"So how's work going?" she asked me, after a while. "You seem a lot less...nervous breakdown-y."
I snorted. "Well, I guess that's one way to put it."
"I'm serious!" Shelly was gesturing emphatically with a carrot stick. "You and Chef Dylan must have come to some sort of understanding, or..." Her mouth dropped open. "Oh my God. Are you fucking him?"
My face colored bright red. "No!" I exclaimed, smacking her lightly on the arm.
"Ow! Asshole!" She recoiled, sucking air in through her teeth. "I just got my flu shot!"
"Well, then, don't insinuate that I'm sleeping my way to the top."
"I didn't say that." She rubbed her arm and winced. "I just thought maybe you found a non-verbal way to work out your disagreements."
"Of course not." Ugh. I was still blushing. "That sounds like a terrible idea."
"Does it?" She bit the tip off her carrot stick, and grinned. "If you can't beat 'em, beat 'em off - don't you dare!" She shrank away when I raised my hand, semi-threateningly. "Not on the puncture wound! If you absolutely need to smack me, at least let me give you my good side."
"You're such a child." I got up to get another drink.
"I'm the child? You're the one who won't solve your workplace problems with sex. That's the go-to solution for today's forward-thinking professional, haven't you heard?"
"You know Beautiful Bastard isn't a how-to book, right?"
She rolled her eyes at me. "I guess you would know, Miss Seven Habits of Highly Effective Teens."
I threw a celery stick at her head, which she dodged, laughing. She hadn't stopped making fun of me for that since she saw it on my shelf. I'd been given a copy for my high school graduation, years ago, and I always thought it had some good tips in it. I certainly wasn't going to throw it away just because I was allegedly a grown-up now.
"Seriously, though, kudos for figuring out a way to work with him. Lesser people than you have tried and failed." Shelly had, in that inimitable way of hers, stumbled across a good point. My gut was telling me that I needed to pull back from Chef, before my feelings ran away with me. But my gut had been wrong before, hadn't it? I was pretty sure it must have been, even if I couldn't remember any specific instance. Nobody's gut had that good of a track record.
We were all adults here. I could keep my feelings in check. If I got too cold or withdrew too far, I risked losing the level of comfort that he'd inexplicably developed with me. And that seemed crucial to our future workplace harmony.
I just had to be careful.
***
Just as I was about to close my computer that night, I heard the soft ding of an incoming email. It was my Google news alert for Max, which I'd set up just as Lydia suggested. So far it hadn't yielded much, and the whole exercise did seem a bit silly - especially now, that we were actually on friendly terms. I just hadn't bothered to turn it off yet.
But this one was a doozy. In amongst the scattered blog posts, op-ed pieces, and TV show episode recaps from some Food Network marathon, there was a handful of stories about one of Max's restaurants losing its Michelin stars.
My jaw dropped.
I called Shelly immediately.
"You're not going to believe this," I said, when she answered.
"Try me." The TV was blaring in the background, and her two Pomeranians immediately started barking at the sound of her voice.
"One of Chef Dylan's restaurants lots its Michelin stars."
"Its what?"
I could hear her wandering to a slightly quieter room. "Its stars," I said. "In the Michelin travel guide. It's like...look, just trust me, it's a big deal."
"The tire company?" Shelly was skeptical.
"They're not just a tire company," I said. "They're a travel company. They issue these guides every year, and they review only the very best of the best restaurants. It's just a few cities that they even bother with. London, New York, Paris...to even be in the guide at all is a huge deal, but then you get between one and three stars ranking on top of that. They re-rank every time they do a new guide, and this one...well, it's pretty harsh to lose stars. It means the quality of the place has slipped a whole hell of a lot. It's a big deal for Chef's reputation."
Shelly sucked in a breath through her teeth. "Want to call in sick tomorrow?"
"Trust me, I'm thinking about it." I realized I was gnawing on the end of a pencil.
"That completely blows," she said. "I'm guessing some heads are gonna roll at that place, huh?"
"Most likely. I guess I should just be grateful that I don't have to be around to see that."
Shelly chuckled. "Oh my God, can you imagine? I bet he'll bring a film crew with him. That's some must-see TV right there."
I managed a small laugh, but I actually felt terrible for him. I couldn't even imagine what it must feel like, to have such a remarkable accomplishment, only to have it snatched away. As much of a media whore as he might be, I knew there was no chance he'd commit that to film.
Max's reputation meant everything to him. That much, to me, was obvious. Losing a few of his stars was like losing a piece of himself.
After hanging up with Shelly, I glanced over the articles, even though I knew exactly what they'd say. He should have been more hands-on. He should have hired more reliable staff. If only he'd had a more experienced head chef, a better manager, this would have never...
I finally shut my computer, once and for all.
***
Max was deep in thought. I supposed that was better than a lot of the alternatives. He didn't even say hello when I walked in, and I decided it was best to follow his lead.
He didn't speak to me until we were midway through dinner service.
"Jill, do you have any plans for Thanksgiving?" His tone was calm, but obviously restrained.
I hesitated. As usual, I couldn't tell if it was a casual, friendly question, or some kind of test. "Not really," I said, finally. I assumed my mom was going to call in a few days and halfheartedly remind me that I was always welcome. I'd always say thank you, but I just couldn't get away from work. Truth was, if I wanted to eat stringy turkey and dry stuffing with sad slices of jellied cranberry sauce that still bore impressions from the sides of the can, I could do it alone, without my stepfather Ron glaring at me from across the table.
"How does a working holiday sound?" Max glance at me just long enough to get a reaction, then turned back to his pie crust.
I wasn't sure how that sounded. Better than another Thanksgiving alone with a bottle of wine, I supposed.
"Do I have a choice?" I half-joked.
Max shrugged. I didn't know what that meant. "We have to whip the New York crew back into shape. The holiday week's the absolute best time to shut the restaurant down for re-training, it'll be dead anyway. I thought - if you didn't have any plans, I'd like you as my backup. But I'd understand if you can't get away."
"No, I don't see why not." A free trip to New York - even if it meant eighteen-hour days of yelling at an under-motivated staff - sounded like a pretty good idea right now. Despite what I'd said to Shelly about not wanting to witness the sure-to-be-epic takedown.
"Excellent," he said. "So that's settled."
We didn't talk about the trip again until he handed me my plane ticket, a few weeks later. I'd just finished brushing flour off of my hands at the end of my shift, and was headed into the back to change into my street clothes. It took me a moment to process what I was looking at.
"We fly out tomorrow night," he said. "I'll send a town car for you three hours before flight time."
I nodded, tucking the ticket into my pocket. "Sounds good," I said, since it seemed like he was waiting for a verbal acknowledgement.
Clearly, he wanted to say something else. It was on the tip of his tongue, but for whatever reason, he couldn't quite form the words. This was hilariously unlike him. I hid a smile.
"Don't be late," he said, finally, turning back to the sink.
Really? That was it?
&nb
sp; Have I ever been late? was what I wanted to say. Instead, I just nodded again, even though he couldn't see me. There was simply no use in replying indignantly to Max.
***
Jostling through the crowds at JFK, I felt like I was in a waking dream. It was a short flight, but I'd drifted off into enough of a nap that I felt like I'd been transported into a different world. If I didn't work hard at keeping my vision focused, the harsh fluorescent lights, seemingly miles and miles above my head, appeared to swim in circles.
I was following Max as he powered his way through the crowd, and it took me a while to realize why he wasn't simply taking the opportunity of the many open spots in the herds that periodically opened. As long as he was shielded by other travelers, the paparazzi couldn't get a clear shot.
At first it was difficult for me to distinguish them from any other tourist with a giant camera around their neck, but I soon realized what was going on. A few spotted him and started calling out. They were trying to lure him into a clear shot, into interacting with them in some way - positive, negative, it didn't matter. A few snapped their pictures anyway, even though they were mostly getting blurry shots of the anonymous crowds that surrounded him. And, my foggy brain realized belatedly, some shots of me.
What an odd feeling. I didn't think an airport appearance by Chef Dylan rated much more than simply appearing on one of TMZ's side blogs, but still...
I smirked, suddenly imagining myself being referred to as a mystery woman or something equally ridiculous. The more I thought about it, the more I realized this was quite likely to command at least a mini-feature of some kind. After all, it wouldn't take Sherlock Holmes to piece the situation together. Shortly after losing his Michelin stars at his New York restaurant, Chef Dylan flies to New York. Drama ahoy!
Somehow, even as Max powered through the crowd like a locomotive, I managed not to lose him. There was a town car waiting to whisk us away to our hotel - well, "crawl" rather than "whisk," really, but that was hardly the driver's fault.
I was surprised when we pulled up to the curb of a pretty ordinary-looking chain hotel. Not that I'd been expecting The Plaza or anything, but didn't this guy have some serious money to burn? Maybe he was just tired of luxury hotels. I tried to imagine what that would feel like, and came up blank.
Mine and Max's rooms were directly next to each other. He gave me what I assumed was a "goodnight" nod just before disappearing behind his door, and I nodded back.
Well. The room, I had to admit, was pretty nice.
There was a chilled bottle of Evian on the coffee table - no doubt, cracking the seal would mean a $5 charge to the room - and they had switched on some of the lower lights in anticipation of my arrival. A card on the pillow let me know about the twice-daily maid service and how I shouldn't hesitate to call the front desk if I needed anything at all.
Okay, so it wasn't The Plaza, but it was definitely a few steps up from the budget business traveler places that Eric always booked for our trips together. I had to admit that.
And, the hell with it - Max was picking up the tab. I grabbed the bottle of Evian, unscrewed the lid, and took a sizeable swig.
I was working for a celebrity, wasn't I? It was high time I started acting like it.
I flopped down on the bed, sinking into the plush duvet and the completely unnecessary pillows. My thoughts drifted to Max, probably just a few feet away from me right now. Unpacking, perhaps, or undressing for a quick shower before bed.
A deep blush spread across my face and neck. What a ridiculous thing to even think about. I'd seen him change for the kitchen enough times that I knew exactly what he looked like from the waist up - and okay, sure, I was curious about the rest. Wouldn't anyone be?
His legs, of course, would be as muscular as the rest of him. I had an idea of that, from our boxing match, but I hadn't seen everything. Not nearly as much as I wanted. My Google news alerts had informed me that somehow, with everything else he had on his plate, Max also managed to squeeze in some athletic training. He'd just run a marathon a few months ago, and made good time, too. I had to admit it was impressive. And it made his body look pretty impressive, too.
Now I was really blushing.
I knew it was just one of those inevitable workplace crushes that happen when you have to spend so much time around someone. Look at anybody for long enough, and you're bound to find something you like. And really, with Max - so long as he didn't open his mouth too much - it was pretty easy.
Shelly was right. He had a certain roughness to him that was very appealing. He looked more like a construction worker than a professional chef. Hell, for all I knew, he did build houses in his spare time. At this point, it wouldn't have surprised me. He looked perpetually sunburned, and really, as we plunged headlong into a northeastern winter, I couldn't explain that at all.
His colder, more distant attitude since the Michelin star debacle was almost a relief. I missed our friendly banter, on one hand - but on the other hand, when he acted like this, I felt like I knew where I stood.
Despite what Beckett had told me about taking him at face value, I still felt like we were constantly embroiled in some kind of elaborate cat-and-mouse game. And the worst part was, I wasn't sure if I was the mouse, or the cat.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Bouchée
Bouchées are small puff pastries, stuffed with a savory filling. They are a wonderfully indulgent hors d'oeuvre for almost any occasion, and are seldom as difficult to prepare as they might seem. Consider serving them to add richness to an otherwise light and healthful meal. There is nothing quite so important as building expectations for the main course. A crispy, delicious morsel will make your guests salivate with anticipation.
- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes
***
Max
***
I got the news at three o'clock in the morning. Fucking Europe. Fucking France. Fucking time zones. Lydia called me, because she knew I'd be even angrier if I woke up and found out later.
Thing was, I knew I'd been neglecting New York. I hadn't been back in far too long. By now, in this stage of opening the Trattoria, I should have had things well settled enough to take a quick trip over and check up on things. But I'd let myself become obsessed with the idea of grooming Jill for head chef, rather than actually filling the positions that needed to be filled. Hence, I felt like I couldn't get away.
Hence, reputation ruined.
Okay. So that's a little melodramatic. But for fuck's sake, to lose Michelin stars...
There was a time when even earning them in the first place was just a distant dream. But now that I had them, this felt like a slap in the face.
And it was, really. For once in my life, I knew without a doubt that I deserved every single criticism. Every blog article, every magazine headline, everything.
I'd done it again. And this time, it wasn't a silly bump in the road, like a public fight that just drummed up more business for the restaurant that immediately fired me anyway. This time, I had risked my career.
And for what? For a woman who hated me, no matter how much she wanted to get me in bed.
No, I wasn't stupid. I might have been deluding myself a little bit, for a while, but I wasn't stupid. Jill still resented me and she always would. She was returning my friendly overtures because she wanted to keep the peace, and she wanted to keep her job.
I didn't blame her. It probably wasn't calculated, she just instinctively tried to match my moods and act the way she thought I wanted her to act. Because I was her egotistical, asshole, impossible-to-please boss. She'd stand on her head if she thought it would make me happy. As long as I kept signing those paychecks.
Beckett was fucking naive. In general, but particularly in this instance. He thought she returned my feelings because that was his experience with women; they had no reason to play games with him, because he was easy. Not like me.
Nothing could ever be easy with me.
This had to s
top, and it had to stop now. No matter how much Jill simpered and smiled and admired my tattoos, no matter how sweet she'd been stopping by my house when I was insane with a fever - no matter how much my heart ached at the thought of closing off to her, I had to. There was absolutely nothing else to be done.
There was nothing really between us. Nothing at all.
She was never mine to lose.
So why did it feel like I'd lost everything?
***
Lydia met us at the restaurant, and pulled me into a warm hug the instant she saw me.
"Everything's gonna be great, Max," she whispered, near my ear. "You're gonna turn these lemons into lemonade, same way you always do."
After she pulled away, she went to shake Jill's hand. "It's so nice to meet you, finally. But I'm sorry you have to spend your holiday working."
Jill shrugged. "I like to stay busy," she said. "It's very nice to meet you, too."
Lydia, bless her, had already taken care of the most urgent housecleaning before we arrived. The staff who were deemed most responsible had been dismissed, leaving a core crew who needed to be re-trained before I could fill the leadership roles. Going through a hiring process again, so soon after Trattoria, was a nightmare scenario - but this was New York, so I'd have applications for miles and miles. It was just a matter of picking and choosing from some of the best chefs in the country.
Maybe I could convince one of them to come back to Boston and be Jill's second-in-command.
I was still planning on promoting her, eventually. My personal feelings didn't enter into that equation.
What was left of the staff lined up to meet me in the empty dining room, and I'd soon made a passable snap judgment on each and every one of them. Most were competent but confused, and a little frustrated. A few of them were sweetly slow, but I could work with that. Then there was Tom, the floor manager, who seemed like he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I couldn't blame him, not in the least, but I wondered if his psyche was too shattered to contribute to a healthy workplace.
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