by Adams, S. C.
I see the moment Alyssa snaps. It’s written all over her face, but especially obvious in the way her eyes cloud over. She’s giving up.
The dough thuds into the empty trash bin. “Happy?” she asks.
She unbuttons her white chef’s coat and throws it on the counter. Standing with her hands on her hips in just a white undershirt, she struggles to maintain eye contact.
“I quit,” she announces. The tears start to spill from her eyes before she has the chance to turn and run.
A few students stare after her in complete shock. They’ve probably never seen a student quit before, and definitely not so dramatically.
I need to find Alyssa and apologize. I was too harsh on her. I thought she was nearing her breaking point, not at it. I’m sure what happened this morning didn’t help matters much.
“Class, you’re dismissed for the rest of the day. Please clean your stations and pack up your dough. Leave it in the refrigerator. We’ll finish this lesson tomorrow.”
Samantha scoffs. “You’re cancelling class because that loser couldn’t take the heat? She needs to learn that in the kitchen, you get yelled at. Don’t punish the rest of us because she’s an idiot.”
“Hey,” I respond sharply. “Don’t you dare talk about your fellow student like that.”
“She’s not my fellow student anymore,” Samantha says with a laugh. “I knew from the moment I saw her that she wouldn’t last. I didn’t think she’d quit this quickly, but I’m glad to see her go.”
If this were a cartoon, steam would pour from my ears. “Keep your mouth shut, Samantha. You have no room to talk. Your dough is dry, so your noodles will be dry, too. Yesterday’s dish? It wasn’t even close to perfect. So stop putting down other students and maybe focus on your own shortcomings. There are plenty.”
Samantha stares at me, but my words don’t seem to have the intended effect.
“Whatever,” she says. She grabs the plastic wrap and starts cleaning her station. The rest of the class, who had been watching our interaction intently, follows her lead.
“You can clean up Alyssa’s station, too, thanks to your big mouth.”
Samantha gapes but accepts the punishment. Now that this is settled, I sprint out the door to find Alyssa. She couldn’t have gotten far in the few minutes it took me to hand out orders to the class.
She’s not outside the building, so I run to the subway station. She’s not on the platform for the train back to her apartment. The rear lights of an F train disappear down a tunnel. I probably just missed her!
The next train is less than five minutes away. I hate waiting, but I don’t have much choice. It’ll be faster than sprinting to her apartment. Even with my speed, that would take twice as long as the train, including the wait time.
Finally, the F train arrives and I jump on board. I must look frantic because no one bothers me like they usually do when I’m on public transportation. I recognize the star struck look in a few tourists’ eyes, but they focus on their magazines whenever I look their way. It’s for the better since I’m on a mission. I need to win Alyssa back.
I’m off the train the second the doors open. I take the stairs three at a time to get out of the tunnel and run the two blocks to Alyssa’s apartment.
Her door is closed and all seems quiet. I knock lightly at first and wait. No answer. I knock again, a bit harder this time, and still find the other side still.
Just before I bang on the door a third time, a head pops out of the apartment across the hall.
“Are you here for Alyssa?” the old woman asks.
“Yes, is she in?”
She shakes her head. “Hasn’t been home since this morning. Is she okay?”
“No, no. She’s in my cooking class, and she got a bit overwhelmed. I’m trying to cheer her up.”
It doesn’t seem like Alyssa’s neighbor believes me, but she doesn’t call the police, either. That’s a win in my book.
Outside the apartment, I scour the street hoping to find her, but she’s not there. I could yell her name, but there are probably a few Alyssa’s walking in this neighborhood. I don’t want to confuse anyone.
My only option is to call her. The number is still programmed in my phone. I couldn’t bring myself to delete it, even though I knew I should have.
After three rings, Alyssa answers. “Leave me alone,” she blubbers into the phone.
“Alyssa, I’m so sorry, please talk to me.”
“No,” she says. “I’m not cut out to be a chef. You proved that today. I don’t belong in your class.”
“Alyssa, you’re wrong…”
Before I can finish my statement, she hangs up. Damn it! I nearly throw my phone into the busy street. Then I remember something I heard in the background on Alyssa’s end. It sounded like kids laughing and playing.
I know where she is! She went to Central Park.
On a whim, I jog to the part of the park we spent the most time on that first night together. Sure enough, there she is under an oak tree, hugging her knees to her chest.
“Alyssa,” I say softly. “I’m so sorry.”
“What part of leave me alone don’t you understand?” she shouts. “I’m going back to Maine. This whole cooking thing was a mistake.”
“It wasn’t a mistake, Alyssa,” I say. I settle down on the grass beside her. She doesn’t move closer, but she doesn’t run away, either. “I see a lot of potential in you. You’re probably the most talented chef in the class.”
Alyssa laughs.
“You’re just saying that. Look at how you treat Samantha. She’s obviously a better chef than me.”
“That’s not true,” I assure her. “I treat you differently because you’re more talented.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” she sniffles.
I run a frustrated hand through my hair. How can I explain this so it makes sense?
“NYACA is designed to train the best of the best,” I begin. “And in many ways, that’s true. There are a lot of premier chefs who came from NYACA. But there are more duds.”
This gets a small laugh from Alyssa, so I must be making progress.
“So many chefs graduate from the program, open a restaurant, and fail in the first few years. I don’t think that’s going to be you. I think you have the potential to be successful. You don’t get to be where I am without a thick skin, though. That’s why I’m so harsh on you.”
I don’t add that I’m extra harsh on her so the class doesn’t realize I’m insanely attracted to the woman huddled before me.
“Your passion and talent will take you further than most of the other students in class,” I tell her. I rub her back gently. She tilts her body towards me. What a relief. I haven’t lost Alyssa completely.
“Do you really mean that?” she asks me, wiping away tears. “You’re not just saying it because I slept with you?”
“Absolutely not,” I assure her. “I saw your talent that night we made dinner together and it became clearer in class yesterday. I thought you needed a push to be your best. I’m sorry for pushing you too far.”
She sniffles again, but no more tears fall. “Now that I know what you were doing… I won’t say it’s okay, but your heart was in the right place.”
“It was. Let me prove it to you even more. Come with me to my restaurant opening tonight.”
“What?” she gasps. “I can’t do that!”
“Please?” I beg. “I want you to see what it’s like.”
Alyssa gnaws on her lip in contemplation. Finally, she nods. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll come with you.”
“Excellent!” I cheer. I help her into a standing position and we both dust off the grass form our bottoms. “Here, I brought you this.”
I hand over the chef’s jacket I grabbed on my way out of the classroom. “It belongs on you.”
She holds it to her chest and smiles. “Thank you, Nathaniel.”
“Please,” I say. “Call me Nate.”
Her smile widens. Everything fe
els balanced again with her by my side. I take her hand and lead her out of the park.
I’m so grateful that she’s coming to the opening tonight. I had refused my agent’s pleas for a fake date. He’s going to be thrilled to find out I have a real one.
My biggest hope is that this first real date turns into something more.
With Alyssa, that finally seems possible.
11
Alyssa
Tuesday
Nate’s driver takes us up a long, winding road that ends at a three-story brick-and-stone building.
“You live here?” I manage to sputter. My eyes are wide, staring at the grand palace in front of me.
“Yeah,” he says. “What do you think?”
“It’s huge!”
Nate blushes. “Yeah. It’s way too big for just me.”
Am I imagining the sadness in his voice at this admission? I would have thought Nate loved his mansion. He probably has ten guest rooms! I thought my one-bedroom apartment in the city was luxurious, but that’s nothing compared to Nate’s place. I’m embarrassed that he ever set foot in my meager dwelling.
“Shall we go inside?”
I assume Nate wants to change for his grand opening. Is it a fancy thing? I’m not exactly dressed for fancy in my black slacks and tank-top. Maybe I can wear my chef’s jacket? Then I might be confused with the actual chefs, but that’s better than being mistaken for a waitress.
The inside of Nate’s large house is brighter than I expected. The skylight lining the front hallway allows natural light to flood the first floor.
To the right is a dining room big enough to hold thirty people. My grandparents and I eat at a table against the wall, barely large enough for the three of us. Does Nate often eat alone at the head of this long table? Or does he bring home friends – or girls? – to keep him company?
“This is the living room,” Nate announces, pointing to our left. “It’s where I spend most of my time, aside from the kitchen.”
I nod, taking in the extravagant room. The TV wouldn’t fit through my apartment door. The smell of clean leather permeates the room. Staged on the table is one of Nate’s cookbooks and a home-décor magazine. It seems likely he hired someone to fill his home with furniture. It doesn’t feel lived in at all.
Behind the living room is the den. I didn’t know people had both living rooms and dens, but Nate does. The smaller room has a fireplace against one wall. Matching brown furniture sits comfortably throughout the room. Six large bookcases built into the walls house countless antique books. Are they first editions? I’ve read that first editions are worth a lot of money. How many does Nate have?
We exit the den back into the main hallway. Ahead of us is a sprawling staircase to the second floor, but Nate bypasses it.
“This is the kitchen,” he says. I follow him into the brightest room so far, which is saying a lot since the rest of the tour was blinding.
The kitchen is heaven. “Do you film your show here?” I ask, realizing it looks familiar.
“We did when it first started out, but we have a sound stage now. It’s all setup like my real kitchen, though.”
That’s for sure. A twelve foot granite countertop sits in the middle of a room almost as big as our kitchen classroom. Against the walls are state-of-the-art appliances. He has both a gas and electric stovetop. Beside those, there’s a full-sized pizza oven. Mixers of varying sizes sit covered against the wall, flanked by other important chef-equipment.
“This is incredible,” I gasp when I’ve finally found the words. “You get to cook here every day?”
Nate chuckles. “I rarely cook here unless I’m developing new recipes for a cookbook, and even that doesn’t happen often. I’m usually cooking in my restaurants or on the soundstage that the network set up for me.”
“That’s a shame,” I tell him. “All of this beautiful stuff goes to waste?”
“I bought most of it for the new show,” he says, referring to Nate’s Kitchen, his most recent network program. He specializes in making expensive dishes in the home. It’s intimidating to watch. He’s great at teaching the methods necessary to make gourmet food even in the lamest of kitchens, but he’s surrounded by all this expensive cookware while he’s doing it. I must admit, sometimes the show felt disingenuous.
“Well, it’s beautiful. My kitchen in Maine is probably a quarter of this size, and we have zero counter space. I usually use the kitchen table or our glass stove top for prep.”
Nate winces. “You should never prep on a glass stovetop!”
“I don’t cut things,” I promise. “Just mix, spread, and beat. I wouldn’t dare damage the stove. It’s the most expensive thing we own.”
I expect Nate to look at me with pity, but he doesn’t. His eyes are filled with something that looks like lust, instead. “We’ll cook together here someday,” he swears. “For now, though, we have to get ready for the opening.”
I’d nearly forgotten about his new restaurant.
“Why haven’t I heard about this restaurant opening?”
“Because it’s New York’s best kept secret!” he informs me while walking towards the stairs. “We’ve had it listed under a dummy name. It won’t be unveiled as my restaurant until the doors open at seven tonight.”
“Devious!” I tease. “Why did you keep it a secret? You would’ve gotten way more press if they knew it was yours.”
“Because it’s a different direction than my other restaurants. It’s actually on-brand for my TV show, but we wanted to wait until it opened to make the connection. That way, if it tanks, it won’t be as hard to extricate myself.”
That’s a sad way to put it. Are they expecting Nate’s new restaurant to fail?
“Don’t look so glum,” Nate says, tapping my chin when we get to the top of the stairs. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. My entire team got together and decided we’d keep it a secret. You know, it’ll be great publicity to open the doors and say surprise, this is my restaurant!”
I hadn’t considered that, but he’s right. Surprises have always been on the covers of tabloid magazines. I’m sure Nate’s restaurant will catch the attention of every important journalist in the city.
“This is the bedroom floor,” Nate explains. “This entire hall is guest rooms and bathrooms. Upstairs, there’s a game room, my office that I rarely use, and a couple more guest rooms. I let my parents sleep up there when they come to visit to keep them out of my hair.”
I laugh. “Smart thinking.”
We arrive at a door at the farthest end of the expansive hallway. “This is my room,” he says. Does he sound kind of nervous? My heart flutters.
Inside, I’m struck by how grand it is. The downstairs, of course, looked straight out of an old British show about royalty. I’m not familiar with artists, but the ones on the walls in the hall down there seemed expensive. Nate’s bedroom takes that to a whole new level.
An ornate, claw-foot lounger sits at the foot of the bed. I draw my eyes away from it long enough to see the intricate crown moldings, an Indian-looking tapestry, and a few marble statues by the windows. Am I in a house, or a museum? It’s hard to tell the difference.
“What do you think?” Nate asks expectantly.
“Beautiful,” I breathe. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
He smiles. “I’m glad you like it.”
I do like it. I love it, in fact. It’s overwhelming, but gorgeous. With every passing minute I notice more details, like the antique carpet under the four-poster bed.
Something on the bed catches my eye. It’s a dress. Not just any dress – a designer dress, for sure. It’s long-sleeved with a deep v-neck. The entire thing glimmers in the sunlight sneaking in through the half-closed blinds. Did some model leave it behind?
No, I think. It still has the tags on it.
Then why is it on Nate’s bed?
He notices me glaring at the sparkling fabric. “I got this for you.” He holds it up so I can see it even b
etter. What I thought was silver is actually a light gold. It’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen!
I give him a look. “You bought me a dress?”
Nate nods. “I hoped you would come with me to the opening tonight, and I thought you might need something to wear.”
“Nate, I can’t possibly take that dress. I don’t think it’ll fit me.”
Looking at it, I’m certain the dress won’t fit my considerable bust and butt. It’s made for stick thin girls with not much cleavage, and while my figure is petite, my boobs are not.
“I have dresses in my apartment. You can have your driver take me home, and we can meet back here, or at the restaurant.”
“Nonsense, it’ll fit. I’m good at guessing sizes.”
I eye the dress. Nate is crazy if he thinks I’m squeezing my curves into that tiny thing. He’s probably used to guessing the sizes of the models always on his arms for events like this.
“You probably had another date lined up,” I say, making excuses. “Even if it’s just a publicity stunt or whatever, I don’t want to get in the way of that.”
“How did you know my dates are usually for publicity?”
I blush. “I don’t know, just the way you look at them, I guess. You don’t look at me like that.”
He grins. “You’re right, I don’t. And I don’t have another date tonight. You have to come with me, and you have to wear this dress.”
My arguments are getting weaker. “Gold isn’t my color.”
“I think gold is exactly your color,” Nate says. He takes a few steps closer, so we’re chest to chest. “You’re wearing gold earrings.”
To really get his point across, Nate lowers his lips to my earlobe and nibbles gently. My entire body reacts. Thank goodness I’m wearing panties or a wet spot would appear in my slacks!
“Please, at least try it on,” he whispers, sending goosebumps up my arms and neck. What is this man doing to me? My breathing gets heavy and my hands find his shoulders just as his lips brush against my neck.
“Okay,” I tell him breathily. “I’ll try it on, but I’m telling you, it’s not going to fit.”