Page 101 of Still Yours
“Ah. I’m back to an amateur cook.” I scrape the remnants into the trash.
“An amateur with promise.”
“I’ll write that on my next plaque.” I stack the dishes and wipe down my counter. “Or hey, in my online review of this restaurant.”
“Touché.” Saint chuckles. “I’ve said this before, but this was my father’s idea. A way to endear ourselves to this town.”
“Nice work.”
“He didn’t sayIhad to be nice. He’s the man out front, greeting all our patrons by name. I’m the one getting the menu up to standard and offering lessons to people who consider cooking a hobby rather than a serious vocation.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing? Treating this like I would a yoga class or knitting circle? Cooking is in my blood. Becoming a chef was my dream until—” I stop, shake my head. “I guess it’snot a secret anymore. I still can’t say it, though. It’s like it gets stuck in my throat, swallows me whole.”
“I know.”
His acknowledgment stops me short.
When I lift my eyes to his, I’m surprised to find the tropical warmth I assumed he lacked.
“I have a daughter. I can only imagine the pain you felt.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“I can also see the reason behind your dream. You’re very good, even after all these years with no practice. You have the skill, Noa. The patience and the drive. It’s difficult, working your way up, but if you were willing, there’s no age limit in pursuing a chef’s career.”
My answering laugh comes out uncomfortably. “I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
His direct question makes me stumble. “Because—because I’m needed here.”
“By whom?”
I don’t think Saint means it as hurtful as it comes out. At least, I don’t think he does.
“My patients,” I explain slowly. “People I care about and take care of.”
“And what about yourself? Have you ever heard of self-care?”
“Of course I have,” I scoff. “I just don’t have time for it.”
“Make time,” he snaps, and I jolt. “Most of those under me would’ve burst into tears after what I put you through tonight. Many would’ve quit three weeks ago when we started. But you continued to show up, even when that man of yours told you that you deserved better. But that’s the way of dreams, isn’t it? You’re willing to trudge through a lot of nightmares to reach them.”
“I … it’s too late.”
“It’s never too late.” Saint leans forward, palming my station and bringing us face-to-face. “What if I told you I had an opening for you?”
My eyes go wide. “Here? In this restaurant? I could never. And I don’t know when I’ll feel safe enough to walk through this town, never mind work at a popular restaurant.”
“Not here.” Saint keeps his stare level with mine. It’s disconcerting how darkly handsome he is. How intimidating. “This is my father’s restaurant. Mine is in Paris.”
“Whaaaat?” The word comes out in a nervous melody.
“I’m here as a favor.” His gaze shutters for a moment, telling me he’s not being entirely truthful. “But my restaurants are still very much in business. I could get you in as a commis chef, nothing special, and you could work your way up while attending culinary school. Intakes at Le Cordon Bleu start in January.”
“I’m aware.” My heart rate spikes just hearing him speak of it.
“The only downside is that I’m a very impatient man, and I’d need you to fly over there right about now before I replace you with someone else.”
