today and what I saw in your portfolio, I know exactly how to move forward. Just leave it with me. I promise I’ll have everything ready when we meet next week. You are going to come back next week, right?”
Between the blatant flirting and then the waterworks, how am I ever going to be able to look him in the eye again, much less take a class from him for sixteen weeks?
“I have to go.”
I snatch up my bag and race out of there without a backward glance.