Page 35 of Unexpected Pickle
“Really?”
“Sure. Half the hotel staff has thrown themselves at him. Nothing.”
“I see.” But do I? Wasn’t he just pushing me on Chef Moreau?
“You don’t seem like the kind of person who would kiss and tell, but man, if you ever want to dish to the rest of us what it’s like to get your hands on that hard body, we’d be all ears.” She swings the pail as she heads toward the sinks.
Wow. Okay. I guess I knew there was something happening with Hex. He did come to the kitchen all the time. And he showed up at the crepes class.
But we’re such opposites. And what if he’s only chasing me because it’s a novelty to need to? I’m sure nobody else has held out for months. Not evenminutes.
I tuck a loose strand of hair into my cap and straighten the towel in my belt. It doesn’t matter. Max is paying for me to take a nutrition class. I’ll see what Hex is up to after hours.
I find the other chefs in the makeshift classroom at the back of the restaurant. Like at breakfast this morning, several tables are pushed together so we can present our food.
My lunch got torched, but everyone is aware of what happened. Chef Moreau waves at me and points to an empty seat. He has split his potatoes and fish onto two plates. He slides one to me. “Didn’t want you to go hungry,” he says.
Maybe Hex was right.
This is so strange. Moreau is handsome and distinguished in the field. If we worked together, I’d have instant prestige. We could be a power chef couple, the kind my dad never got, sharing the long hours that cost him my mother.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
Everything feels upside down. Hex interested? Moreau, too?
In me?
The nutritionist holds up a plate made by a chef from London. “I can tell by the glisten that you relied too much on butter for flavor and moisture. Remember that searing is your friend here, and to avoid adding fats to what originally was a healthy food.”
I taste a bite of Moreau’s potato dish and nearly swoon. “This is ridiculously good.”
“One of my favorites. And no added fats in the cooking.”
“Wow.”
The nutritionist looks over at us. “That’s a bonus,” she says. “And I’m sure it’s delicious. But those potatoes will cost you. You are way over the five carbs for this assignment.”
Moreau’s face darkens. “Then why were potatoes on the cart?”
“To trick you.” She turns to lift another plate. “Now this is the one to beat. Low fats. Perfect greens. Naturally juicy cooking style. Great work, Chef. Everyone, go ahead and take your lunch.”
Moreau mutters under his breath. He sure can’t take criticism.
“It’s all right. At least yours didn’t go up in smoke,” I tell him.
“That wasn’t your fault. It was that dumb dolt who shouldn’t even be here.”
My fork freezes. “That’s not very kind.”
“It wasn’t too kind of him to torch your lunch, either.”
“He’s not very experienced.”
“Then he shouldn’t be in the same retreat as the rest of us!”
The chef in front of us turns around. “It didn’t sell out. They were taking anyone. It’s the weather. Too unpredictable in February.”
“Waste of my time.” Moreau tosses his cloth napkin onto the table. “Maybe this whole retreat is.”
