Chapter 20 The Baguette Humiliation
The Baguette Humiliation
— T ODAY —
“And that’s how you prepare a baguette,” Ella says as the audience claps. “As you can see, it’s not complicated at all.”
“Humph.”
“Ames,” Barb scolds, but I quickly raise my hands in mock surrender. I have no intention of fighting Ella, not after what happened yesterday at Ian’s seminar. Though it is fascinating to see how I disagree with almost anything she says. Every time she opens her mouth, it’s like nails on a chalkboard.
Ian stalks closer, looking splendid in a mustard-yellow sweater. He wears it over his usual cotton shirt, the hem of it peeking out over his light jeans. I know why he’s here. He’s monitoring me, protecting his girlfriend and chef. As the person who was previously on the receiving end of his attentive care, I know how that feels. It doesn’t make me like Ella any more.
“I’ve never seen a baguette prepared with warm water. What’s the reasoning behind it?” someone from the audience asks.
I can’t help another humph, which immediately causes Ian’s eyes to flick toward me.
“That way, the dough rises faster. You should also prepare it in a warm room,” Ella says in her entitled voice. “It’ll quicken the fermentation process.”
“And reduce the flavor,” I say under my breath.
“Amelie,” Ian warns. He’s sitting beside me now. I turn to him, expecting to find him scowling. Giving me a look that says, I’ll physically drag you out of this room if you dare to disagree. Instead, he’s fidgeting with his phone as he patiently smiles. Almost as if he’s amused. A little frustrated, too, but mostly amused.
“Slowing down the fermentation process results in a complex flavor and improved taste,” I say, keeping my voice low so that Ella won’t hear as she answers the next question. “She’s telling them to rush it and compromise on the quality—”
“ Amelie .”
With a sigh, I look down at my feet. Fine, I won’t say anything. Even if it means teaching a hundred people an approximate, incorrect way to approach French cuisine. Even if she’s the very last person who should teach this class.
Ian’s leg bumps mine, his lips pouting dramatically as if he’s calling me a big baby. God, he’s so handsome, especially when he’s dorky. With his eyes squinting, his bottom lip starts wobbling as he brings his fists to his eyes and sniffles.
“Stop it.”
“ Wah-wah. French baguettes. Wah. ”
“French baguette is redundant. There’s no Austrian baguette.”
He shrugs. “I have a baguette that’s not French.”
Snorting out a laugh, I roll my eyes. “Technically, it’s half-French.”
“Fair.” His brows bunch up. “Wait, did I tell you my mom was French? How do you know?”
Holy shit. Deep dark eyes flash before mine, but, trying to keep my nausea at bay, I shrug. Seeing as Ian knew nothing about the article, my restaurant, or its failure, it’s fair to say that his father didn’t tell him much about what went on between us in the past six months, and I won’t be the person to break his heart. It’s not my place, not when we’re hardly even friends. “I read it online.”
He pretends to gasp. “Stalker.”
“You’re such a child.”
“Me? You’re all bent out of shape over nothing. It’s just bread.”
With an annoyed look, I say, “Stop trying to piss me off, Ian.”
His eyes widen. “Stop making it so easy, Amelie.”
I focus on Ella, set to ignore him. He really is a handsome idiot. In two seconds’ time his leg is pressing against mine obnoxiously. I throw him a look, and there’s a teasing smirk on his face that makes him look so fucking sexy. He’s nothing like most men I’ve dealt with in my life. He’s never taken anything seriously, always smiling in spite of everything. Always happy and positive and good.
His expression softens with affection when he notices mine. Since the day I met him, Ian has had the power to turn my mood around no matter the situation. I love that it’s still true today.
My leg presses back, and once again his smile changes. His eyes dart to our legs pushed together, then back to me. Now his lips are slightly open. Every version of him is better than the last, and this one doesn’t disappoint. It’s so good, in fact, that my hand itches to touch him, to travel up his thigh and see his breath catch. To see how that makes his face change, his eyes darken. To see how he looks when he wants me.
When his gaze dips to my mouth, my chest heaves. I have to remind myself we’re in public, in front of his girlfriend, and—regardless of her being a princess or a witch—this isn’t going to happen if he’s with someone else.
When there are no more questions, it’s time for my take on baked French products. I tackle the croissant, and, God, it takes me forever.
Granted, croissants are complicated. If you don’t refrigerate the dough in between each fold, the butter melts. If you don’t let it rest enough, you end up with a cookie instead of a flaky pastry. But I’m pretty sure Ian’s gaze, never once moving away from me, has something to do with my discombobulated lecture. I can’t focus.
He’s not looking at me because he’s interested in anything I have to say about croissants; he’s made that plenty clear. And he’s sitting with one leg thrown over my empty seat, his shoulders relaxed against the chair back, his arms crossed at his chest and his tattoos peeking from the sleeves at his wrists.
Fuuuuuuck. He has to stop looking at me like that.
It’s different from what he did last year, before our fallout. He used to look at me as if I were the most precious thing that had been put in front of him. Now he’s looking at me like I’m breakfast. I don’t know if that’s a good or bad sign, but he’s currently turning my brain into mush, my body is aching so much for him.
A hundred questions later, the audience retreats, and we’re left with two hours to kill before Ian’s class. With a mix of dread and excitement, I grab my bag. After yesterday, I’m worried about another argument breaking out between us, but I’m also looking forward to staring at him for a while. I’m sure he was sitting there being extra sexy on purpose, so maybe I can do the same during his class. Show him a little shoulder or— Wait. No, Amelie, he has a girlfriend. Goodness gracious.
Once we’re back in the conference room, waiting for the next crowd of students to arrive, Ian discreetly nods toward the door, then walks out into the corridor. Ella is writing something down, and Barb is on her phone. Quickly mentioning I’m going to the bathroom, I leave the room and join him by the window. “Hey. Everything okay?”
“Can we try to have one smooth seminar?” he asks, his voice velvety as he casts a skeptical eye on me.
I hesitate, turning to the window. “I don’t think you should ask me, Ian. You keep provoking me, and your girlfriend hates me.”
He tilts his head. “No, she’s only a little—”
“If you say she’s passionate again, I’ll lose it,” I warn.
He holds on to my elbow, his touch soft but firm. “One smooth seminar? Please?” he asks. “Pamela has been complaining.”
I can’t pay attention to anything he’s saying, only to his grip. It’s delicate, and the contact sends shivers up my arm and to the rest of my body. My eyes flick to his wrists, the black ink peeking out as a reminder of the Ian he is outside of the conference room, the Ian he is outside of Ian Roberts.
My Ian.
How many times have I wanted to talk to him in the last six months? How often have I imagined hearing his voice again? Seeing his face? Waking up to one of his texts?
Well, now he’s here in front of me, and I can’t let this chance go to waste, because I’m not sure I’ll get another one. He needs to know how I feel. That Frank and I are over, and if I could do it all again, I’d choose him every day.
“Head tables with the bridal party are the worst,” I burst out.
He gives me a blank stare, his eyebrows angled upward.
“Because the plus-ones of everyone in the bridal party end up separated from the one person they know at the wedding,” I explain. “And…” My mind roams, the saliva in my mouth thickening. “And it’s better not to have many bridesmaids, because friendships end and your wedding pictures are forever.” I snap my fingers. “The first dance! It shouldn’t last more than a minute. Nobody wants to watch you awkwardly dance through a whole song.”
Light slowly fades from his eyes as something dark and wounded draws over them.
“The garter toss makes everyone uncomfortable, and the groom not seeing the bride before the wedding is a ridiculous superstition.”
“Amelie,” he whispers, his smile disappearing. “We can’t.”
I study the sad curve of his mouth. “I just—I wanted you to know my unpopular opinions about weddings.”
“I don’t want to know.”
Tears stinging my eyes, I look away. He doesn’t want to know.
People walk past us to enter the class, and he smiles at someone in the crowd before setting his harsh gaze on me. “I’m not doing it again. This thing between us—it nearly killed me the first time.”
I sniffle away my sadness as he walks past me, my mouth opening in a desperate attempt to fix everything. I’m terrified it won’t ever be possible. “I’m sorry, Ian. I know I fucked up, and I know you don’t owe me another chance, but please, I just need to tell you—”
“I don’t want to listen, Amelie.”
“Ian, let me say one thing and then—”
He groans, turning to face me. “What is it, huh? You want to tell me you and Frank aren’t together anymore? Is that what you want to say?” When I stare at him wide-eyed, he nods. “Yeah. I know.”
But… how? He said he didn’t read the article. He didn’t know only a handful of days ago.
“You don’t wear a ring.” He gestures at my hand. “At first I figured it’s because you’re a chef. Barb wears hers around her neck, and you have a necklace too.” His eyes soften, his brows lowering. “But then… then the other day you leaned down to point at Barb’s fingers when she was showing… something.”
“Batonnet?”
“Whatever. And the necklace slipped out of your shirt. You were too entranced with what you were saying to notice.”
With my fist tightening around my necklace, I swallow. “You saw it.”
“I did.”
“Do you… want it back?”
“No,” he says firmly, and his eyes squint as if he’s absorbing an invisible hit to his stomach. “But I’m happy you held on to it.”
He says nothing more, and neither do I. If he knows I’m not with Frank and hasn’t said a word about it—if he’s seen my necklace—it can mean only one thing. Ella wins.
We’re not friends; not rivals either. We’re definitely not lovers. We’re just strangers who share a few memories.
Forcing my legs to move, I walk past him and say something about needing the toilet. Though he calls my name, I keep walking until I’m on the other side of the bathroom door. My heartbeat’s erratic, embarrassment creeping up at me at the realization that I’ve just been rejected. Not in so many words, but that’s what happened. Ian doesn’t want me. He knows I’m single, he knows I want him, but he doesn’t want me back.
I came to Mayfield knowing there was a big possibility this would be the outcome, and now I can’t believe it. Is his part in my story really over?
It feels like I’ve come down with the flu. My body trembles, my throat itches, my chest tingles. It might be a panic or heart attack. I’ve never had either, but I’ve never felt this way before.
Holding myself against the cold tiles of the bathroom wall, I breathe in and out. I focus on what I can see, touch, smell, and taste, until eventually my heartbeat settles. The adrenaline wears off, leaving in its place a peaceful sort of resignation. I don’t think it’s anxiety or a physical condition. I think it’s heart-break.
I try to tell myself it’s for the best. Surely, it is. With the huge secret I’m keeping, involving none other than his father… this is the simplest outcome.
None of it works to distract me from the awareness that while my restaurant failed, I lost my best friend, my wedding, my fiancé, my career, my father, and so much more, this is the moment when my heart finally breaks.
“Your restaurant is only as good as your best chef!” I say.
Ian chuckles and rolls his eyes, then he raises a finger. “A business model”—two fingers—“a marketing plan”—three fingers—“an operations plan”—four fingers—“a financial analysis—”
“Oh my God, give me a break,” I groan, running a hand through my hair as I turn to the audience.
I’m not sure how we got here. It started when he said the worst mistake one could make is to read online reviews of their restaurant. To which I countered that this attitude is as good as asking to fail. If you don’t listen to your customers’ complaints, then how can you get better?
It escalated from there.
“Not looking at the business side of owning a restaurant is a mistake.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “If I’m to guess, that’s the mistake you made, Amelie. The Marguerite—”
“Your fast-food joint,” I interject.
This time I see rage cracking him open and taking over his brain. He might have forgiven me for saying that the first time, but twice must be his limit.
He takes a step toward me until his nose is a few inches from mine, his blue eyes now so dark that they resemble a galaxy. “ One fucking seminar, Amelie. One,” he whispers. His breath on my lips is pure oxygen, like he’s infusing life into me even with how furious he is. “Why can’t you stop being such a pretentious, annoying—”
With a loud clack, the lights go off—all of them—and with the blinds closed for Ian’s presentation, I can’t see him, even though he’s closer to my face than he’s been in a really long time. People begin talking and chairs loudly scrape against the floor as I hold out a hand to find the desk beside me.
“Calm down, everyone. It’s a power outage. The lights will be back on in a second,” Ian announces. As noise and chatter cover his voice and people begin walking out of the room, I feel his arms wind around me.
“What are you doing?” I half-heartedly protest, the anger over our argument dissipating as his chest crashes against mine. It’s so broad and warm and comfortable.
“Making sure no one tramples you to the floor.”
I rest my cheek against his sweater as he walks back, dragging me with him to one corner of the room as people flash their phone lights around and scramble to exit. “Ella? You good?” he asks, but I can’t hear her voice over the crowd. “Ella?”
Hugging him as he calls another woman’s name isn’t nearly as nice as only hugging him, so I lazily push myself off his chest. “Go find your girlfriend,” I mutter as I take a step back.
“You’re cute when you’re jealous, but I can’t see you right now, so cut it out.” He drapes his arm around me again. “And quit calling her that.”
“Calling her what?”
“My girlfriend.”
My mouth snaps open against his chest, and my eyes widen enough that, even in the dark, I can see the yellow sweater I’m pressed against. What does he mean? They aren’t married, are they? “Isn’t she your girlfriend?”
“No?” Laughter rumbles in his throat. “I told you, Amelie. I don’t want a girlfriend, a wedding, or a wife.” When I don’t utter a word, his chin dips. “Did you think she was my girlfriend?”
“Yes!”
“Oh.” He pulls me with him as he takes a few steps back. “Why? I never said she was.”
“You—she’s all over you, Ian.”
He snorts. “Yeah, well. You know how I said you’re cute when you’re jealous? Turns out jealousy makes her really annoying.”
On that we agree.
“So… you’re single?”
“Always.”
Oh my God, he’s single. Ian’s here, next to me—at this moment, almost on top of me—and he’s single. My heart palpitates, a smile taking over my face and dying just as quickly. He’s not with Ella; he’s not with anyone. And he still doesn’t want to be with me.
I let myself melt against his chest, wanting to drown my sudden sadness in him. My hand moves to his back, and his body relaxes with an exhale. We stand still for a few seconds, his heart beating against my ear, then quickening as his other arm wraps around me.
My hands travel up his spine, feeling the corded muscles hiding under his shirt, and soon our hug turns from friendly to not so much. My whole body presses against his, my fingers rubbing the base of his neck. He locks one arm over the other until I’m squeezed tightly, and eventually my fists bunch in his hair.
Between his arms is where I belong.
“Amelie?” he whispers. “What…”
Letting one arm go, I use my fingers to crawl forward until my hand rests on his cheek. I’m not exactly sure of what I’m doing, except I’m very aware we won’t be this close again for the rest of this week. Hell, maybe for the rest of our lives. And I might be heartbroken, and I might be rusty when it comes to intimacy, but I’m not stupid.
I attempt a light tug, pulling him closer, and when his face follows with no resistance, I do it again and meet him halfway until our mouths tentatively meet.
With a soft sigh, he smiles against my lips.
It’s like being burned and healed all at once.
The second time his mouth meets mine, he takes the lead, his hand cupping the back of my head and his tongue pushing into my mouth. There’s hunger in his kiss. Lust and a rushed eagerness to discover. He holds me against him, and as my body molds itself to his flat chest, he lets out a hum of pleasure.
“Ian? Ian? ” Ella calls out, her voice so shrill and annoying, I’m tempted to throw an egg at the spot it’s coming from.
But I withdraw a little, and, squeezing me tighter, he whispers, “She’s fine. One more minute.”
And for one more minute we continue, though it’s likely much more than that. I hardly have enough experience to be making assessments, but he’s an excellent kisser. I feel our kiss in my bones, in my stomach, lighting me up like a Christmas tree until I’m so receptive to him that I’m breathing heavily in his mouth with every gentle tug and rub.
It’s undoubtedly the best kiss I’ll ever receive in this lifetime.
With a sudden loud clack, the lights flicker on again, and in an instant his arms, his hands, his mouth are gone… just a second too late. Whoever is still in the room saw the way we were together. Not like friends. Definitely not like the rivals we pretend to be.
When his eyes widen as if he’s seen a ghost, I return his scared look. “What—” I begin, but he grabs my shoulders and pulls me with my back to him, his hands holding me between himself and the remaining audience.
He walks backward, squeezing my shoulder. “So sorry about that. And thank you for joining us—”
Barb’s roaring laughter explodes to our right, but when I try to turn to her, Ian’s hold on me tightens, and I stumble back. What the hell is—oh my God, that’s a boner. Yep. His cock is standing proud and pressing against my ass.
“You must be fucking kidding me,” Ella says from the left side of the room. She probably has a good shot of what’s poking at me, and so does Barb. My standing in front of Ian is the only reason the rest of the room doesn’t.
“Th-thank you for coming,” I stammer with a stiff smile as people gather their things. I can hardly focus with Ian’s firm, thick erection pressed up against me. “We’ll have another seminar about”—Ella flies out of the room—“about the main sauces in French cuisine. We’ll do less yelling in that one. Probably.”
Slowly, the crowd disperses, and when the last person leaves, Barb walks out, too, throwing a suggestive smile my way. Only when we’re completely alone do I turn to Ian, who sits on the edge of the desk with his arms crossed over his chest and an annoyed expression. He glances at me, then focuses his gaze on the floor.
I get it. This must have been pretty humiliating for him and his baguette.
“Amelie, I—can’t. We can’t.”
I bite my lip, uncomfortably shifting position. I didn’t kiss him to change his mind, but the fact that he won’t manages to break my heart all over again. Even after our kiss—our out-of-this-world, extraordinary kiss, which he most certainly enjoyed—he’s done.
“I’m sorry. You had so much time, Amelie. I know you were engaged, that I was way over the line, but fuck, I tried so hard to show you that I was the right choice. That we were. I put you first, even before myself, because you kept putting yourself second. And you…”
“I broke your heart,” I whisper.
“Yeah, you did.”
I nod, still unable to look at anything but the floor. “Sorry I kissed you. I just figured it was my shot.”
“You shouldn’t apologize. I definitely kissed you back.”
Yeah, he definitely did.
“But for our own well-being, I think it might be best if we split the seminars,” he says with a stern look that reminds me of his father. “We clearly can’t get along professionally, and when we do get along… we might do it a little too well.”
God, it’s like he’s breaking up with me.
I nod, but the sadness that’s overwhelmed me hunches my shoulders, the force of gravity pulling me farther down as if the floor is calling my name. When silence settles, I still don’t have it in me to look at him, so I grab my bag and leave the room.
Leaving Ian behind again.