10. French Omelette
FRENCH OMELETTE
*the trick is low heat. The eggs should make a custard, not a shell.
For a moment, it was like the last year hadn’t even happened.
Last night, I’d fallen asleep in the rose-sprigged sheets issued to all the live-in staff with the familiar two-hundred-year-old oak whispering outside my window.
Upon waking, I’d reached back for the braid that used to fall down my back in the mornings, ready to tie my hair into its bun before heading to the kitchen for breakfast prep.
It was only when I realized that my hair was still short that the rest of the year came back to me. Along with the fact that, as of today, I was no longer an assistant cook or kitchen maid, but the head chef-in-training at Prideview.
First, I had to shower.
The early mornings had always been my time at Prideview. It was one of the first things Ondine had delegated once I’d been hired as her assistant, since she was a night owl of the first order. To my surprise, I never minded getting up well before the sun rose.
The world was quiet before dawn. Even on the stormiest days, the Sound would always be smoothest at this particular time, when the first glimmers of light were hinting at the horizon.
I could think more easily at this time of day, without others around to cloud my ideas with their actions. Things were simple. Easy.
The kitchen was dark and silent as I stepped in, still buttoning my chef’s coat.
I flicked on the lights and started my routine like I’d never stopped: espresso for myself first, then the morning breakfast prep for an hour.
By six, I’d have coffee and toast for any early risers along with Winnifred’s post-Pilates protein shake.
Ondine would join me at seven to prepare the formal breakfast, but these tranquil morning hours were mine alone.
I pulled out eggs, cream, and chives fresh from the garden.
The menu for the day was already planned—French omelettes for breakfast, a simple salade Nicoise for lunch, and a rack of lamb with rosemary and garlic, accompanied by pommes Anna and haricots verts for dinner.
Classic, elegant, and well within my comfort zone.
An hour later, the kitchen was filled with the aroma of Kenyan light-roasted coffee and chopped chives. I’d prepared the vinaigrette for lunch, marinated the lamb, and was slicing potatoes when I heard footsteps approaching.
Mrs. Lyons? Her training session must have finished early.
The kitchen door swung open, but instead of Winnifred, it was Lucas who strode in with the purpose of an army general. He was dressed for the day in a dark gray suit tailored for his tall body, a crisp white shirt, and a quiet, maroon paisley tie tucked into a vest.
Was it old-fashioned?
Yes.
Did it work for him, especially when combined with the broad shoulders and permanent scowl?
Without a doubt.
I found myself staring a beat too long.
Our eyes met. For a moment, he stared too.
“Good morning, Marie.” Breaking eye contact, he slid onto a stool on the other side of the industrial-sized countertop.
I set down the mandolin, unsure of what to do. In ten years, I didn’t think I’d ever seen Lucas in this room.
Daniel, yes—mostly when he wanted to nick some of the dessert ahead of serving time or steal a bottle of wine for a date.
Mrs. Lyons came in daily to get her smoothie, go over plans with Ondine, and generally make herself feel like she had done something to nourish her family instead of paying us to do it for her.
Even Clifford Lyons, the ancient progenitor of the family whose mind had been ailing for years, sometimes wandered in looking for something to satisfy his sweet tooth.
But Lucas? No. He was always polite when we served meals, but he had, until now, treated the kitchen like it was the chef’s domain, and generally trusted us to do our jobs as much as we trusted him to do his.
Now it felt like a fox—or really, a panther—had just walked into the henhouse.
And I was the only chicken there to greet him.
“Mr. Lyons,” I said. “Can I get you anything?”
“Coffee, please. And it’s Lucas, Marie. I think we covered that the other night.”
I wasn’t sure I’d ever get used to that. “All right. Lucas.”
Did those stormy eyes dilate just a bit when his name left my lips?
“Would you like coffee? Or espresso?”
Typically, Lucas preferred a cappuccino before he left for work, but that was usually in the dining room, not here. This early, I made coffee for the rest of the staff as they filtered in before starting their work. I generally made coffee for the Lyonses’ in the main house.
“A cappuccino, please.”
A few minutes later, I served his coffee. He watched me while he took his first sip.
“Exquisite.” He breathed in deeply. “As always.”
My cheeks warmed at the compliment.
“I wanted to discuss a few changes to the kitchen.”
I straightened and went back to the potatoes. “Um, of course. All right.”
Yet another thing out of the norm. Typically, Winnifred was the person who conveyed any of the family’s wishes to us, usually through the housekeeper. Lucas seemed to know it too, his brow furrowing, as if he was trying to come up with something to say.
“My father has developed some dietary restrictions that need to be accommodated.”
I nodded. “Yes, Ondine mentioned that. We’ve developed separate menus for him.”
Still weird that he was telling me this.
“And my stepmother would like to have Sunday dinner at the house instead of the club, at least through the end of summer. We’ll move the kitchen staff’s night off to Saturday starting next weekend.”
Another strange note for him to convey. Didn’t he have a board meeting to attend or a company to take over or whatever CEOs did on a Monday morning? Something eminently more important than chatting with the apprentice chef?
“I can certainly manage that.”
A silence fell between us, thick as fog. I continued running the potatoes over the paper-thin blade of the mandolin, feeling his eyes on me. He just sat there. Watching.
I was about to start chopping rosemary when he spoke suddenly, almost like we were in the middle of another conversation.
“About Saturday night.”
My knife stilled. So, there it was. “Mr. Lyons?—”
“I told you to call me Lucas.”
I took a deep breath. I was the granddaughter of Sofia Zola, the most imperious tongue in Belmont, who had talked down gangsters and butchers alike. I would not let Lucas Lyons intimidate me. I would not .
“Lucas,” I corrected when I had caught my breath again. “We don’t need to discuss it. You apologized. I left. We can both agree that what happened at the party was a mistake.”
His stoic if dark expression shifted. “A mistake.”
“Yes.” I started chopping the rosemary a little too finely. Any more, and it was going to create dust. “You clearly didn’t mean anything by it?—”
“I didn’t.”
He spoke in statements, but somehow, they bore the weight of questions.
I paused again and looked up. “No. You didn’t.”
Once again, a storm seemed to brew in the back of that calm expression. He didn’t argue. But did he want to?
I returned to my herbs. “Besides that, I work for you. It would be inappropriate to?—”
“Goddamn, it smells good in here. Ondine, what are you—oh, hey, Marie, what are you doing in here?”
Lucas and I both jumped, then turned to find Daniel sauntering into the kitchen. At just shy of six in the morning.
What was going on today?
He’d clearly just gotten up, wearing linen pants and a thin white T-shirt that clung to his chest. His golden hair was artfully tousled, stubble gilded the edges of his jaw, and his smile was lazy and warm as he caught my eye.
I looked down at my pristine white chef’s coat that I’d brought with me from Paris. “I work here. Remember?”
At the counter, Lucas buried his face in his hands. “Christ, Daniel.”
Daniel, however, just looked charmingly puzzled. “That’s right. Jeez, would you believe I forgot already?” He pretended to knock on his head like a door. “Hello, anyone in here?”
He laughed at his own joke, and I couldn’t help but chuckle with him. His grin was as infectious as always, and who didn’t love a man who could take a joke?
Lucas blinked at his brother. “You’re up early. Before eleven.”
Daniel snagged a peach from the basket meant for the breakfast spread and took a cheeky-grinned bite. “If you can believe it, I just got in. Had to change out of my tux after Freddie soaked the damn thing in champagne last night.” He leaned toward me. “You ever been to The Key, honey?”
I ducked my head back to my herbs. “Never heard of it.”
“That’s a shame. I should take you there sometime. You’d love it.”
“I would?”
Maybe Daniel knew me better than I thought, if he was willing to suggest something like that.
“You were out all night?” Lucas’s jaw clenched. “You’re supposed to be meeting with Senator Hubbard about?—”
Daniel interrupted him with a slap on his shoulder. “I know, I know. Just having some fun, brother. You should try it sometime.”
His bright blue eyes shifted back to me, scanning my body up and down with an openness I’d seen men use with Joni when she wore revealing clothing. His infectious smile transformed into something more mischievous.
“What’s that you’re making?” He pointed over my shoulder.
I looked over at the ice-cream maker in the corner. “That? Um, just an experiment. Basil gelato with a balsamic reduction.” I could feel myself stuttering. Would I ever manage to be smooth against that charm offensive?
“Vinegar in ice cream?” Daniel’s face scrunched. “Really?”
“It’s actually quite sophisticated,” Lucas said quietly. “Common in Italian cuisine. Your family is Italian, correct?”
I turned to him in surprise. “That’s right. From, um, Naples.”
“Rome too, right?”
I frowned. “Yes. How did you know?”
“Ondine mentioned it when you served your grandmother’s cannelloni recipe a few years ago.”
Daniel and I were both stared at him like he’d grown two heads.
Lucas cleared his throat. “Er. It was very good.”