Chapter 31
PIP
“Ah, so these are the lovebirds who will be cooking in my kitchen,” says Chef Henri, examining Snickers and me like we’re cadets in his culinary army.
“Chef, a delight to finally meet you,” says Snickers.
But the French chef cuts him off.
“Non! First, we discuss respect. For the ingredients. For the kitchen.” He gestures at the rows of copper pots hanging above us.
“Each pot has been with me twenty years. Each knife”—he caresses a magnetic strip of blades—”is an extension of my soul.”
I catch Snickers rolling his eyes. Though tempted to laugh, I shoot him a warning look instead.
“Now,” Henri declares, “we shall see if America’s favorite couple can handle my precious tools.”
Though the kitchen is large, it’s crowded—with Kit and her team of paparazzi, Chef Henri’s in-house photographers, and his team of sous chefs.
God knows what the chefs are doing here. Probably so Chef Henri’s publicity team can get more material and footage for their own media portfolio.
“The rules are simple,” Henri continues, producing a basket of vegetables with a flourish. “You will prepare the mise en place for my signature dish.”
“Begin chopping the onions,” Henri commands, presenting me with a basket of garden-fresh specimens. “And you, sir, begin with the garlic.”
When the chef’s publicist calls him away, Snickers steps closer to me, his shoulder brushing mine.
The contact sends an unwanted spark through my chef’s whites. “Need help, Pip?” he whispers, just low enough for the cameras to miss.
I grip the knife. “I can handle anything you can, Woodward.”
The knife feels awkward. I’ve never chopped an onion before, and it shows when I lop off a sloppy slice.
“Non, non!” Chef Henri returns suddenly, snatching the knife. “Ze blade must be an extension of your?—”
“Soul?” Snickers mutters beside me.
“Exactement!” Henri beams, missing the sarcasm.
He demonstrates a precise cut, his knife catching the theatrical lighting. “Ze onion must feel your respect before it reveals its layers.”
I try again. The onion slips. Tears well up instantly—partly from frustration, partly from the fumes.
Through my blur, I see Kit capturing every mortifying moment.
“Perhaps,” Henri suggests with exaggerated patience, “ze gentleman would like to demonstrate, since he stands there so... confident?”
Snickers takes up his knife with unexpected grace. The blade moves in smooth, practiced motions.
“Show-off!” I say, with a resigned laugh.
“You can learn too. But you need the right beat. Chef, where’s your sound system?”
“My carefully curated playlist is perfect for?—”
“For putting everyone to sleep. And creating badly cut onions.” Snickers smirks at me before pulling out his phone. “I’ve got something better. I just need to hook it up.”
Five minutes later, the kitchen pulses with a catchy, rhythmic beat as Snickers guides my hands back to the knife.
His body aligns with mine, teaching without words.
The PR teams appear mesmerized by our synchronized dance.
“The onion is your turntable,” he murmurs close to my ear. “Each slice drops like a track.”
My face heats, but my cuts grow more confident.
“Magnifique!” Henri declares, his earlier drama forgotten. “Ze rhythm, ze passion—c’est parfait!”
Kit circles us like a shark, her camera capturing every angle.
“Ready to level up?” Snickers reaches past me for a bell pepper. “This is where the real mixing begins.”
We move through the kitchen like a well-oiled machine. Snickers calls out ingredients, and I pass them without hesitation. When he needs space, I step left. When I reach for the salt, he’s already handing it over.
“You two,” Kit murmurs, adjusting her lens. “The way you move...”
She’s right. We’ve fallen into an effortless dance, bodies in sync with the music and each other.
I nearly drop a pan of shallots, but Snickers’ hand catches mine, steadying it.
Our fingers linger a moment too long.
The sous chefs have caught our rhythm, chopping and stirring to the beat.
“Time for plating,” Snickers says softly, his hand brushing my lower back as he reaches for the garnish. The touch feels electric, deliberate.
The plating station gleams under the lights. Snickers demonstrates the sauce design—three precise swoops, a dot of herb oil. I mirror his movements, though mine wobble slightly.
“Better than your onion massacre,” he teases, reaching around me to adjust my plate.
His chest presses against my back, and for a moment, I forget about the cameras, the kitchen—everything except his nearness.
A crash from the dining room breaks the spell. One of Henri’s chefs has dropped a tray, sending the PR teams scrambling.
“Perfect timing,” Clare announces, materializing beside us. “And time to change for dinner.”