Chapter 3 #2
Max is apparently important enough to be immortalized alongside the household names that everybody knows, which is hella intimidating.
My heart hammers against my ribs, but I force my expression to remain neutral.
One trembling hand or wavering glance, and Max will pounce on my vulnerability like it's wounded gazelle day at the corporate watering hole.
He’s obviously trying to psyche me out because he’s not saying a word. He’s just studying me. Taking in my wind-swept hair, my chipped nails, my Plato’s closet get-up and now he’s staring at my boots.
I’m tempted to give him a word-vomit excuse for the Nora Davis debacle, but keep my mouth shut. That’s probably the wisest thing to do right now because I’m trying to figure him out and talking right now would be counterproductive.
“Ms. Jenkins,” he finally says after what seems an interminable amount of time.
His voice is clipped, measured, yet still drips out like warm honey.
He has the voice of a billionaire CEO, despite his obviously tender age - baritone, smooth, magnetic.
I could just imagine him leading board meetings, spell-binding everyone around the conference table.
If his intimidating looks don’t enthrall them, his commanding voice certainly would.
“You did know what kind of club this is? And that this restaurant has three Michelin stars?”
Three Michelin stars? I wasn’t even aware that three Michelin stars was possible. I know that one Michelin star means excellent, but I thought the Michelin designations stopped with that.
And anyhow, I should be indignant that he’s clearly judging me for my clothes. If he wanted me to roll up head-to-toe in Chanel or Prada like the rest of these ladies, then he needs to personally buy me a new wardrobe.
“What do you mean, three Michelin stars?” I ask.
“There are millions of restaurants in the world,” he says.
“Approximately 20 million or more. And there are just over 150 restaurants with three Michelin stars. In the world. You are about to dine at one of them.” Then he looks down at my boots again.
“So it’s inappropriate and disrespectful to show up in Rainbow Doc Martens. ”
I take a deep breath and feel my defensive hackles rise.
Finally, my inner Norma Rae is about to make an appearance.
Like the iconic union organizer who used her voice to lift up other downtrodden workers who were being steamrolled by corrupt and wealthy bosses, I’ll use my voice to tell Max that he can’t treat girls like me disrespectfully without being called out on it.
“Max,” I say.
“Mr. Kensington,” he says. “Address me formally.”
Address me formally? Oh, no he didn’t. Now he really is acting like a king about to throw a lowly peasant into a dark dungeon for no good reason at all.
“Max,” I say again, narrowing my eyes. He narrows his eyes right back, takes another sip of his wine and I feel like I’m about to burst into flames right in front of him.
“You gave me zero notice about this meeting.” He still hasn’t offered me a glass of wine, so I take the bottle of wine and pour it into the empty glass and take a sip.
"I didn't exactly have time to shop on Rodeo Drive, and even if I did, I couldn’t afford anything in any of those stores. This one Baccarat crystal wine glass probably costs more than what I take home in a month. I can't help but wonder if you chose this place knowing I wouldn’t fit in.” I smooth my napkin across my lap, meeting his eyes directly.
"If the goal was to make me feel like shit, I should tell you—it didn’t work.
I couldn’t care less about what these people think about me, and as for your opinion of me...
” I pause, a small smile playing on my lips. “My ability to care is subterranean.”
I close my eyes, expecting him to whip out his phone right at that moment and call Iris and demand my firing.
Instead, when I open my eyes, he has a casual smile on his beautiful face.
I’m not at all sure what that smile means - it could be that he’s trying hard to tamp down rage and doesn’t like to lose control, so he smiles to cover up.
That happens a lot. Or it could mean he’s amused by me.
Which means he’s not taking me seriously. Which option is worse? Hard to tell.
“Well,” he finally says. “At least you used the phrase ‘couldn’t care less’ properly. Most people say ‘could care less,’ which means the opposite of what they’re trying to say.”
"Well done me," I say, forcing my lips into a tight smile while my fingers curl into my palm, nails digging half-moons into my skin. The urge to call out his patronizing tone burns in my throat like acid reflux.
“So, the topic at hand,” he says. “Nora Davis.” Then the waiter comes around to take our order and I realize I haven’t even looked at a menu. Saved by the bell, though. I’m putting off my execution for a few more minutes.
“I’m sorry,” I say to the waiter. “I haven’t had a chance to look at the menu.”
The waiter glides away and returns with a prix fixe menu bound in soft leather.
I scan the offerings: butter-poached lobster with black truffle emulsion, A5 Wagyu beef carpaccio with shaved white alba truffles, caviar service with mother-of-pearl spoons, and a champagne-infused risotto with gold leaf.
Nothing appeals. The foie gras torchon with Sauternes gelée?
Absolutely not. I've seen the videos of force-fed geese and can't stomach the cruelty. The seafood tower looks good with its promise of Alaskan king crab and oysters, but there, nestled between them: abalone, the endangered shellfish, harvested to near extinction, their numbers dwindling in the Pacific. I consider the lobster, but those poor creatures are boiled alive, so I can’t possibly order that, either.
Max is waiting for me to decide what to order, his manicured fingers drumming against the white tablecloth, each tap sending tiny ripples through my water glass.
His sharp green eyes keep darting between me and his Patek Philippe, and I'm quite sure he wants me to hurry the hell up so he can commence yelling at me about the Nora Davis thing.
So I'm somewhat deliberately taking my time with the menu, pretending to be fascinated by the difference between the pan-seared and herb-crusted salmon, because I really don't want to get to the main course just yet - the main course being his dressing me down.
I flip the page hopefully and spot a few vegetarian options tucked at the bottom: a roasted heirloom carrot tartare with black truffle and smoked almond cream, followed by wild mushroom risotto with aged balsamic and microgreens.
Even the dessert—a coconut panna cotta with passion fruit coulis—seems crafted for someone like me.
“I’m ready,” I say, handing Max back the menu.
Max signals the waiter again, who appears and takes our orders.
Max orders the seafood tower and chocolate soufflé with Grand Marnier and hand-churned vanilla bean ice cream for dessert and I order my carrot tartare and risotto with the coconut panna cotta coulis for dessert.
“And the abalone medallions for our first course,” Max says and I cringe. I’d rather have the garden heirloom tomato salad, and, anyhow, he’ll be eating abalone with his main course. Why would he want that for our first course too?
“Very good, Mr. Kensington,” the waiter says with a bow.
“Uh, wait,” I say to the waiter and then I glance at Max.
“"I'd like the heirloom tomatoes as my first course,” I say to the waiter, pointing to the vibrant display of misshapen fruits—some striped purple and green, others sunset orange—arranged artfully on crisp white plates at a nearby table. "Thank you."
The waiter takes my order and then disappears.
Max is now looking at me with an indiscernible expression.
"You're making a mistake in not ordering the abalone," he says, leaning forward slightly, his platinum cufflinks catching the amber light from the restaurant's crystal chandeliers.
"It's delicious—tender as butter. Very prized and rare.
The chef simmers it in a reduction of Sauternes and black truffle.
You won't find abalone on most menus, especially not prepared like this. "
“Exactly,” I say. "Abalone's rare on menus these days, and for good reason.
They've been fished almost to extinction.
Conservation efforts have only just started to make a dent after decades of damage.
Putting them on a menu now? It's like advertising you don't give a damn about the ocean's future.
I can't support that—not with my name, not with my business, not with my conscience. "
His mouth quirks up at one corner—a movement so slight I almost miss it—and the skin beside his eye creases just enough to notice. When he tilts his head, light catches those green eyes, turning them amber-gold like whiskey in crystal. Is that amusement? I can't be sure.
“Have you ever used the phrase ‘a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle’ by any chance?” he asks.
“No, but that Gloria Steinem quote is a good one. Why do you ask?”
"I'm trying to figure you out," Max says, his green eyes narrowing as they studied my face. His voice dropped to a quieter register, almost contemplative. "You're not afraid of me. Everyone else is."
“Should I be?”
Max's shoulders snap back, the movement rippling through his tailored jacket like a predator flexing before the kill.
"When I walk into conference rooms, executives who make ten times your salary practically piss themselves trying to escape.
" His mouth curls into something too sharp to be a smile.
"Yet here you are, staring me down like you've got nothing to lose. Most people in your position wouldn’t be.”