Page 149 of Boss of the Year
“Sure. Hold on.”
A moment later, Xavier replaced Frankie’s face on the screen. “What’s on your mind?” he asked, as direct as ever.
“I…” I paused as I finished pouring the custard mixture over the onions, feeling Xavier’s eyes appraising every move. I slid it into Louis’s temperamental oven, then stood up straight and slung the dishrag I’d been using as a potholder over my shoulder.
Why was I so nervous?
Because you want this, Lucas’s voice came to me, unbidden. Jerk.
But the voice was right. Something had occurred to me late last night. Something that might have only occurred to me had I not been fully wrenched out of my fantasies concerning any man with the last name of Lyons and forced to examine my life on my own.
What do you want, Marie? Lucas had asked me.
Finally, without him or Daniel or anyone else, I thought I might have an answer.
“I have an idea,” I finally blurted, “for a restaurant. And since that’s what you do for a living, I wanted to propose it to you.”
Xavier’s brow lifted over one of his piercing blue eyes. “Go on.”
“Outside Paris, but not too far. In a village or commune people can reach by train.” I took a deep breath. “We’d serve classics. Comfort food. But also, things no one has eaten. It would be a place where young chefs can come to try out new things in a low-stakes environment. Hone their craft before they move on. Like young artists in residence, but for chefs.”
Xavier rubbed his chin as he considered. “You want to do this in France?”
I opened my mouth to say it it could be anywhere—outside New York, London, wherever Lea was planning to move.
But, no, I realized. That wasn’t what I wanted.
France was the place I’d discovered who I was outside the scope of my family and Prideview. It was the place I’d returned to when I felt lost again.
“Yes,” I found myself saying. “I want to do it here.”
Once I got started sharing my ideas, it wasn’t hard to keep going. I knew the restaurant would be in a village, the kind where I could get to know the residents and the people I cooked for. It would be close enough to a large market to get the ingredients I needed for seasonal dishes, but far enough from the city to have reasonable rent and a cozy atmosphere.
Xavier listened with clear-eyed patience, with none of the interruptions I was used to from my family members.
“It’s a good idea. And I like the idea of nurturing future talent,” he said after I finished. “But you need more experience working in a restaurant and with the business side of things too. I can’t invest in a new chef without that. If you’re serious about this, you shouldstagein Paris for a while. Learn the business side, not just the cooking. I’ve a friend who can help you get a visa.”
It wasn’t exactly what I’d been hoping for, but it wasn’t a no either. “I—that won’t be necessary. I’ll want to find my own place.”
“You want to prove you can do it without connections.”
“Yes.”
“That’s admirable. And stupid.” But he was smiling slightly.
I shrugged. “Nevertheless. Let me try first.”
“What about the Lyons family? They’ll expect you back, won’t they?”
“I suppose I’ll be sending in my letter of resignation, along with a formal request for an excellent letter of reference given the circumstances.”
“Cutthroat. I like it. Just what you need to run a restaurant.”
After he signed off, I sat in Louis’s tiny kitchen, waiting for my tart to finish baking. The apartment smelled like caramelized onions and melted gruyere—a comfortable start to my plan.
For the first time since I’d fled London, I felt like I could breathe properly.
The sound of keys in the lock jangled me out of my thoughts as Louis entered.
