Chapter 2 #2
“Earth to Kyle.” She flapped the newspaper in front of his gorgeous face. “Has Golden Boy gone mute? Have all the hair spray fumes from your old girlfriends finally done their damage? Do I need to call someone?”
Still nothing but that intense gaze. God, he was killing her here.
“Good news, though! I’ll bet you’d rock the straitjacket, looking as perfect as you do every damn second of the day.”
She snickered. He only smiled.
And God, it was a tantalizing smile that made her belly warm. She thought about smacking him over the head with the newspaper to get him to stop.
“You planning on saying anything?” She cocked a badass eyebrow. “Or do we need to find you a mini blackboard so you can communicate with us?”
He was biting the inside of his cheek now. “I was trying to figure out how to answer your question.”
“My…what?” God, was she sputtering?
“About how I knew you were here.” Then he shrugged, again making her aware of his strong, powerful body. “Too bad you don’t have that mini blackboard around. I’d write it in all caps. I could smell you.”
Smell her?
Jesus. She lifted her armpit, which had him laughing.
“Not like that.”
Oh!
Oh!!!
Her heart dropped like a cast-iron pan that had been too hot to handle. They could smell each other! God, they were walking such a tightrope right now.
“Get a grip,” she said once she could collect herself. “I work in a kitchen. All I smell like is food. Little children follow me on the streets hoping I have snacks.”
He grinned.
She gulped.
God, she sounded like an idiot. Besides, she knew what he was smelling. The lusty, needy scent she wished she could scrub off because even she could smell it when he was around.
“So the article was terrific,” he said in one of his careful, Madison, I sense you’re freaking out tones.
“Yes, but like I said, we have to do it all over again tonight.”
Bailing wasn’t a bad choice, she decided. Slapping him with the newspaper because it made her happy, she strode past him to the stairwell.
His footsteps sounded behind her on Nanine’s treacherous stairs. “Which you’ll do because that’s who you are.”
Oh no! He was going to cheerlead her? She was already a tangled ball of emotion even a kitten wouldn’t play with.
“Damn right.” She swung around as she reached the final steps. “That’s my job. Yours is to celebrate with the rest of our friends as GM of The Paris Restaurant Group. If I really thought I could do it, I’d have a glass too. But I don’t drink until after shift. Also, we need to help Sawyer.”
“He’s nearly laid out from all the attention. On cloud nine in one moment and then head between his legs the next. My phone is already blowing up. A big gallery called, and there are more messages from others I haven’t listened to yet.”
Her insides did a flip for their friend, because she knew all about that roller coaster.
“We can’t let him do this alone. I’m not worried about Thea, because she’s stronger now and has Jean Luc.
But Sawyer is going to be mobbed by legit art peeps like the one you mentioned as well as opportunists.
Shit like that happened to me when we won our first Michelin star at Le Fleur. It’s wild, and he’s…fragile.”
“Maybe we need an Operation Sawyer.” His intense gaze flickered over her face. “Thea’s was successful.”
“Good idea. I’m in.”
When she turned, he laid a gentle hand on her arm, making her turn back. “We’ve covered everyone else. What about you? Because I know this only amps up the pressure. You know I’m here for you. The Michelin people—”
“Kyle…” God, she wanted to lean in and share this moment with him. Tell him that she was freaking out. But she was also so damn happy about the article she was going to read it to Pierre tonight.
Kyle wouldn’t laugh. He’d tell her he’d bring cocktails or something. Because it didn’t matter how much of herself she showed him—her mistrust, her badass side, her disagreeableness—he didn’t just stick around. He showed up to share in more of it.
“Tell me what’s going on in your head right now.”
She watched his hand lift as if he were going to cup her shoulder. Her breath stopped. He exhaled sharply. She watched his hand lower and told herself to get a grip.
“Tackling all this pressure and killing it day after day is what you do to get a star.”
“You’re already a star in my book, Madison.”
Her insides exploded with that weird emotion she’d been deluged with after getting her degree at Le Cordon Bleu. She felt as shiny as her favorite cleaver. God, she wanted to grab him to her and hold on tight.
Just for one damn minute.
“You’re getting as mushy as Thea.” She forced herself to continue, because he deserved honesty as her best friend. “I’m fine. Really. I know you worry about things, and that comes with the territory for me, but I’m locked. The staff is—”
“You don’t have to tell me something I know,” he only said, his mouth tipping up to the right in that sexy way that was for her and her alone. “Maybe I just wanted to share this moment with you.”
God, this honesty, this vulnerability was going to kill her. What was she supposed to say?
“I’m glad you did,” she said after a moment. “You’ve worked hard too—I wish that review could have highlighted that.”
He swallowed thickly. “Thank you, but it was my pleasure. It’s been a long, hard road here, but we’re here.
At the top. Now we keep rising. Besides, I don’t think Gustave wanted to hear about all of the duck with cherries samples you stuck in my mouth until you finally figured out what was missing.
Although maybe he wouldn’t be surprised since he raved about that dish.
You knew it would stand out once you got it right. ”
“Sometimes you know things in your gut.” He’d helped her figure out what was missing, and that kind of partnership was both scary and tantalizing. “Besides, all those samples filled your belly. You know you miss those days.”
He leaned back against the wall, all six-foot-four inches of solid male. “I do. For more reasons than the food. Even when you thrust tarragon under my nose.”
“You did that.”
“No, I put it in your hand.” They shared another dangerous smile filled with memories and warmth. “I’m happy as hell, Mad. I wanted to make sure you were too.”
The nickname was his pet one for her in moments like this where they were too friendly. She could feel his urge to reach for her again.
Hell, they were like rope that had gotten wet. Even her cleaver couldn’t sever their connection. Not that she wanted to. Which had her doing this dangerous dance—the one where she watched him watch her with coiled desire in his intense blue eyes, and they pretended they were only friends.
“You go. I’ll party with everyone later.” She made herself give him a friendly pat on his face like Brooke did to the boys. “I need to tell the staff about the review—which they probably already read—and get to my dinner prep.”
“Don’t let me keep you, then.” He arched his brow, like he knew very well what that friendly pat had meant and wasn’t biting the hook.
Fine. She had a kitchen to run.
When she arrived, the phone was ringing nonstop while her staff was clustered around the open back door.
The smell of boeuf bourguignon and chicken roasting with fennel alongside pork with a rhubarb glaze greeted her nose, assuring her the prep was in order, at least. She marched to the door, and perhaps it was the stomping of her black combat boots as much as the jangle of Nanine’s magical chandelier that announced her presence, but they separated like grapeseed oil and lemon juice in broken mayonnaise.
“What is everyone doing over here?”
She noticed the young woman with red hair talking to her sous chef, Fabian. Brooke would approve of the designer labels she was wearing, although her long lime green coat and purple leather gloves screamed South Beach more than Paris.
“This woman would like to speak with Dr. Jackson,” Fabian told her in French.
Here we go. She was glad for Sawyer, but this was what she’d been warning Kyle about.
The woman strode forward, a professional smile in place.
“Hi, I’m Phoebe Anderson.” Her switch to English was as interesting as the slight British cast of her accent.
“I own a gallery here in Paris. I read the article in Le Monde today. I was hoping I could sneak in and see the paintings by Dr. Jackson.”
“We have had a number of calls already, Chef, with people wanting to know if they can come by the restaurant and view the artwork,” Fabian informed her. “The phone has been incessant—”
“I get the picture.” Madison had to bite back her annoyance. Great that they wanted to see Sawyer’s paintings, but she had a kitchen to run. “Ms. Anderson, I appreciate your interest, but Nanine’s is a restaurant, not a museum. If you give me your card, I’ll pass it along to Dr. Jackson.”
Madison had to give the woman credit. Her smile didn’t slip as she dug into her matching purple purse and fished out a card. Brooke would know whether this person was the real deal or an opportunist. She and Axel could run point on that part of Operation Sawyer.
“Thank you for giving it to him. Are you Chef Garcia?”
“I am. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we have dinner prep.”
“You don’t happen to have a table tonight, do you?” the woman pressed as she walked back to the door. “I know you must be booked, but I really do want to see those paintings in person. Unless you can let me peek. I’ll be quiet as a mouse.”
Okay, that did it. “Sorry. We are totally booked. For the next five months.”
“Seven, Chef,” Fabian filled in.
“But I can’t wait—”
Madison slammed the door behind her and shoved the card in her pocket to give to Sawyer later, shelving her wild surge of emotion upon hearing they had reservations for seven months now.
Seven months! God, that made them one of the hottest restaurants in Paris.
The article had only been out for what, an hour? Yeah, the Michelin gods were coming. If they hadn’t already reserved a table, they’d do everything in their power to land a coveted reservation now, as soon as possible.
They had to be ready. Every freaking night.
Sweat ran down her back again. “Will someone please answer the phone?”
“We have been, Chef,” Fabian hastened to tell her as Madison stalked back to the stainless steel countertops.
“The moment we put the phone down, it rings again. Not only with requests for reservations—despite the new online system—but inquiries about Dr. Jackson’s paintings and Chef Rogers’ new bakery and buying her breads. ”
Madison sighed. She was thrilled for her friends, but it was distracting her people when they needed to concentrate on creating the muscle memory needed for nightly success.
Fame could be a real bitch sometimes. But first, there were more important things to cover.
She turned to her staff and crossed her arms. Any remaining chopping and conversation came to a halt.
The room fell silent. “I take it you might have guessed that Le Monde gave Nanine’s a very strong recommendation in the paper today.
Congratulations. We’ll have a drink together after we close. Or two. Hell, maybe three.”
She allowed a short smile, and some of her staff smiled back at her. They were a mix of older battle-tested chefs and younger ambitious newcomers. All wanted what she did. A star. That bound them together.
“We’ve worked hard, and it’s great to have one critic’s confirmation that our menu is up to the standard of excellence we set.
But now the pressure only increases. More critics will be coming, the Michelin people included.
Any night. This is our time to shine. I trust you will remain up to the task. ”
“Yes, Chef,” everyone answered with discernible head nods, making her proud.
She nodded right back. “Good. I will figure out what to do about these extra inquiries. The phone can’t keep ringing like that. It’s going to drive us crazy.”
“C’est fou !” Pierre echoed, flying from his wooden perch to her arm across the line of pumpkins being stuffed with Toulouse sausage.
She gave his shiny black beak an affectionate stroke, which led to him nuzzling her cheek. God, she was becoming a sap. Public displays of affection with her pet parrot. What was next?
Her mind dialed up Kyle.
Covered with a ribbon of dulce de leche on his rock-hard chest.
His blue eyes hot with desire.
She bit down on her lip. Not in the kitchen!
“With all the noise, Pierre could not nap,” Fabian told her, his mouth a straight line. “I apologize, Chef.”
“Why? You didn’t create this circus.”
Her staff laughed. Yeah, they’d gelled well. She felt like she could practically touch the Michelin star she craved.
The noise could not intrude.
Neither could sexcapades with Kyle, real or imagined.
“I’ll tell the front of the house as well, but no one gets into this restaurant unless they have a confirmed reservation.
Keep the back door shut, and if you go out to smoke, do not engage with anyone.
Direct them to the phone number or the online reservation system.
Say you have nothing to do with such matters.
I want everyone focused on what we’re here to do. ”
Which meant she was going to have to hike back up the stairs and enlist Kyle’s help to fix the phone problem.
Damn.