Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
Noa
S aint meets me in the deserted parking lot, as promised.
He appears from behind the dumpster as I get out of my car, his white chef coat reflecting as bright as the moonlight when he steps up to me.
“You’re on time. Good,” he says, gesturing with his chin for me to follow him.
I’m not sure how I got myself into this situation, but I follow him into the back of the restaurant, clinging to the words he said to me like determination, focus, practice , and Chef.
The potential he sees in me brought me here, and even during my darkest moments, I can’t forget my dreams.
We enter the kitchen, where Dr. and Mr. Stanton are at their station, along with Rad and Danny. All four look up at the same time and applaud my entry.
“What? No, don’t clap.” I wave them off.
“Why not?” Dr. Stanton says. “You deserve it. We’re glad you’re here.”
“Yes, don’t let the scandal of a secret pregnancy with the hottest actor on the planet keep you away,” Danny says.
There’s no venom behind it, just a genuine grin, and I try to laugh at it in the way he must see it. It’s a strange pull of my lips, to smile at what was once so painful, but I have to admit, it’s different in a good way.
“Plus, I prefer to lose to my top competition through a fair fight, not because a bitchy diva kicked the spotlight away,” Rad says.
To that, I laugh. “I’d prefer it, too.”
“Enough chitchat,” Saint says, clapping his hands together to get our attention. “Tonight’s a tough one, and I’m not taking it easy on any of you. Noa, especially. As your de facto sous chef, I’ll expect to see perfection in everything you do.”
I nod, my chest lifting eagerly. This is exactly the distraction I need.
“Let’s get started with coq au vin and pear galette. Two of my favorite meals, so don’t fuck it up.”
“He’s so lovely,” Danny mutters to Rad.
I jump to it, setting up my station and throwing myself into preparing the food.
Saint wasn’t lying when he warned he’d become a sous chef nightmare. He critiqued everything I did, insulted my pastry methods, and all but tossed my first attempt in the trash beside our station.
If I wasn’t so desperate to disappear into the bowl of macerating pears, I would’ve stormed out. If my storming out wasn’t so parallel to how Stone behaved in this class, I would’ve thrown my apron at Saint and said none of this is worth it. A couples’ cooking class isn’t supposed to be so mean.
When, in fact, it completely distracted me from my real life.
I took each of his criticisms on the chin, redoing my cuts and re-chopping—essentially starting over every time he snapped, “Nope.”
I had brief respites when he’d move on to the other stations, but he always returned, his footsteps soundless but his expression speaking volumes.
By the time I’m finished, I’m covered in flour and smelling like chicken fat and vanilla—not a great combo.
But my dishes look fantastic.
Even Rad gives an impressed downturn of his lips as he passes.
His husband, Danny, hugs me tightly before leaving, as does Dr. Stanton.
They clean up a lot faster than me since they didn’t have to repeat the recipes three times, but I don’t mind.
Where do I have to be? I made it so I could disappear.
“You have talent,” Saint says, standing in front of my station.
“Really? Because I was about to ask if you convinced me to return simply for your twisted entertainment.”
Saint smirks. “I seek better forms of entertainment than watching an amateur slice chicken.”
“Ah. I’m back to an amateur cook.” I scrape the remnants into the trash.
“An amateur with promise.”
“I’ll write that on my next plaque.” I stack the dishes and wipe down my counter. “Or hey, in my online review of this restaurant.”
“Touché.” Saint chuckles. “I’ve said this before, but this was my father’s idea. A way to endear ourselves to this town.”
“Nice work.”
“He didn’t say I had to be nice. He’s the man out front, greeting all our patrons by name. I’m the one getting the menu up to standard and offering lessons to people who consider cooking a hobby rather than a serious vocation.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing? Treating this like I would a yoga class or knitting circle?
Cooking is in my blood. Becoming a chef was my dream until—” I stop, shake my head.
“I guess it’s not a secret anymore. I still can’t say it, though.
It’s like it gets stuck in my throat, swallows me whole. ”
“I know.”
His acknowledgment stops me short.
When I lift my eyes to his, I’m surprised to find the tropical warmth I assumed he lacked.
“I have a daughter. I can only imagine the pain you felt.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“I can also see the reason behind your dream. You’re very good, even after all these years with no practice. You have the skill, Noa. The patience and the drive. It’s difficult, working your way up, but if you were willing, there’s no age limit in pursuing a chef’s career.”
My answering laugh comes out uncomfortably. “I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
His direct question makes me stumble. “Because—because I’m needed here.”
“By whom?”
I don’t think Saint means it as hurtful as it comes out. At least, I don’t think he does.
“My patients,” I explain slowly. “People I care about and take care of.”
“And what about yourself? Have you ever heard of self-care?”
“Of course I have,” I scoff. “I just don’t have time for it.”
“Make time,” he snaps, and I jolt. “Most of those under me would’ve burst into tears after what I put you through tonight.
Many would’ve quit three weeks ago when we started.
But you continued to show up, even when that man of yours told you that you deserved better.
But that’s the way of dreams, isn’t it? You’re willing to trudge through a lot of nightmares to reach them. ”
“I … it’s too late.”
“It’s never too late.” Saint leans forward, palming my station and bringing us face-to-face. “What if I told you I had an opening for you?”
My eyes go wide. “Here? In this restaurant? I could never. And I don’t know when I’ll feel safe enough to walk through this town, never mind work at a popular restaurant.”
“Not here.” Saint keeps his stare level with mine. It’s disconcerting how darkly handsome he is. How intimidating. “This is my father’s restaurant. Mine is in Paris.”
“Whaaaat?” The word comes out in a nervous melody.
“I’m here as a favor.” His gaze shutters for a moment, telling me he’s not being entirely truthful.
“But my restaurants are still very much in business. I could get you in as a commis chef, nothing special, and you could work your way up while attending culinary school. Intakes at Le Cordon Bleu start in January.”
“I’m aware.” My heart rate spikes just hearing him speak of it.
“The only downside is that I’m a very impatient man, and I’d need you to fly over there right about now before I replace you with someone else.”
“No way.” I rear back, splaying my hands. “I’m not anyone’s charity case, despite what the media tells you. This—what’s going on with Stone and I—is a blip. I’m a better woman than what you see in front of you. I’m not normally this messy. I’m not broken and in need of help.”
“Who’s discussing you as a woman?” Saint is openly thrown.
“I’m talking about your culinary abilities.
I’m sure as hell not a therapist who can listen to you unpack anything else.
And I don’t do charity. I see potential, and I want to capitalize on it.
And I will make money off you if you take my advice, get out of Falcon Haven, and do something better for yourself. ”
I don’t know how to answer him, so I just stare.
He sighs. “I’ll let you finish up. Then I’ll walk you to your car, and you can think about it.”
Saint doesn’t give me time to answer, walking away until he disappears around the corner.
Leaving me with the biggest, most life-changing decision of my life as his salute.