“How much do you remember?” He watched me warily as he picked up a cup from a room service cart.
“I remember drinking...a lot. And your...speech. And flipping your boyfriend off. That was awesome.”
Blurry flashes of Lassiter I couldn’t quite make sense of flooded my mind. I swallowed hard.
Shit. What had I done? Making myself vulnerable to the one person who had the power to break me again hadn’t been in the plan.
I cleared my throat and tried to pull myself together until I remembered my missing date. “Where’s Lily?”
“Your girlfriend?”
“She’s not my girlfriend. She’s a girl who’s a friend.”
He rolled his eyes. “Trevor is my manager and friend. Just my friend.”
“From the look of things last night, I’m sure Trevor would be first in line for the J Train.”
“Shit, Ethan. How many times do I have to tell you Trevor is a friend? I’m sure I could talk his latest flavor of the month into vouching for him.” He avoided looking at me and instead took a huge gulp from his mug. “This is way too much to discuss until we’ve both had coffee.”
“Just calling it like I see it. If you didn’t want to know my opinion, you shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“You’re right, which like last night, I immediately regret.”
I hid my wince at his words. Even though I regretted last night, too, it still hurt to hear Lassiter say it. I tried to keep the petulance out of my voice as I asked, “You regret what?”
He let out a deep breath, his tired blue eyes meeting mine. “I just think...there’s a lot we should talk about. Eight years is a long time.”
As his eyes raked over my face, I felt my body respond against my will and more flashes of last night came roaring back. The confusion I’d felt when I had heard his speech. The way I’d instinctively responded when he had pulled me close onstage and congratulated me. I remembered my anger when Trustfund had tried to get him to leave, even though I had tried to push him away myself. I saw us entering his hotel room and Jamie getting pissed and shoving me in the cold shower, which I had deserved. I remembered the indescribable warmth in my chest when Jamie had toweled me off and helped me into my clothes. The way he’d responded when I’d kissed him, much like he had over eight years earlier.
My extremely hungover brain found it difficult to reconcile the kind Jamie who’d given a speech that had put a lump in my throat with the Jamie who’d been cold and unfeeling. The one who’d professed how much he’d loved me before with the one who’d dumped me via an impersonal message. The Jamie who’d touched me like the world was ending with this wary one who stared at me like I was a stranger.
I looked away, too confused and raw to handle the unexpected complications. I had planned to come to New York to get the award for the restaurant and book it back to Seattle. I wasn’t ready for this. It left me feeling exposed and defenseless. Stalling for time, I crossed my arms over my chest. “So, talk.”
He pulled his phone from his jeans pocket and checked the time. “Unfortunately I can’t right now. I’ve got a TV interview.” He looked down at his phone again, this time his words tentative. “But we could catch up afterward if you want.”
Of course. A TV interview.
His expression was so hopeful I didn’t have the heart to tell him no. This was a bad idea, but I knew I would regret it if I walked away again. The confused muddle of feelings made it difficult to distance myself, but I was tired of running from a ghost. It would give me closure, according to Claire’s psychobabble. I hated how after eight years he still could get to me like this even though he had chosen Trustfund and New York over me.
“Okay, but one question? Where’s my tux?”
* * *
As I followed Jamie, tugging at the collar of his borrowed shirt, I wished he’d had another pair of sunglasses to hide my eyes from the camera flashes as we both climbed out of the hired town car in front of the TV studio. I grumbled and hoped Claire never saw this shit. She’d never let me live it down.
I ducked my head as I followed him through the crowd, opting to stay back as he smiled and signed autographs for his fans.
Fans.
Jamie handled it all with practiced ease. As much as I didn’t understand all this attention and hoopla for a chef, he was a natural at it. He’d built himself up from nothing. While I’d loved the Jamie who had nothing, there was a part of me that was proud of him for showing his parents and the world he could do it all. He’d survived their abandonment and had flourished in the spotlight on his own terms.
When he was finally finished he shot me a shy smile and tipped his head at the stage door. Two security guards waved us through, and I followed Jamie through the maze of wires, backdrops and equipment. He navigated the winding hallways and studio space until we walked into a smaller room with chairs and bright lights set up in front of a bank of mirrors. I snagged his sunglasses, slipping them over my eyes as a swarm of people descended on an exhausted-looking Jamie Lassiter.
Totally ignoring my presence, they attacked his face with makeup, did his hair, and not one but five giggling young interns offered to bring him coffee. I grabbed a bottle of water off a table at the back of the room, content to observe it all and fly under the radar until we could get out of here. When I spotted his asshole manager standing in the doorway behind us, I tensed and turned away from the reflection in the mirror. Trevor, the thorn in my side, just stood there with his jaw clenched and his arms tightly crossed in front of him.
Jamie turned in his chair and waved Trevor inside. “Hey, Trev, I didn’t think you were coming to today’s taping.”
“And let you have all the fun without me? Never.”
Trustfund leaned against the counter covered with every hair and beauty product known to man, blatantly ignoring me as he smiled and thanked the staff. I’d never met him in person before last night, only talked to him a couple of times on the phone. He looked like he’d sounded on the phone, with his refined snooty accent and expensively styled hair and clothes. From the moment Jamie had stepped foot in Paris, Trustfund claimed him as his own, not giving a rat’s ass about anyone else in his life.
I caught Jamie’s glance at me in the mirror. His coloring was slightly darker, thanks to the makeup they’d slathered on his face, and his hair was now gelled into submission. But his eyes were tired and a bit wary as Trustfund handed him a piece of paper.
“Here’s your new schedule. I’ve already emailed you all the details, but hopefully this will help.”
He scanned the page, relief flashing in his eyes. “Thanks, Trev. I really appreciate the trouble you had to go through for this.”
I gritted my teeth as I watched Jamie read over the page again. More interviews and PR gigs, probably. After my web search on him in the hotel yesterday, it was pretty obvious he made the rounds in the media. But it hadn’t been enough. I hadn’t been enough for him eight years ago. When would all of this ever be enough?
A voice from behind us boomed into the room. “Time to get you on the set, Mr. Lassiter.”
His subtle cringe was almost imperceptible, but I caught it before he turned around and smiled at the perky crew member. When had he become Mr. Lassiter? And if my eyes hadn’t deceived me, he was probably asking himself the same question.
Jamie pasted on a fake smile and stood up. “These interviews usually don’t take too long. We’ll still have time to grab lunch afterward.”
I nodded and cleared my throat before answering, “Sure,” not trusting my voice for much more of a reply.
His attempt at a shaky hint of a smile fell flat, not even close to reaching his eyes. The lump in my throat grew and I swallowed hard as I fought the urge to shield him from this circus. At the moment I could have happily hustled him out of the studio, flipping everyone the bird on
the way out. He needed rest and privacy without Trustfund trying to make a buck off him for five seconds. He needed a regular meal that didn’t involve him smiling pretty for cameras. Eight years ago, he’d needed me. But he wasn’t mine anymore to save now, was he? Jamie stared at me for a few more seconds, then shifted his attention back to his manager and best friend. “See you in a bit.”
I watched Jamie leave, the tension from last night surging back as I eyed his manager. The urge to get in Trustfund’s face swelled inside me, but I tamped that shit down. Didn’t want to make a scene in front of a bunch of people wielding cameras. But what kind of best friend refused to see how exhausted Jamie was right now?
Trustfund headed to the door. “I’m going to watch the taping. Try not to steal anything in here while we’re gone.”
My hands tightened into fists. “Fuck off.”
A satisfied smirk slowly spread across his face. “You first, Martin. You’re good at it.”
The words pierced me, a cold rush of anger spreading down my neck. Images of slamming my fist into his face warred with the guilt that roiled in my unsettled stomach. For years I had wanted to blame Jamie for being the one who let our relationship die. But Trustfund’s accusation hit home closer than I wanted to admit. Jamie wasn’t the only one who’d walked away.
I followed him, calling out, “The difference between us? You’re scared your meal ticket might bolt. I’m worried he won’t.”
He muttered “Asshole” under his breath, but kept walking down the hallway to the open door marked Studio. A woman with a clipboard waved us through, then pointed to the green light on top of the camera to our right. “They’re on in thirty seconds.”
Trustfund brushed past me to stand behind the camera, his eyes locked on the stage in front of us. Jamie sat behind a fake kitchen counter covered with pre-made food. The host to his left was pointing to papers in front of them, laughing and joking with him as if she’d known him for years.
The studio lights dimmed, and a spotlight shined brighter on the stage as the lady with the clipboard counted down. “We’re live in five, four, three, two, one.”
Jamie pasted on a wide, fake smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“He’s a natural in front of the camera.” The whisper had come from behind me.
I rolled my eyes at Trevor and tried to focus on what Jamie and the all-too-perky-make-me-want-to-vomit chick sitting next to him were saying.
“James, you have a new cookbook out. Tell us about how it came together.”
His fake smile remained firmly in place as the woman lifted the cookbook and angled the cover toward the camera.
“Well, Gretchen, I was fortunate enough to learn about the basics of French cooking while I was in Paris during my last year of culinary school. Once I came back to the states, I interned under Damian Ford at Cielo here in Manhattan, an excellent chef and teacher. He’d spend countless hours teaching me all the little things important in fine cuisine. It was the best introduction to actually running a kitchen I could have ever hoped for. When Damian left, I took over as executive chef. When I had the opportunity to create this cookbook, I knew I wanted to make techniques accessible to someone who hasn’t had the opportunity to study with a trained master chef. My show, Bistro Cooking: Making French Cuisine Easy and my new cookbook, Spicing Up Your Table, were a way to make the dream a reality.”
“We have a few pictures of you from your time at Cielo. Let’s take a look.”
I watched as Gretchen turned to the screen behind her. Images of Jamie in his chef’s whites scrolled by, one after the other, until a collage of them filled the entire screen. The age progression was startling to see since I had missed it, but what was more disarming was the change in his expression. The photos of a very green James Lassiter showed a young man with excitement and passion in his eyes, his smile warm and genuine. His expression reminded me of Tyler’s, since he’d started to come out of his shell, all curiosity and hunger for knowledge. The ones of Jamie taken a few years later showed a different story. The man in the pictures smiled, but it was smaller, tighter. It was the same smile I had seen in the makeup mirror minutes ago.
As the screen went black, the interviewer and Lassiter continued to talk about his show on the FoodTV channel and I tuned them out. All I could focus on was the dichotomy between a young Jamie and the one before me now.
“What were you thinking coming here? There’s nothing left for you.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’ve been working on that for a while, haven’t you?”
Trevor kept his voice low and conversational. “I know you think you know him, but you know nothing about him. I was there for him when you broke his heart and left him high and dry. I was there when he was lost and alone in not one, but two cities.”
I glared at him, not wanting to ruin Jamie’s interview. Torn between defending myself to Trustfund and trying to hold onto my control for Jamie, I snapped back in a low voice, “It would have been better for him if you hadn’t been such a douchebag.”
“What were you doing besides making him feel like shit for actually going after his dream? You have the nerve to call me a douchebag? Look in the mirror. Jamie is much better off without you.”
Trevor’s eyes burned with satisfaction when he saw me wince. I didn’t want to get into this with him. Not with Jamie thirty feet away in the middle of a zoo, with the handlers showing off their latest shiny object. The painful truth of his words clashed with my own guilty conscience.
“Newsflash, Trustfund. He decided that a long time ago. Or do you not remember the whole conversation where you told me he didn’t require my services anymore? And in case you can’t read a map? New York is not Seattle.”
“Congratulations for knowing your geography, Ethan. Too bad you couldn’t have had a better grip on it when he was in Paris and you were in Seattle. It probably wouldn’t have been so hard on Jamie if you had realized how far away from home he was when you crapped all over him with your guilt trips. He’s my friend. Of course I’m going to look out for him. I always have.” He paused and looked at me, his expression twisted with disgust. “Can you say the same thing?”
“Bullshit. You say you’re his friend but even a blind man can see how exhausted he is. If exploiting him is your way of taking care of him, he’d be better off without you. But this has nothing to do with what Jamie wants, does it? Just admit it. You want him for yourself.”
His normally cocky façade turned nasty as he sneered. “You barge into his life and you suddenly know everything about him and what he needs after twenty-four hours in New York? Eight years ago, you knew absolutely nothing. You just want to break him, Ethan. You want to make him bleed like you did all those years ago so you can sit back and enjoy it. You broke him when he was in Paris and I put the pieces back together for him. The difference between then and now is I won’t stand by and watch you do it again.”
When a pissy chick holding a clipboard shot us both an evil look I knew we were getting too loud. But I didn’t care.
“Fuck you, Trustfund. You don’t know shit about Jamie or what he needs.”
He chuckled darkly and smirked, turning his head back to the front of the studio. “I know you’re not good for him. I know where he is every day. Who he talks to. Everything he does. I know his friends, his hopes and his dreams. You were with him for, what, six months? I’ve been with him for years. You want to know why he works hard? He still feels like he has to prove to the world he’s worth more than just a name. Day in and day out, he works until he drops so he doesn’t have to think about how his crappy parents just threw him away like garbage. At the end of the day, I’m all he has left. His career and his one friend in the world who actually gave a shit long enough to stick around. I’m the only one who stuck around when shit got rough.”
I opened my mouth to tell him off, but he cut me off.
<
br /> “Save it. He did care about you long ago, and it nearly broke him. But he’s not the same person anymore. He’s someone people can look up to. You honestly think people say the same about you? Someone who can’t even show up to an industry function without getting plastered and making an ass out himself?”
“You don’t know shit about me or my life. And regardless of how many people actually believe your bullshit, you don’t care about Jamie either. You’re just worried your meal ticket is going to wake up and realize what a bottom feeder you are.”
He snorted at my words. “I pity you, Martin. Jamie is out of your league, always has been, but you just can’t seem to admit it, can you? You’re still the same arrogant, delusional head case you were when Jamie left you for Paris.” He tilted his head toward Jamie. “Do you think he reached this level of success by himself? I helped him get those connections because I grew up in his world. You could have never helped him get to where he is today. You couldn’t even pass a basic class without his help. How do you think you’re going to help him now?”
My body felt like it had been doused in cold water as I seethed with anger at his words. How in the hell did he know about the class Jamie had helped me through? Had he told Trevor about it? How much private stuff had he shared about us?
Trevor laughed at my confused expression. “Oh, he told me everything. We even sat around at a cafe in Paris laughing about it one day. How pathetic you were to even think you could hack it in his world.”
I hissed in a breath as his words hit me harder than a punch. Jamie wouldn’t have told him. Would he? I glanced toward the front of the studio, the host laughing at one of his jokes. The bitter realization sank in and I wondered what else they’d laughed about together. If it was true, I hadn’t known Jamie Lassiter at all, and the man I thought I had known had never existed.
In the Fire Page 7