Chapter 14 #2
I remained still a few seconds after swallowing it, savoring the moment.
“They’re wonderful,” I told Laurent, and his face lit up.
“I was worried about choosing a place you wouldn’t like,” Laurent said, and his concern for my happiness, even though we barely knew each other, was so sweet it was almost painful.
By the time we’d finished the moules frites, I was on my second drink, having switched to the cider Laurent was enjoying. It gave me the courage to ask the question I’d been wondering about since learning of his past as a chef.
“At the gala meeting, Fatima mentioned the restaurant you owned.”
Laurent froze, his drink halfway to his lips, then gave a reluctant nod. I took it as permission to continue.
“I’d love to hear about it.”
Laurent took a slow sip of his cider, then put his glass down with a sigh. He looked tired all of a sudden, but when he met my eyes, he smiled.
“It was called Les Champs D’Or,” he said, and I heard in his voice how much he had loved it.
“After secondary school, I went to culinary school then worked around France and Italy. The biggest, most important dream I had for myself was to open my own restaurant. I had planned on opening a restaurant in Tuscany or maybe Lyon, but when some friends of my parents offered me a head chef position with partial ownership of a new restaurant in Aix, I jumped at the chance. I had to clean out my savings to afford even just the partial ownership.”
“But it was worth it,” I said, not really needing to hear the answer. His feelings were clear on his face.
“More than anything I’ve ever done,” Laurent said softly.
“When Les Champs D’Or opened, it felt like I’d finally found my purpose.
It made all the work, and stress, and long hours worth it.
My life shifted from a jumble of jobs and fraught decisions to a path leading me right to where I needed to be. ”
As Laurent spoke, the tension in his shoulders eased and the lines around his eyes and mouth smoothed. He stopped fidgeting with his utensils, trying to get them perfectly parallel to one another. Instead, he let his hands drop into his lap.
Looking at him, his eyes alive with passion, I realized that the Laurent I had seen—tired and demoralized from work—was only a fraction of who he really was. Who he became when he was a chef.
“Why did it close?”
The light in Laurent’s eyes went dark. “A lot of reasons. Mostly it was because I was foolish,” he said, with a finality that encouraged a change in subject. I could certainly understand not wanting to discuss past career failures.
Moments later, our main courses arrived.
My chicken looked glorious, the skin golden-brown and crackly, resting on a bed of sautéed leeks and apples.
The intermingled scents of cider, poultry, butter, and thyme wafted over me.
I cut off a piece of dark meat, and it was so tender it practically slid off the bone.
I speared a sliver of apple, too, and put it in my mouth.
As I chewed, I found myself smiling. It was all done so perfectly. I looked up to see Laurent watching me.
“It’s wonderful,” I said fervently. “This is the best chicken I’ve had in ages. How is the cotriade?”
Laurent’s meal looked just as delicious as mine. The stew’s broth was rich and golden with chunks of fish, onions, potatoes, and leeks bobbing around in it.
“Excellent,” Laurent said. “They included eel, which adds a depth of flavor that I like. I would have added just a splash more of vinegar though,” he added with a wink.
“Oh, I know that chef type,” I said, happy to talk about something that didn’t dredge up painful memories. “Your kind always finds a way for a dish to be improved. Chef La Croix is exactly the same.”
“You know, he has quite a reputation in the cooking world. Beyond his cooking prowess, I mean. Is he really a terrifying old monster?”
I laughed again. “Not really, although I think he enjoys having that reputation. He probably makes up most of the rumors himself. I’ve realized recently that he’s actually a softie,” I added impishly.
“Jean-Baptiste La Croix? I’ll believe that when I see it,” Laurent said, laughing now, too. “How are your ideas coming along for the gala?”
“I have some. They may not be that good, though,” I said, losing confidence.
Laurent frowned. “And why wouldn’t they be?”
“I mean, I’m just a home baker,” I said, remembering Sabine’s unimpressed expression as she read over my credentials. “I don’t know nearly as much as a professional pastry chef.”
“I wouldn’t be so certain. Personally, I’d be thrilled to have that tarte tatin you made served in any restaurant I was running.”
I’d been looking at my hands, but now I glanced at Laurent, looking so earnestly at me. A heady emotion came over me–a mixture of happiness and the urge to cry.
“Thank you. That’s very nice of you to say,” I told him, once I was sure my voice wouldn’t wobble.
It started to rain, so we decided to nix gelato and split a slice of cherry clafoutis for dessert instead.
Laurent pulled his chair around to my side of the table so our elbows were nearly touching.
Having him so close to me—I could see a sprinkling of freckles across his nose I’d never noticed—made me giddy.
“How appetizing,” Laurent said, eyes locked on mine. “Ladies first.”
I thought he’d wait for me to cut off a piece, but instead he cut into the clafoutis himself. Plump cherries were nestled in the creamy base, their juices spilling into the pale custard and turning it pink. A few drops dripped off the piece he’d speared with his fork.
“Open wide.” My whole body tingled at the sound of his voice.
Obeying, I parted my lips; Laurent slipped the forkful into my mouth.
It was still warm. The flavor of tart cherries and sweet custard exploded in my mouth.
I chewed slowly, my eyes never leaving Laurent’s.
After I’d swallowed, I insisted that he try the clafoutis himself, but he fed most of it to me, bite by bite.
I was nearly panting by the time the plate was cleared.
Outside, rain was coming down heavily, so Laurent hailed a taxi.
As soon as we were seated inside, he took my hand.
We were quiet on the ride back. All my thoughts were focused on every part of my body that touched Laurent’s.
I ran the pads of my fingers over the scars and burns his hands had accumulated from years of working in kitchens.
When we arrived at our building, we had to break apart to leave the car, but after Laurent paid, he opened my door and helped me onto the sidewalk. It was still raining, and I watched a raindrop slide down the bridge of his nose and drip to the ground.
“Should we go insi—”
Laurent’s lips were suddenly on mine, and everything else fell away.
His mouth was warm and eager, and he tasted slightly of cherries.
His arms came around my back to grip me firmly.
I stepped closer so that our bodies pressed together: chest to chest, hip to hip, thighs to thighs.
We were getting soaked to the skin, but I was only dimly aware of the rain.
A blazing heat ran through me. I felt as warm as if I was sitting next to a fire.
The top button of Laurent’s shirt had come undone, exposing a triangle of smooth, wet skin at his throat.
One of Laurent’s hands came up to my hair, and he stroked it gently, then moved to the base of my neck.
He ran his fingers gently across the tender skin there.
I gasped a little, and Laurent pressed his mouth more firmly to mine.
My thin linen dress was plastered to my skin, and Laurent’s clothes weren’t much better. We were so soaked it felt as though there was nothing between us.
Laurent cupped my face, and his fingers traced the line of my jaw as the rain fell around us. Several raindrops slid into my mouth, and their coolness was a startling contrast to Laurent’s hot, probing warmth.
When I ran out of breath, I pulled away reluctantly, gulping air. Laurent was staring unashamedly at my chest. I realized that my bra showed clearly through my soaked dress. At least I’d worn one of my expensive bras, all lace and silk. My nipples stood out clearly under the thin fabric.
Through Laurent’s wet shirt, I took in every hard line of his chest. I’d never seen him so mussed.
His hair, little wet squiggles now, dripped onto his forehead.
His tie was thrown over one shoulder, and his shirt clung tightly to his abs.
I looked again at his bare throat, glistening in the rain, and wondered hotly what the rest of him looked like under all those wet clothes.
Then he pulled me back in, and every thought fled my mind as our mouths met hungrily.
Just then Laurent’s phone buzzed. Our thighs were still pressed tightly together, and I felt its vibration through my clothes.
With a groan, Laurent pulled back and fished his phone out of his pocket. As he read the text message, his shoulders slumped.
“Work. Of course. They always need something.” He looked at me and attempted a smile. “I’m sorry, Margot. They’re going to keep bothering me until I do this.”
Disappointment coursed through me, but Laurent’s sadness bothered me more. I hated to see him so upset.
“Don’t worry. Your work’s just keeping us respectable. I was close to pulling your clothes off in the street.”
Laurent smiled, and some of the sadness lifted from his face.
“I guess we should go inside,” he said.
We held hands up the stairs and to my apartment door. There Laurent kissed me again, sweetly and softly.
“You know,” he said, his face still close to mine. “I forgot to ask what you thought of my second attempt at the quiche.”
Oh no.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Even though this gorgeous man had me trembling all over, I still couldn’t lie.
I swallowed hard. When I spoke, my voice was barely above a whisper. “The crust still tasted store-bought.”
Silence. I opened my eyes a sliver. Laurent was staring at me, nonplussed. I could only imagine what he thought of me, a woman he’d just wined and dined, then nearly ravished in the street, who couldn’t even bother to tell a white lie about his baking skills.
Laurent’s mouth opened, and I thought he’d make a sharp retort. But then he began to laugh.
That got me going, and we fell against each other in a fit of hysteria. I might have even started crying, but we were both so soaking wet I really had no idea.
Through my laughter, I dimly heard footsteps approaching, but it wasn’t until I heard Madame Blanchet’s voice that I jerked up and tried to get a hold of myself.
“Margot? Laurent? Are you alright?” she asked, her tone as unruffled as always.
“Yes, Madame Blanchet,” I assured her, hiccupping a little. I didn’t dare look at Laurent. I was barely holding my laughter back as it was.
“Well, that’s good. I was afraid someone was doing amphetamines in the hallway.” Madame Blanchet looked my rain-drenched self up and down. “I’m glad you chose a black brassiere, Margot. Too many young people are wearing this newfangled colorful lingerie. It’s tasteless.”
“Yes, thank you, enjoy your evening, Madame Blanchet!” Laurent said as I crossed my arms over my chest and died a thousand deaths.
After Madame Blanchet had retreated back down the stairs, I let out a strangled giggle.
“She’s going to tell all her friends about us.”
Laurent kissed me again. “I relish the thought.”
“But, how does she know what young people are wearing for lingerie?”
“Some questions are better left unanswered, ma chérie.”
Laurent kissed me a final time. “Now I really have to return this call. Thank you for understanding. Let me know when your next day off is, and I’ll start thinking of plans. Until then, I need to keep working on that quiche.” He smirked, his eyes soft and bright.
Inside my apartment, I took a hot shower and scoured my body with my eucalyptus body scrub until I was pink and shining. I ran cocoa butter all over my skin, then made myself a cup of tea. Sitting in the windowsill, I sipped my tea slowly, replaying the entire date in my mind.
Despite the cozy warmth of my apartment, I shivered. It was almost a little frightening to be this into someone. For all the dating I’ve done, I didn’t remember ever before having this overwhelming passion, of feeling so full of emotions they seemed close to spilling over.
I huddled closer against the window, and my movement knocked a small bundle of papers to the ground. I bent to see what they were. Of course. It was an application for pastry school, halfway finished. I tossed it back on the ground. Nothing was going to ruin the rest of this evening.