Chapter 22 A Spoonful of Truth
A Spoonful of Truth
— T ODAY —
Someone enters the kitchen, and as my eyes meet Ian’s, I quickly turn away. He’s not wearing one of his sweaters tonight, just an old black T-shirt and gray joggers I want to quickly erase from my mind. We haven’t talked in over forty-eight hours, since Baguette Day, and it’s been miserable. If there’s anything worse than not knowing where he is, with whom, doing what, it’s knowing he’s close, with Ella, just out of my reach.
“Sorry, I—” He points at the cabinet. “Ella wants tea.”
“Go ahead,” I say, staring at the oven.
“What are you doing?”
My brows pinch. “As the manager of a French restaurant, you should be able to recognize—”
“ Why are you making macarons?”
“Barb had a craving.”
Utensils clink as he scavenges for tea inside the cupboards. I know where it is, but I’m not too inclined to help. If Ella wants tea, how about she comes and makes it for her damn self? “What flavors are you making?”
“Strawberry white chocolate, mango buttercream, and blueberry mascarpone.”
He walks to me, looking inside the oven with a thoughtful expression. “Damn. How long have you been here for?”
“A few hours. I’ll need as many to finish and clean up.”
Settling by my side, he fidgets with the bag of flour. “Ella’s macarons are highly regarded by our customers, you know? Maybe we should make it a competition. You guys can let your egos battle and get it over with.”
My eyes move to his. “I’m not sure, Ian. I wouldn’t want to humiliate you.”
“Wouldn’t you?” he asks with a sly smile as his gaze drops down to his crotch.
“I’ve done nothing to humiliate you. I’m not responsible for your…” I point downward, then realize I shouldn’t point downward and tuck my hand in my pocket. “Your baguette.”
“It got just the right amount of crunchy, didn’t it?”
“Ian,” I say, a giggle making its way out despite my best attempt at holding it back.
“You’re right.” He waves me off. “It was as hard as stale bread.”
“The point is”—again I try to stifle my laughter—“I don’t think I’m to blame here.”
He groans, hiding his face in his hands, and I watch him with a big smile straining the muscles of my face. I’ve been dragging myself around for two days, and in the span of a minute, look at the state of me!
“If you wait a minute, I’ll give you some macarons to bring Ella with the tea.”
He glances at them, then at me, his eyes brightening with amusement. “Are they poisoned?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you take a bite?”
Tilting his head, he gives me a look. A “Quit antagonizing me” look. It would be easier if he hadn’t just rejected me a couple of days back.
“No, they’re not poisoned. They’re delicious and made with the correct recipe, which I’m sure Ella isn’t familiar with.”
“Right. Fast food and all.” He lazily waves his hand around and walks back to the cabinet. “Don’t you tire of banging at the same door?”
No, not really. Not until he admits I’m right. The Marguerite serves mediocre food, and mediocre food makes for a mediocre business. “Why don’t you try one?” I ask, grabbing the piping bag and pushing some buttercream onto the blueberry shell. “Eat a proper macaron made with fresh blueberries and real European butter. Done to perfection. Eat it in this kitchen instead of one of your premium locations by the beach and tell me cooking is about entertainment.”
“No, thanks,” he says while distractedly digging through cabinets.
No, thanks ? “Come on, eat it.”
As I hold out the macaron and walk up to him, he steps back. “No, I’m all right.”
“Why not? Eat my damn macaron, Ian!”
“I don’t want it.”
“Why the fuck not? Don’t you like blueberries? There’s—”
“It’s not about the blueberries.”
“Take a strawberry one.”
“I don’t want it,” he insists, his chin jerking back as he keeps his distance from the blue macaron in my hands.
“Then a mango one!”
“Amelie, I said no.”
I stomp my feet. “ Why not? Why? ”
He draws a hand through his hair as if he’s fighting to hold something back. His neck muscles tense, and as he turns to me, it’s like the lid pops off. Releasing a breath, he barks, “Because I hate French food!”
He what ?
He lets out an exhale, then shakes his head. “I don’t like French cuisine. In fact, I hate it. It’s disgusting. Everything tastes like butter or onions. And what’s with French cheese? Why does it smell so fucking bad?” He widens his arms. “Huh? Tell me, what’s so good about Brie? It smells like feet and tastes like nothing, Amelie. Like nothing.”
He takes one of my macarons and studies it. “And you want me to eat macarons? They’re terrible. A sugar crust filled with more fucking butter.” He drops it onto the tray and turns to me, wiping his fingers on his T-shirt. “Plus, I…” He averts his eyes and shyly admits, “I’m lactose intolerant.”
We stare at each other. That’s why he didn’t know who I was before we met here. How he never saw the article. Because he doesn’t care .
He doesn’t research French cuisine, doesn’t study the competition, and has no qualms with my father either. He didn’t know about my restaurant, didn’t know I wasn’t working at La Brasserie—didn’t know anything at all. Because he doesn’t like French cuisine, and therefore, he doesn’t care.
“You…” My chest deflates with an exhale, and as he rubs his forehead, he chuckles. I do, too, my necklace clinking against the counter as I bend forward. “You hate French cuisine.”
His hand cuts through the space between us in a decided gesture. “Hate it.”
“But… bouillabaisse? Coq au vin? Confit de canard ?”
He grimaces. “Yeah, and snails, frogs’ legs, pork feet. Oh, and foie gras.” With a tremble, he brings a fist to his mouth. “Disgusting.”
Holding on to the counter, I laugh so hard, my entire body shakes and my chest spasms. I can’t even keep my eyes open, but as I peek through my lashes, Ian is smiling down at me.
“How can you not like fine dining? You work at the Marguerite, Ian. That makes no sense.”
“I just don’t.” He gives me a casual shrug, then glares at the stick of butter on the counter. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”
“Since yesterday ?” I shriek. “Why not?”
“Because Ella pissed me off right before lunchtime, and when we sat down for dinner, they served us steak tartare.” He waves as if just speaking of it is making him nauseous. “Raw meat. Atrocious.”
I can’t help another burst of laughter, and the way he gently scolds me with his gaze makes my heart flutter. “If I cook something for you, will you eat?”
His shoulders tense. “Something French?”
“Nothing French,” I reassure him with a gentle smile. “It’ll surprise you to know that’s not all I can cook.”
He gets up and follows me to the fridge to scan the fresh ingredients. Even just the color and smell of fresh vegetables make me smile. “How do you feel about pasta?”
“One of the few dishes you need a fork for that’s just as good as cutlery-free food.”
As I grab shallots and asparagus, Ian tentatively hums. When I look up at him, he gives me an apologetic shrug. “Those are green.”
Oh, right. He doesn’t eat anything green.
“Don’t you need to bring Ella tea?” I ask as I put both back.
He leans against the closed side of the fridge. “In a minute.”
I shuffle back to the counter and set my loot on the wooden cutter. I put a large saucepan of water on to boil, then finely chop some pancetta. Once the pecorino cheese is grated, I grab some eggs.
“You remember I’m lactose intolerant, right?” Ian asks as he suspiciously glances at the pecorino. “That means that if I eat cheese, you want to be nowhere near me for a while.”
“Hard cheeses, such as cheddar and Parmesan, and matured cheeses like Brie, Camembert, and feta, contain almost no lactose,” I explain as I beat the eggs in a bowl and season them with a little black pepper, then add the cheese before setting the pancetta in a pan, stirring occasionally as it cooks on medium heat.
After I’ve taken out the last batch of macarons from the oven, he says, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this happy.” He’s sitting on the other side of the counter, his arms on the stainless steel surface.
“Hmm?”
“Not when we video called or when you talked about Frank or…” He bites his bottom lip, lost in thought for a few seconds. “Or ever, really. I’ve never seen you as happy as you are right now, cooking.”
I stir the bacon, the meat turning golden and crispy as the comforting smell fills the kitchen. “It’s my safe space.”
“So, then, why stop? Why haven’t I seen you cooking once this week?”
I throw him a sidelong glance, then add salt to the barely boiling water. Ideally I’d wait longer, but I’ll compromise a little on taste if it comes to avoiding this very uncomfortable topic.
“Having a restaurant fail could undermine one’s confidence. I’d understand if you thought you weren’t as good a cook as you figured.” His gaze is trained on me in the brightly lit kitchen. “But that’s not it. Is it?”
“I’m better than any cook you’ll find in your kitchen,” I tease.
He ignores my retort, his expression thoughtful. “And the trauma of having your dream turn into a nightmare didn’t smother the fun of it, either, obviously.”
“We’ve got you for that,” I whisper. When he gives me a predatory look, I smirk and focus on the bacon.
“So you love cooking.” He raises one finger. “And your arrogance hasn’t diminished at all, unfortunately,” he continues as he raises a second finger. “You love talking about food, you love learning about food, and you love being right.”
With a sigh, I set my ladle down and stare into his eyes. For a few seconds that’s all I do, all he does. We study each other in silence, save for the bacon fat sizzling and the water boiling.
“Are you really going to make me say it, Amelie?”
“Ian, just leave it alone.”
“Unpopular opinion: you quit cooking because you’re afraid of failing again.”
I swallow, grabbing the bag of pasta and emptying half of it into the water. A cloud of vapor rises from the pot and, tucking my hair behind my ear, I stir a couple of times.
“Am I wrong?”
“You are,” I say, and though he watches me attentively, waiting for me to elaborate, I don’t speak. I don’t say that he’s been right all along about Frank and rejecting the possibility of failure led me to deny the clear signs that he didn’t love me. That he didn’t even care .
I’m not afraid to fail. I’ve failed spectacularly at everything already. But there comes a time when you need to give up and admit defeat. I’ve learned this the hard way in my personal life, and I won’t make the same mistake with my dying career.
Once I drain the pasta and add it to the pan with the bacon, I throw in some of the pasta water, too, then the egg-and-cheese mix. Satisfied with the creamy result, I turn the stove off and grab a plate.
Setting the food in front of him, I watch him expectantly. What Ian thinks of my cooking is important, regardless of what’s going on between us. He could reject me a thousand times and I’d still care.
He twirls some spaghetti around his fork, then studies it with a dubious look, like an animal that’s been poisoned one too many times and doesn’t trust the food it’s given. When he finally chews, he does so slowly until he begins nodding. “This is delicious.”
The soft, glorious tingle of victory moves up my spine. “It’s because I used the best ingredients and—”
Throwing his head back, he snaps, “Settle down, Amelie. You’re ruining dinner.”
“Fine, fine.”
He resumes eating. “So you won’t tell me why your restaurant failed.” He finishes chewing before going back for more. “And you won’t admit you’re terrified of failing again, and that’s why I haven’t seen you cook once before tonight.” Bringing the fork to his lips, he smirks. “Looks like you’re keeping a lot of secrets.”
“Funny you should say that,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee and making it a point not to look away from him. “Because I have a few questions myself.”
“Like what?”
Like what? he says. Setting my cup down, I give him a pointed look. “Like why are you managing the Marguerite if you hate it? Do you know how hugely hypocritical of you that is?”
“ Hugely hypocritical?” he asks with an amused smile.
“Hugely. You pestered me for half a year about standing up for myself—you called me a coward just a few days ago—and now it turns out you work a job you hate?”
His lips press together as he looks down at his plate. When he glances at me, he nods. “All right. Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”
I don’t even pretend to consider it, since I have about a billion questions to ask him. “Fine. Go on.”
“Yeah, right. I fell for that once already.”
With a groan, I sit on the stool on the other side of the island and absentmindedly trace the rim of my cup. I can’t tell him much about the last few months of my life, not without involving his father, but I can own up to my fears. “I’m not afraid to cook, Ian. I know I’m a great chef, and I’m not here because of my father. Sure, being Hammond Preston’s daughter makes me privileged, but I’m a talented cook regardless of him.”
“Is that what the article said?” he asks in a soft, worried voice. “That you’re just your father’s daughter?”
“Yeah. Among many other things.” It’s like the words have been burned into my brain. “Sometimes you just have to accept you failed and move on. Clinging to a collapsed fantasy doesn’t magically fix it.” When he gives me a sad smile, I straighten and square my shoulders. “I don’t want to cook professionally anymore. That’s it. Only for me and, well, for you.”
He smiles down at his pasta and, leaning forward, takes hold of my wrist and squeezes gently. The gesture sends my heart into a frenzy. “Amelie, you’re not—”
“No, no,” I say, stopping him. “I showed you mine. Now you show me yours, remember?”
With a sigh, he pulls his hand back. “Right. Hmm…” He rubs his shoulder. “Where to start.”
“Start from the beginning,” I say as I gather the butter, fruit, and sugar I used to make macarons.
He inhales deeply, his jaw tense as he fidgets with the fork in his hand. “Okay. I told you about my mom and her stupid-ass plan to get me to reconsider marriage.”
Sure. She left him only half of his inheritance and stipulated he’d get the rest if and when he got married. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Well”—his eyes dart to the stick of butter—“her inheritance is the Marguerite.”
My mouth hangs open as I piece it all together. Ian said his mom died about ten years ago, and the Marguerite was opened only a year before. “The Marguerite was your mom’s?”
“Mm-hmm.” He picks at a piece of pancetta. Then, suddenly, there’s a look of disgust on his face. “Ugh—the smell.” Using a napkin to wrap the butter, he looks around, places it in my bag, then pushes it toward me. “Oof. Much better.” When I roll my eyes, he continues. “So you already know my dad used to work as an accountant.”
Oh, I know. It’s one of my go-to insults for him.
“My mom was the cook. She didn’t come from a long line of geniuses like the Prestons,” he says with a teasing smile, “but she was talented. Her family was well-off, so she never worked. We would often cook together for family and friends.” He eats a forkful of pasta and sighs. “Eventually, she decided to open the Marguerite. My dad quit his job to help her manage it, and the dream was that one day I’d cook alongside her.”
“You?” I can’t help my surprise. “Cooking?”
“Well, don’t sound so fucking shocked, Amelie.” He balls up another napkin and throws it at me. “Damn chefs. I swear to God, only doctors are as self-important as you guys.”
“Hey!” I half-heartedly pout, then add, “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Anyway,” he says with a reprimanding glance, “I sucked. I was just… terrible. Anything I touched turned into inedible, carbonized shit, and my mom would tell me comforting lies. How I’d improve with time and one day I’d become the best chef in the world.” Smiling regretfully, he shakes his head. “I lost interest after she died. Maybe I just grew out of it; maybe it wasn’t fun once she was gone. I don’t know. I was still basically a kid.” He takes a sip of water, then sets the glass down. “When my mom passed, my dad took over. Hired a bunch of chefs to teach him the ropes and help us keep the business going, and it obviously worked.”
I manage to hold back my snarky comment, and he must notice, because he chuckles, his tongue darting over his bottom lip. “The point is, I lost interest and turned to management. I love my job, Amelie. I wouldn’t do it otherwise.”
“But you hate French cuisine,” I insist.
“I do, but I love the Marguerite. I love working with my dad every day, and I love seeing my mom’s dream coming true.” He inhales deeply. “It became our thing, you know? The Marguerite is my and my dad’s dream. Every time I enter the restaurant, well…” He tilts his head. “I gag because of the smell. But then I see my mom in everything. In the floor tiles she chose, in the dent she made on the counter when she dropped a whole box of champagne bottles.” He chuckles, his sad eyes glistening. “And since I won’t make her other dream come true, I’m happy I found a way to work at the Marguerite.”
Her other dream. Him getting married.
How awkward.
He must feel a similar way, because he looks down at his plate and cheerfully adds, “But I have to say, Amelie, I’d be happier to get to work every day and smell this. It’s so delicious, I’m regretting the ‘Everything’s butter with butter’ tweet.”
I stand so abruptly my stool nearly tips back. “ You? ” I gasp. “You were behind the tweets!”
“I—” He glances away as he sets his fork down. “Y-yes. I assumed you figured it out.”
“Stop assuming I know things, Ian!”
“Sorry, sorry!” He chuckles, raising both hands in defeat. “I immediately knew it was you. As soon as I found out who you were.”
My shoulders rise and drop, my heart beating fast in my chest as I think of all the times I wished my secret Twitter enemy would get instant diarrhea. “Oh my God,” I shout as I stomp around the island. “Valentine’s Day! We got hate messages for a month, you horrible—”
He stands, too, taking a few steps back as he cackles. “Well, shit, sorry. I didn’t know it was you at the time. You have to admit, it was pretty fucking funny, though.”
My nostrils flare.
With his smile deepening, he bites his lower lip. “If you’re going to punch me again, that’s how you hold your fist, beautiful,” he says, showing me the front of his clenched hand. My eyes meet his, my anger evaporating in a second, and maybe that’s when the realization hits him, too, because he lowers his hand as his smile dies. “Oh, I… Amelie . I meant… Amelie.”
I tentatively walk closer, his chin tilting down as he keeps his eyes on mine. I’m pretty sure everything in me is screaming at him to kiss me, but his pain peeks through so clearly I can feel it reflected inside me.
He’s never going to move past how much I hurt him, is he? What can I do to earn his forgiveness?
I gently hold his wrist, my finger tracing the shape of the daisy tattooed on his left forearm. Marguerite. First one petal, then the other, then the one after that. Goose bumps break out over his skin, and once I look up, he stares at my lips with his jaw flexed.
My fingers part from his skin, though it’s the very last thing I’d like to do, but before I can fully withdraw, he rubs the palm of his hand against my knuckles and leans forward.
Everything’s eerily silent, so much so that I’m afraid he might notice the way my heart is beating out of my chest, and despite the defeated look in his eyes, he’s definitely in agreement. I rise on tiptoes and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth to test the waters. He exhales. I do it again, and again, and I receive no answer but a puff of hot air. When I touch his cheek, he takes a step back and holds a hand over his eyes. “Amelie…”
“I’m sorry… sorry,” I rush to say. I walk to the sink, grabbing my cup on the way, and begin washing it. I’m pretty sure my skin is melting from the humiliation. It’s agonizing.
“No, it’s not your fault,” he mumbles. “But I should probably go.”
Oh, fuck this.
I slam the cup on the counter, then turn to him, tears pooling in my eyes. He keeps pushing me away, then pulling me closer. Push and pull, push and pull. “Yeah, maybe you should.”
“What— you’re angry?” he snaps.
“Yes, I’m angry. You keep sending me all these mixed signals, Ian. You look at me as if there’s nothing to save between us, you get hard for me, you let me kiss you.” Tears run down my cheeks, and I quickly brush them away.
“Oh, am I frustrating you because I can’t make up my mind?”
I roll my eyes at his scornful tone. “You know it’s not the same thing.”
He steps closer, his shoulders squared and a cold expression on his face. “You think this shit is easy for me, Amelie? You think I’m not struggling?” he complains. “We didn’t end because my feelings for you changed. I didn’t stop wanting you. Do you think I don’t want to kiss you?”
“Then why don’t you?” I ask, hating how whiny my voice sounds.
“Because everything that happened between us just proved me right, Amelie. I don’t want a girlfriend; I don’t want my happiness to depend on someone else. And if we were to…” He swallows. “It’s not just physical, and I can’t be with you after everything that happened. After you didn’t choose me.” He rubs his forehead as he exhales deeply. “But trust me, I’ve wished I could drag you back to my room since I saw you across the hall of this hotel.” He shakes his head, a frustrated laugh bursting out of him. “Actually, I’ve wished to since I saw you at Barbara’s wedding, and I’ve never stopped. I’ve wanted you for a whole year, every single day.”
When I say nothing, he sighs, then looks down at the floor. “It’s important to me that you know this isn’t a Frank thing. It’s not that I don’t fucking crave you, because I don’t think I’ll ever stop.” With trepidation, he looks up at me. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I whisper. Unfortunately, it offers only minimal relief.
We stand, silently watching each other for a while, until he points at the door. “Well, I’ll go.”
“Okay,” I whisper again.
He turns to leave, and like every time he’s walked away from me, it’s like a knife to my stomach. As though blood were gushing out and I slowly lose my life’s essence with the awareness that the only person who can save me is abandoning me. The sense of urgency, of every second that’s passing and how I’m losing him more and more every day crashes over me.
“What if it was just sex?” I blurt.
He halts and watches me carefully over his shoulder, his hand on the doorframe. “What?”
“What if we agree to just have sex?”
He slowly turns, lips parted, until he smiles. “I don’t think we could manage that, could we?”
“Me?” I ask. That’s who he’s talking about. It’s pretty clear. “I can.”
“And it’s not just a way to get me to change my mind about—”
“I’m offended you’d suggest that, honestly.” Sure, I hope he’ll fall in love with me all over again, but that’s regardless of the sex. Do I think sex could help? Yes, but it’s not why I want to have sex with him.
He’s Ian. I’ve wanted him for a whole year, despite lying to myself for so long. “Just forget about it.”
I turn to the sink and continue washing my cup, the high-pitched sound of running water the only one in the kitchen. Once I’m done, I set the cup down and turn around to find Ian still there, staring at me.
After studying my questioning expression for a while, he nods. “Okay. One night.”