Chapter 18 Out of Business
Out of Business
— T ODAY —
I stifle the fourth yawn in a row, the sun filtering through the window of the conference room warm on my skin, then throw a look at my watch. Ten fifteen. I already heard this seminar yesterday, and though I’m not looking forward to learning about the Robertses’ marketing and management techniques, Ian is pleasant to ogle as he explains to his eager audience how to run a restaurant. His dark gray sweater looks so soft, his blue jeans wrapping his ass ever so perfectly.
He gestures a little. Not too much, but enough to keep people entertained. His light brown hair mostly stays in place, but a few lovely strands fall over his eyes when he tilts his head forward, and his ocean-blue eyes squint every time he’s deep in thought.
And his smile. He throws in some grins that he should keep to himself. They’re distracting as hell.
When he turns to me as he walks up and down the room, I avert my gaze, focusing on him again once he looks away. We haven’t spoken since yesterday, when his girlfriend nearly bit my head off.
And I’m happy for him. I’m trying to be happy for him. Okay, I’m not happy for him at all. There’s not a single reason in the world I can think of that justifies getting back together with an ex who slept with your best friend. Not one, except the not-so-basic things she probably lets him do to her.
Ella’s sitting on the other side of the room, lazily scrolling through her phone. Her blond hair is perfect—not one single strand out of place—and, God, she has impossibly long legs. No wonder he enjoys keeping them entangled with his own.
A round of applause echoes around the room. It looks like people appreciated Ian’s seminar, though I suspect the most enthusiastic claps belong to women who also appreciated the speaker.
With a light smile, Ian nods in silent appreciation. “Any questions?” he asks, and boy, there are many. People would ask the dumbest things to see him move around a little more, smile a few more times, look into their eyes. Though that could just be me.
“What’s the most important thing you shouldn’t be cheap about when managing a restaurant?” someone asks from the back.
Biting his lower lip, Ian leans against the desk behind him. “Just one, huh?” There’s a general chuckle, which elicits another one of his heartbreaking smiles, and after rubbing his chin he continues. “I’d say… location. Location is the single most important thing when opening a restaurant.”
“Well, I disagree,” I mumble, which makes Barb smile. It’s a “Who would have guessed it?” smile that has me rolling my eyes. “Barb, come on. You know he’s wrong.”
“Care to share your opinion with the rest of us?” Ian asks in a loud voice.
I turn to him, his brows raised and one corner of his lips quirked up. “N-no, sorry.”
“Come on.” He motions at me to come stand with him and turns to face the audience. “This is the head chef of La Brasserie, Amelie Preston.”
Now that I’m aware he hasn’t read the article, even the incorrect introduction makes sense. But even so, what game is he playing? Because I’m not about to shy away from a confrontation with a Roberts, not even if it’s Ian.
Tentatively, I stand and join him as a few people clap lackadaisically. Of course, there isn’t nearly as much enthusiasm as when he showed up. Most of these people probably read the article about me.
“What’s your take, Amelie?” he asks, crossing his arms with his usual playful smile. “What’s the one thing you can’t skimp on?”
After lingering a second longer than I should on the infinite blue of his irises, I turn to the audience and smile at the many faces staring back at me. “Well, as a chef, I can’t say anything is more important than food quality.”
There are several nods of agreement from the crowd, but as I turn to Ian, his mouth is twisted in a dubious grimace. “True. Food quality is a big one.” He shrugs slightly. “But I still think people would rather eat a sandwich in the city center than a lobster next to a dumpster.”
And what does that have to do with anything?
I try to keep my smile unfazed, but a flash of irritation has me raising my hands and blurting out, “Have you ever even entered a kitchen?”
When his eyebrows rise, I look down at my shoes. That was rude.
“I mean… food quality has nothing to do with sandwiches and lobsters. It’s about choosing the best ingredients for your dishes.”
“I understand that. I was exaggerating to prove a point.”
“Location is very important, as is a cohesive interior design, a unique selling point, and trained staff.” I clasp my hands together and keep them over my stomach. It’s better than furiously waving my index finger at him as I’d like to. “But unpopular opinion ,” I say pointedly, “people go to restaurants to eat. The most important thing is the quality of the food.”
A man in the back raises his hand, so I start to return to my chair. The last thing I want to do is intrude on Ian’s seminar, and it looks like we’re done with this topic.
“I disagree.”
My head turns back to Ian so fast, he must think we’re reenacting scenes from The Exorcist . “You disagree?” I ask.
“Customers come in for an experience, not to eat.”
“They want to eat something better than they would at home. Hence, food quality—”
“They want to sit in a pretty room and be served by competent staff. They want to feel important. Food’s the least relevant thing.”
“What?” I ask, my ears ringing. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am.” Resting his hands on the desk behind him, he smiles, as if my outrage amuses him. “Food is sustenance. People go to a restaurant to be entertained.”
A low murmur spreads through the room, and to be honest, I’d be surprised if there weren’t such a reaction. It’s crazy that anyone in the restaurant business would say something like this, but him? How can someone believe food is just sustenance and work as the manager of one of the most famous French restaurants in the country?
Oh, right. They don’t serve food at his restaurant. They serve overly seasoned sludge.
“No wonder you’d think that,” I retort as I stride to my seat. If this conversation continues any longer, I won’t be responsible for my words.
“You seem to forget—”
Oh, here it comes.
“That you have won a bunch of irrelevant awards?” I finish for him, with a snap, and spin like a whirling dervish to face him. “Oh, I remember. And every item on your menu tastes like the same generic thing. You serve a facsimile of French food that I wouldn’t recommend to my worst enemy.”
As he throws a look at the crowd, he chuckles, unbothered by my tantrum. “Amelie, have you ever even eaten at the Marguerite?”
I open my mouth, then close it. To him, it probably looks like he’s won this round—and he has, but by default. I’ve eaten at the Marguerite before, though I can’t share that with him.
When he smirks, I know I have to say something. “The Marguerite is a French fast-food joint, Ian!”
Ella gasps, quickly standing. “How dare you give your unwanted opinion on the Marguerite after you couldn’t keep your own restaurant afloat for four months!”
I swallow, my mouth instantly going dry as my heartbeat thunders in my ears. It’s like the whole room has gone dark, and the only light is shining down on me, exposing my rawest parts for everyone to judge. Showcasing each and every one of my failures.
“Amelie?” Ian asks in a questioning voice.
I straighten my shoulders. My restaurant may have failed at the speed of light, but it doesn’t change the truth. “The only reason the Marguerite is successful is that you serve people-pleasing, simple recipes.” I glance at Ella’s hateful glare, then turn to Ian. “You have a standardized twenty-dollar menu. You work with frozen, low-quality ingredients. You microwave precooked food, for Chrissake.”
As I catch my breath, I swallow. I’m making a scene in front of a hundred people, but I don’t care. It seems all I’ve been doing for the past year has been humiliating myself anyway.
When I’m met with stony silence, I grab my bag. I need to get out of there. “I’m sorry, but… Actually, I’m not sorry. You are both living off the vulgarization of French food. Of food in general. What is art to me, you treat as mere business. I—” I take a step toward the door, then turn to the audience. Most of them are staring at me, wide-eyed and in complete silence. “Sorry. Business advice? You’re in the right hands. But if you treat your food as art”—I point at Ian and Ella—“this isn’t what you’re looking for.”
The wine is fresh on my tongue, rich and sweet and accented by fruity, ripe flavors. Cabernet, about ten years old. Setting the glass down, I turn to the counter as I pull at my necklace with my finger. The bar is open only to lecturers and other people working at the event, and even so, the dimly lit space is almost filled to the brim except for the seat in front of me.
I close my eyes and tilt my head back, exhaling deeply. But even with my eyes closed, I sense him coming to stand beside me. It must be his smell, or maybe the shadow his body casts over me. Whatever it is, I’m equally eager and terrified to open my eyes.
But I do, and Ian’s looking down at me, as handsome from my upside-down perspective as he is from every other angle. His nose, straight and pointy, his shapely jaw, the lovely curve of his chin. And he’s smiling. God, how I constantly miss that devilish smile. “I got you another glass.”
“Oh, thanks.” I pull myself up as he takes a seat in the chair next to me. Silently, he studies me, every muscle and organ and bone in me squirming under his inquisitive gaze. “I should… I should probably apologize for what I said.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He waves me off.
I can feel my brows scrunch up. Is he feeling bad for me after my scene, or does he really not care?
“So you opened a restaurant.”
As heat blossoms on my cheeks, I nervously fidget with the hem of my shirt. “Spoiler alert,” I say in a dull voice. “It failed.”
“I’ve gathered.” Looking away, he shrugs. “Doesn’t matter, though, does it? You still took the leap.”
Yeah, and landed face-first on cement. I usually love Ian’s contagious positivity, but it does matter. It’s what matters the most. Certainly, my restaurant failing is what got me here, with no money, no job, and no hope of having a successful career as a chef.
“But it does make me wonder…” After setting his glass down, he rubs his jaw. His eyes roam from left to right, as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “How… how did it happen exactly? How did Amelie Preston open a restaurant and fail?”
My throat tightens as I try to swallow.
“I mean, you’ve been a chef since, hell, probably since before you were a fully formed adult.” He smiles lightly. “I’m sure your dad taught you all the ropes. That he has the right contacts and gave you plenty of guidance throughout the years.”
Shifting uncomfortably in my chair, I turn my gaze away. I can’t tell Ian what happened after the wedding. I just can’t. I’d love to tell him the truth: he’s the only person who can possibly make me feel better about any of this. But I remember our conversations about his father. They’re not just close: with his mom being gone, William is all Ian has. And if his son knew what happened between us last year, William would lose him. And Ian would lose his father.
After stalling with a sip of wine, I ask, “How come the manager of one of the best French restaurants in the country doesn’t care about the quality of his food?”
Leaning back against his chair, he studies me, his soft, gorgeous sweater stretching over his wide chest and revealing the white shirt underneath as he takes a deep breath. “Smooth change of topic, Amelie.”
“Location?” I ask, throwing my hands up in the air. “That’s what matters in a restaurant? Entertainment? How about extra-virgin olive oil and vegetables in season? How about grass-fed livestock and authentic—”
“I never said all of that wasn’t important. I said—”
“You said food was the least relevant thing, Ian.” I cross my arms. “How can you think that?”
“Results speak volumes,” he says with a cheery smile. “One of us at this table is the owner of a successful restaurant. The other one…” He shrugs. “Well, I don’t know the details yet, but she isn’t.”
Wow. I’ve always appreciated Ian’s honesty. He says what he thinks, and no sugarcoating it. Only now I realize what a double-edged sword that can be.
I try to hide just how deeply his comment stings behind a smile. “ Well , one of us at this table also knows how to recognize fast food.” I narrow my glare on him and swallow the lump in my throat. “And the other one sells it.”
After wetting his lower lip and opening his mouth, I expect him to retort, but nothing comes out, and with a quick shake of his head, he grabs his drink and downs it. “I should go find Ella.” He stands, and the last words I hear are “Frank must be looking forward to blowing you off again.”