Page 54 of Still Yours
Chef narrows his gaze to where it mirrors mine. “We’ve kept enrollment exclusive to those couples interested in using advanced techniques in the kitchen, not every Joe and Mary who watches the Cooking Channel and wants to try the latest food trend.”
“You’ve basically named all of Falcon Haven.”
He ignores me. “And, using a standard restaurant layout, we assumed those amateur chefs would understand that saidlessons would occur in our open kitchen. But I guess you’re the exception.”
My snarl doesn’t reach across the room, but Noa hears it and sends her heel down on my toes. I bite back a curse, fisting my hands instead.
Chef cocks his lips, amused.
“Again, so sorry.” Noa steps in front of me. “It won’t happen again.”
“Good, because you only get one mistake. You want to cook at a professional level? Start with being on time. Any chef above you would fire you on the spot.”
Noa nods eagerly, like this shithead has any power over her. Oranyone,considering where he’s set up shop.
“Yes, Chef,” she says.
The guy gives a curt nod, satisfied with his little show of authority.
“I’m Chef Bernard Toussaint, but friends call me Saint. You’re not my friends. Get inside to your prep stations where everyone else has set up and wastes their money while waiting on you.”
Noa scurries forward, eager for his approval. I walk behind her, giving him the once-over in tandem to his.
Don’t mind us, just two panthers figuring out where best to leave their mark.
Saint curls his lip at my expression before reaching behind him and revealing two navy blue aprons.
“A welcome gift,” he says.
Yes, I feel so welcome.
Noa accepts it with a genuine smile. It’s followed by a sharp pang in my gut. I remember her using her lips on me like that, and I can barely get a twitch from her these days. But this man? With his chef coat and tattoos and title, gets it in less than a minute.
Noa has the apron straps over her head and is tying it at the back when Saint hands me mine.
I stare down at it hanging limply in his hand. “I’m not wearing that.”
“Oh yes you are.” Noa yanks the apron out of Saint’s hands and tosses the strap over my head with a little jump.
“I didn’t give you permission to touch me,” I grouse. All Noa does is shove me around until she’s in the back and strapping me in.
“You were happy enough wearing your mother’s apron a few weeks ago withGet Your Fat Pants Onwritten in bold at the front,” she says while tying what I can only assume is a double knot so I can’t slip out of the thing.
“Would you like me to bring you that one instead?” she continues.
A huff of sound comes from my left. I don’t care that I dressed up in Ma’s apron, but that Noa said it in front of this guy makes me want to deck him.
“I promise there will be no cameras inside,” Saint says. I detect an undercurrent of sarcasm. “Your status will remain as precious as you normally care for it.”
A muscle tics in my jaw.
“I’ve taken down bigger men than you,” I say. Anything to remove this oily slime from my mouth. “I wasn’t sure, what with you trying to drum up business in the sticks, if you wanted the worldwide attention and expert advice I bring.”
Noa’s gaze flicks to me and she shakes her head in a disappointed arc. That’s enough for me to close my mouth and move me forward.
“Do you see our table?” I ask her.
Attention successfully redirected, Noa leads the way into the back of the restaurant, which is actually a larger space with more tables and an open kitchen. I’ve seen a lot of these typesof restaurants in LA, featuring tables where patrons can watch the chefs cook and see their food being made fresh. Those who prefer an average restaurant experience can sit in the front.
