Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
EMMA
“You have twenty more minutes to have your fricandó and crema catalana ready to taste.”
Grayson claps his hands as he walks around the room, observing everything his students are doing. What Grayson and Driscoll call his “labs” are really students applying the lessons from their lectures. Most of them, that is.
The lab is primarily for people who want to become cooks and offers them three extra credits, whereas the lecture is open to anyone and offers only two credits.
The lab has a maximum of sixteen students, and so far, Leo is doing the best in terms of timing.
He hasn’t looked at me once since the lab started, and I find myself impressed by his concentration.
I’ve taken notes and stayed in my rightful place, far away from the stoves and ovens, but I still keep a close eye on the process. It’s helpful that Professor Hayes explained the overall concept, even though every student was required to study the dishes at home.
It’s been exactly a week since Grayson and I ran into each other at Simone’s, and he has barely acknowledged my presence, except for asking me to sit away from the stations.
Since then, we’ve only exchanged one email where I asked him some questions about his career, and he replied with well-thought-out answers that Amelia seemed to approve of during our first biweekly meeting.
He talked about when he started cooking—although I already knew that—the nature of his first classes, his overall college experience, and that he decided to move to Europe soon after his parents passed away.
The rest was monotonous, and he only mentioned his parents that one time.
I used that tidbit of information to determine the year they passed away: when Grayson was twenty-one, the same year he moved to Europe.
There was nothing about his ex-wife or his siblings in his answers. It makes me wonder if he and his ex were high school sweethearts or if they met in Europe.
How long were they married? Why did they get a divorce? When did one of them file for it? And most importantly, who filed for divorce?
Amelia said to dig deep but keep it tasteful. Unlike her, my curiosity has only increased with everything that’s happened. I haven’t asked him any questions about his romantic life, but I plan to…and soon.
As for the Simone’s fiasco, I walked into the busy newsroom the next day with a basket of muffins, placed it on the big central table, and smiled at the group who ditched me.
“Does anyone want a muffin?” I yell as everyone in the room rushes toward the massive basket, clearly hungry from the energy they’ve used to finish their work.
It’s no secret that nobody has time to go out and get food on Fridays until the work is done.
I knew this would grab their attention. Turning my head to the small group around Samantha’s desk, I smirk and raise my tea in a cheers motion.
Samantha’s eyes narrow as the others wear shocked expressions, satisfaction coursing through me.
I know Samantha’s type well, and the worst thing I could have done was not give her the reaction she expected.
She was anticipating anger, tears, and embarrassment, but I simply brushed it off.
Although what she and the others did hurt me, I didn’t let it show.
It doesn’t matter, though, because I’m still the one with the feature they all want.
However, the incident at Simone’s doesn’t end there. I was left so hot and bothered by the situation with Grayson that I almost took someone home over the weekend.
So much for not drinking.
“Time is up!” Grayson yells, and I jump in my chair as everyone sets their things down. It seems as though all his students have finished both tasks they needed to complete.
Now it’s his turn to try everyone’s dish. Grayson gave me a heads-up that grades aren’t based only on taste but also on technique, efficiency, presentation, cleanliness, and safety.
Grayson slowly moves around the room as the aroma of spices from the stew fills the air, and my stomach envies what he’s doing.
Note to self: eat before the next lab.
As Professor Hayes moves from station to station, I watch every student and note their facial expressions. Some are impassive, others with eyes wide open, but most look eager and nervous, seeking their professor’s approval.
Grayson remains silent, observing each student’s dish before tasting it.
His face remains neutral, showing no emotion, and, one by one, he offers feedback to each student on taste, presentation, cleanliness, and the technique they used while cooking.
Grayson’s comments are constructive, ranging from kind to brutally honest. His tone shifts with the advice, and I once again notice some disappointed faces while others smile slightly.
Then he reaches the final student, Leo.
Although we’ve only spoken once, I can’t help feeling nervous for the guy.
He stands straight and nods to his professor before he eyes the dish. Somehow, he keeps his composure as Grayson studies his dish longer than the others. I can almost see Leo sweating from the three yards between us.
Oh God, even the other students are starting to look at each other because of how long he’s taking just staring at the damn plate.
Checking my watch, I see that four minutes have passed when he finally picks up a fork and eats.
What was that for? He only took a minute with the others.
Nodding, he puts it down, takes a sip from the water glass he’s been carrying to cleanse his palate, then moves on to the dessert.
“Good fricandó,” he simply states, and I see Leo’s body relax slightly. “But your crema catalana needs work. It’s too sweet, and the dessert is meant to be moderately sweet. Are you sure you followed the recipe and research?” Leo’s face shows surprise, and I can tell he’s holding back his reaction.
“Yes, Professor Hayes. I used the exact measurements I was told to.”
Grayson shrugs, and my eyes widen at the smug look on his face when he turns. “I suggest you practice your presentation a bit more this weekend as well.”
Leo slightly parts his lips, his face a little red from what I’m assuming is embarrassment. “Yes, Professor.”
“After cleaning up, you’re all dismissed. Please take the feedback I provided and apply it to next week’s dishes.”
Although everyone cleaned as they were cooking, there are still some dishes left to be washed, and it needs to be done by them. However, I’m curious to see if what Grayson said is true or if I’m just imagining things by thinking he was being petty about Leo asking me out last week.
I’m probably overthinking it. Still, I need to know.
Luckily, I’ve had this exact dessert before when Stevie’s dad visited from Spain and made enough for everyone in the group. He’s also classically trained, and I remember loving it, meaning I also remember what it tastes like.
I jump out of my seat as Grayson heads to talk to one of the students in the back, and I run the nine feet to Leo’s station.
His eyes widen as he wipes the counter. “What are you doing?”
“Give me a spoon.” He hesitates. “I said, give me a damn spoon quickly, come on.”
Leo lets out a short breath, but reluctantly hands me one, and I take a big bite of his dessert. I turn toward where Grayson is, and he’s still facing away. Tasting it carefully, I recall it’s almost exactly like the one Stevie’s dad made.
“Un-fucking-believable.”
“What?” Leo whispers.
I shake my head. “Nothing. It tastes great, Leo.”
He smiles. “Thanks.”
With that, I head back to my seat, my eyes meeting Grayson’s for a moment before I give him a disapproving nod. I thought he was better than this. The dessert wasn’t overly sweet at all.
I may not be a professional, but I’ve traveled a lot and can tell the difference between this dessert and crème br?lée. Maybe I’m wrong, but the narrowing of Grayson’s eyes suggests I’m not, and I plan to stay and find out.
An hour later, almost everyone has left the room. Leo gives me a wink and a wave goodbye. I offer him a small smile and a slight nod.
Then I turn to the man of the hour.
“Is there something I can do for you, Ms. Haywood?” Grayson takes off his chef’s coat, revealing a light green T-shirt that goes with his black pants.
Clearing my throat, I tap my oldest and favorite pair of black stilettos.
“Why were you so harsh with Leo?”
“I gave him some constructive criticism. Why? Did he say something to you?”
I scoff. “He didn’t have to say anything.”
He shrugs. “What I told him was true. The dessert was too sweet.”
“Riiiight,” I drag.
Grayson turns to me and raises an eyebrow. “If you have something to say, Ms. Haywood, then by all means…”
With my heart in my throat, I keep my composure while talking to him.
“I’m trying to keep this professional, and I want to stay out of your way like any other writer would, but I noticed the way the students looked at you.
They seemed uncomfortable with how long you were staring at Leo’s food compared to everyone else’s.
” He remains quiet. “I’m not a professional cook by any means.
I only know how to make scrambled eggs—which are pretty great—but I’m well-traveled and have eaten that dish made by a trained native.
In my opinion, you overexaggerated.” Grayson leans back against the large wooden professor’s station by the front.
His eyes are all over me, scrutinizing me, but I keep going before I lose my nerve.
“Now, I don’t know if I’m going crazy or not, but by the way you reacted last week to him asking me out, your smug look after giving him shit on his dish, and everything else I already mentioned…
I—I can’t help but think it has something to do with me.
” I curse at myself for stumbling over the start of my last statement.
Grayson’s body remains in the same position. His arms are crossed over his chest, his hair is messy from the hat he was wearing, and he continues to lean against his desk station.