Page 5 of Fall Surprises
Rory raised an eyebrow but didn't comment, merely nodding as I headed for the door. I saw her knowing smile as I left, but chose to ignore it.
The journey up the grand staircase gave me ample time to question my decision. What was I hoping to accomplish? An apology? A truce? Or was I simply letting my ego drive me into another confrontation? The tray felt heavier with each step, andI found myself rehearsing what I might say. Something neutral. Nothing that would reignite our earlier clash.
By the time I reached the Maple Room, my resolve was wavering. I balanced the tray with one hand and raised the other to knock, but paused when I noticed the door was slightly ajar.
Through the gap, I could see a different Samantha Maxwell. Her bun had been released, long chestnut brown hair cascading over her shoulders as she ran frustrated fingers through it. She'd removed her jacket, and the simple white blouse underneath revealed more of the woman than the businesslike exterior had. She sat surrounded by binders, a laptop, and at least two phones, looking utterly exhausted and surprisingly vulnerable.
The sight caught me off guard. Her shoulders were hunched forward, and even from where I stood, I could see the tension in her neck and jaw. She looked like someone who'd been holding everything together through sheer force of will and was finally allowing herself a moment to crack.
I knocked gently on the door frame, suddenly feeling like an intruder on a private moment.
Her head jerked up, eyes widening in surprise when she saw me standing there. She immediately reached for her glasses on the desk and shoved them back on, as if they were part of her armor. The transformation was instant—vulnerable woman to consummate professional in the space of a heartbeat.
"Mr. Ramsey," she said, her voice carefully controlled. "I wasn't expecting you."
"Just Gus is fine," I replied, stepping into the room with the tray. "Thought I'd bring this up myself. Soup's best served immediately."
Her gaze followed my movements as I set the tray down on the small table by the window, and I felt uncomfortably self-conscious. In my kitchen, I never questioned my actions, but under her scrutiny, I felt oddly exposed. It was the same feelingI'd had during my first day at culinary school, plating food for Chef Brodeur's critical eye.
"I figured you should eat something substantial after traveling," I explained, hearing myself ramble uncharacteristically. "The soup is butternut squash with roasted garlic and sage. The protein is duck breast from a local farm, seared with a maple-black pepper glaze. The bread's sourdough, made with a starter I've been feeding since August."
She approached the table cautiously, as if expecting a trap. "It looks... beautiful," she admitted, sounding almost reluctant to compliment anything I'd created.
"Food's meant to be eaten, not just admired," I reminded her, but without the edge that had been in my voice earlier.
She sat down and carefully unfolded the napkin across her lap—a fluid, elegant movement that spoke of someone accustomed to fine dining. I watched as she dipped her spoon into the soup and brought it to her lips, holding my breath without realizing it.
Part of me wanted her to hate it. To prove she had no taste, no appreciation for real food. It would make dismissing her opinions so much easier.
For a moment, nothing. Then—
Her eyes closed the moment she tasted it, and a soft moan escaped her. The sound hit me with unexpected force, settling somewhere low in my abdomen and sending a rush of heat through my body, and I shifted my stance.
"Oh my God," she breathed, opening her eyes to look at me with genuine surprise. "This is incredible."
The praise shouldn't have affected me so strongly. I'd received compliments from Michelin-starred critics, had write-ups in major food publications, been praised by James Beard nominees. But her reluctant admiration, the way her guarded expression cracked just a little, felt more satisfying than anyreview. Maybe because I knew she hadn't wanted to like it. She'd seemed to come here ready to dislike everything about me, and the food had won her over despite herself.
"It's just soup," I said, shrugging to hide my pleasure at her reaction.
She took another spoonful, then tasted the duck. Her eyes closed again, and I found myself studying the way her features softened when she let her guard down. "No, it's not just soup. The balance of flavors, the texture... this is art, Gus."
I leaned against the wall, watching her eat with a satisfaction I didn't want to feel. Every chef loves to see someone truly enjoying their food, but this felt different somehow. More personal. Like I was being seen, not just my cooking. This was supposed to be a peace offering, not... whatever this was.
After a few minutes punctuated only by her occasional sounds of appreciation, she set down her spoon and looked up at me.
"I may have been a bit... intense earlier," she admitted, surprising me.
"And I may not handle change in my kitchen particularly well," I countered, offering my own olive branch.
An unexpected smile curved her lips, transforming her face in a way that made my chest tighten. "A hazard for both of us, I suppose. Control freaks in our respective domains."
"Something like that," I agreed, returning her smile cautiously.
For a brief moment, I could see us working together rather than against each other, combining her eye for presentation with my culinary vision. The thought was oddly appealing. What could we create if we stopped fighting and started collaborating?
The moment shattered when her phone buzzed loudly from the desk. Instantly, her expression shifted back to businessmode, the vulnerability disappearing behind her guarded expression like a door slamming shut.
"I should let you get back to your work," I said, sensing the brief truce ending. "Breakfast starts at six, but I can have something sent up if you prefer."
