Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Stone
S hame is like an exotic pet I have no business owning. It rubs up against me all wrong, with a spiked tail and scaled skin. I don’t appreciate the way it’s staring me in the face, either, but somehow Noa brought it out.
Why did you hate a man so much you wanted to humiliate him?
She asked it with an unblinking stare. Like she saw right through me and pulled out the teen idiot who would do anything short of setting himself on fire to get her attention and impress her.
All kinds of excuses bubble up, such as he’s a privileged imbecile and Bradley Mitchell deserved more than facial reconstruction.
And especially, I will not stand by and see a woman humiliated in favor of a man’s ego .
All but that last one is something an innocent would say to defend their actions. I’m not innocent.
Standing before Noa at this moment, at least two heads taller and definitely two lengths bigger than her toned form, and be stared down by her, is in a word, humbling.
Luckily, I don’t have to roll around in the muck too long once we’re distracted by a taller, darker, inkier version of … myself.
I almost choke on the instant territorial growl that comes forth as soon as I see him giving Noa the once-over.
Chef folds his arms over his chest and lowers his chin like he’s guarding the kitchen doors and hasn’t yet decided if we can enter.
I’m not certain what I expected a cooking teacher to look like. Maybe like that chef in Ratatouille , with a tall French hat, curly black mustache, and portly belly. Someone jovial and heavily accented.
The last person I wanted was a guy approximately my age, with wavy, thick black hair, cheekbones that rival mine, dimples where mine are, and one fucking additional dent in the middle of his chin. Muscles are obvious even through his apron jacket.
Well, he has one thing I don’t. Tattoos. Black tendrils stick out from the cuffs of his jacket and indecipherable symbols decorate his fingers between the joints.
My vision shrivels, with him at the center.
“I’m sorry we’re late,” Noa immediately apologizes.
Of course she does.
“You don’t exactly leave explicit instructions at the front on where to go, not that you advertised very well before that,” I add.
Noa frowns up at me and elbows my side. I ignore her.
Chef narrows his gaze to where it mirrors mine. “We’ve kept enrollment exclusive to those couples interested in using advanced techniques in the kitchen, not every Joe and Mary who watches the Cooking Channel and wants to try the latest food trend.”
“You’ve basically named all of Falcon Haven.”
He ignores me. “And, using a standard restaurant layout, we assumed those amateur chefs would understand that said lessons would occur in our open kitchen. But I guess you’re the exception.”
My snarl doesn’t reach across the room, but Noa hears it and sends her heel down on my toes. I bite back a curse, fisting my hands instead.
Chef cocks his lips, amused.
“Again, so sorry.” Noa steps in front of me. “It won’t happen again.”
“Good, because you only get one mistake. You want to cook at a professional level? Start with being on time. Any chef above you would fire you on the spot.”
Noa nods eagerly, like this shithead has any power over her. Or anyone, considering where he’s set up shop.
“Yes, Chef,” she says.
The guy gives a curt nod, satisfied with his little show of authority.
“I’m Chef Bernard Toussaint, but friends call me Saint. You’re not my friends. Get inside to your prep stations where everyone else has set up and wastes their money while waiting on you.”
Noa scurries forward, eager for his approval. I walk behind her, giving him the once-over in tandem to his.
Don’t mind us, just two panthers figuring out where best to leave their mark.
Saint curls his lip at my expression before reaching behind him and revealing two navy blue aprons.
“A welcome gift,” he says.
Yes, I feel so welcome.
Noa accepts it with a genuine smile. It’s followed by a sharp pang in my gut. I remember her using her lips on me like that, and I can barely get a twitch from her these days. But this man? With his chef coat and tattoos and title, gets it in less than a minute.
Noa has the apron straps over her head and is tying it at the back when Saint hands me mine.
I stare down at it hanging limply in his hand. “I’m not wearing that.”
“Oh yes you are.” Noa yanks the apron out of Saint’s hands and tosses the strap over my head with a little jump.
“I didn’t give you permission to touch me,” I grouse. All Noa does is shove me around until she’s in the back and strapping me in.
“You were happy enough wearing your mother’s apron a few weeks ago with Get Your Fat Pants On written in bold at the front,” she says while tying what I can only assume is a double knot so I can’t slip out of the thing.
“Would you like me to bring you that one instead?” she continues.
A huff of sound comes from my left. I don’t care that I dressed up in Ma’s apron, but that Noa said it in front of this guy makes me want to deck him.
“I promise there will be no cameras inside,” Saint says. I detect an undercurrent of sarcasm. “Your status will remain as precious as you normally care for it.”
A muscle tics in my jaw.
“I’ve taken down bigger men than you,” I say. Anything to remove this oily slime from my mouth. “I wasn’t sure, what with you trying to drum up business in the sticks, if you wanted the worldwide attention and expert advice I bring.”
Noa’s gaze flicks to me and she shakes her head in a disappointed arc. That’s enough for me to close my mouth and move me forward.
“Do you see our table?” I ask her.
Attention successfully redirected, Noa leads the way into the back of the restaurant, which is actually a larger space with more tables and an open kitchen.
I’ve seen a lot of these types of restaurants in LA, featuring tables where patrons can watch the chefs cook and see their food being made fresh.
Those who prefer an average restaurant experience can sit in the front.
I think it’s an excellent idea to feature both options in Falcon Haven, attending to traditional and evolutionary needs, but I will never tell this chef that.
The restaurant isn’t open for business yet and they pushed aside dining tables in favor of four metal prep tables lined up in a row directly in front of the food run station.
Couples surrounded by bowls, vegetables, knives, and other kitchen paraphernalia occupy three tables. Our table shines in comparison because there’s nothing on it.
I take position behind it while Noa greets each table individually.
I recognize some, namely the elderly Mr. and Dr. Stanton, the latter being my pediatrician and Ma’s cribbage partner.
Noa says hello to another pair. I catch their names as Danny and Rad.
I don’t recognize them, but they do me. The older one, Rad, has a jaw-drop moment as I pass and feigns fainting into his partner, who backhands his arm and demands more decorum in the presence of Superman.
The last couple is young, right out of college, and they peel themselves off one another to politely introduce themselves to Noa.
The woman, Claire, gives me a shy smile while the boy glances sideways at me a lot like I did to the chef.
The man himself takes his place at the center of our tables and behind the food run station, the red mosaic tiles behind him adding somewhat of a blood-thirsty charm.
“I thank all of you for enrolling in C’est Trois’s exclusive French master class,” he says, drawing upon a handy French accent when deciding to sound like an authority on the subject.
“While I vastly appreciate your support, I must warn you, there will be no coddling during these lessons. I’m here to nurture talent as much as you’ve arrived to prove yourselves, and I will meet any lack of effort with immediate dismissal.
” Saint scans the tables, silent throughout his speech.
“My father’s the nice guy. I’m not. You will not receive accolades, a degree, a chef’s hat, or any kind of reward for completing my classes.
You’re here out of passion, a desire to learn in a subject that perhaps passed you by when you had the chance or circumstances have prevented you from pursuing a professional chef’s career. ”
Noa’s body goes limp next to mine. I glance down at her, noting how fiercely she’s staring at Saint.
Somehow, she missed her chance, and the why of it eats away at me.
I make a mental note to ask her about it the next chance I get.
A girl like her with such dashed dreams shouldn’t have to lay herself at the feet of a man like this, who acts like an overlord in his little slice of Falcon Haven.
You deserve better , I want to say to her.
As if sensing my intensity, she looks up, notices my attention and jerks her head toward Saint, silently demanding me to listen.
“With that in mind,” Saint continues, “We’ll start today with blank slates. I’ll reserve judgment until a moment of indignity reveals itself.” He stares pointedly at me while stating that.
I meet his gaze. Game on..
“ Before you are the ingredients for traditional French cassoulet. Mr. and Mrs. Williams, you’ll have to grab the ingredients yourselves since you arrived late.”
“Oh—we’re not married,” Noa says. Too loudly, in my opinion. “Or together, actually.”
Saint raises his brows. “Oh?”
“I thought this was couples only,” Claire whispers to her boy-toy.
Noa, realizing her faux pas, shuffles beside me.
“We are together, actually,” I say, putting my arm around Noa’s surprised shoulders and smiling at Chef pointedly, my stare conveying what my words cannot. You touch her, you will die. “But considering my circumstances, I’d prefer to keep it private, if you don’t mind.”
“Let’s move on,” Saint drawls with a glare. “We’ve lost enough time as it is.”
“What was that? ” Noa whisper-shrieks once Saint turns his back.