"I knew things were fucked up," he told me, without prompting, his eyes darting wildly from me, to Lydia, to Jill, and back to me again. "I knew things were fucked up, but I can only do so much, you know? I can only manage the front of the house so well when everything else is falling down around my ears. I tried, you know? I tried."
"Relax," I commanded him. It didn't really work, but it did get him to shut up for a while, which was all I needed.
Lydia had already filled me in on the results of her audit. It was exactly the problems I would have guessed. Too many egos, too many corners cut, all the usual subtle problems that would pass at most restaurants. But not this one.
I'd finished a walkthrough, making sure the kitchen was clean, at least, and none of the food in the walk-ins was rotting, when I heard a tiny ahem from several feet away. I turned towards it.
The soft-spoken hostess was standing in the doorway, staring at me. "Umm, Mr. Chef?"
Good Christ.
"Just Chef is fine," I said. "Or Chef Dylan if you need to get my attention in a crowd. What is it?"
"Mr. Thorne just called."
I nodded, slowly, waiting for her to explain what the hell that meant.
"He doesn't know who that is, Melissa," Tom the floor manager cut in. "Daniel Thorne, Chef - he hired us to cater an event for him, months ago, before all this shit happened."
"Daniel...really? Why didn't I know about this?"
Melissa and Tom shrugged simultaneously.
"Fuck's sake...all right, do you know why he called?"
"He said he wants to stop by today," Melissa said, her eyes huge. It was like dealing with Aiden all over again. "Wants to talk to us."
"About what?" I demanded.
"I have no idea," she said. "He didn't say. I guess if he wanted to cancel, he would've just done it over the phone, right?"
"Fucked if I know," Tom grumbled.
Good. Great. So one of the world's biggest tech mogul billionaires was just dropping in, while I was in the midst of cleaning up the rubble, and he wanted to have a chat. What could possibly go wrong?
"I don't know if I can handle another stuffed shirt," said Tom, raking his fingers through his hair. "I just...I just don't know. I think I'll go out for a smoke break when he shows up."
"That might be for the best," I said.
"From what I hear, he's not that much of a stuffed shirt," Lydia piped up.
"Oh, right," said Tom, his voice growing louder. "He's just eccentric. A nice way of saying filthy rich with a social disorder."
"I don't collect my fingernails," said a voice from the doorway. "If that helps."
We all turned, slowly, and the blood drained from Tom's face.
"When I said I was coming right over, I really did mean 'right over,'" Daniel Thorne said, with a little quirk at the corner of his mouth. "Just wanted to tweak the menu a little bit."
"I'm..." Tom started to say, but Thorne silenced him with a raised hand.
"I've heard much worse," he said. "Let's forget about it and start over. I didn't know you had a celebrity guest."
I realized, belatedly, that he was talking about me.
"Just visiting," I said, stepping forward to shake his hand. "But hopefully I can be of some help."
Thorne looked around the room. "I was working with Chef Andrew," he said. "Is he not in today?"
"We've had some staff changes," I said smoothly, stepping forward and leading Thorne into the back office area. "Chef Andrew has moved on. But I'll be happy to take over where he left off."
"I see." Thorne nodded, slowly, like he was taking his time processing this information. It was funny - I'd seen a thousand pictures of the man, and I had a device he'd invented in my pocket. But I'd never given him much thought before. Not as a person. I'm as guilty of that as the rest of the world, sometimes, I suppose.
He was handsome, if you liked that sort of thing - features that were sharp but almost boyish. I felt like his face would light up if I started talking about Nintendo games. And there was something else, too, under the surface. A low level of discomfort. He was encountering something unexpected, and his programming had to take a moment to adjust. To find a new protocol.
"Jill," I called out, and she came over quickly, holding her face in a very neutral smile. "Would you please start going over my new menu with the staff while I work with Mr. Thorne here?"
She nodded, and left. I forced myself to turn my attention back to the man who was laying out thousands of dollars for our catering services.
"I have to admit," Thorne was saying, "it's...somewhat of a relief that you're here. I wasn't..." He paused, considering his words for a moment. "I wasn't blown away by Chef Andrew's menu."
"I'm very sorry to hear that," I said. "I'm here to whip this place into shape, if I'm being perfectly honest, Mr. Thorne. I'm sure you heard the news."
"I did indeed." He nodded, that hint of a smile coming back. "My wife is a fan of yours."
His wife - I remembered when all that happened, a few years back. She was a former employee of his, who married him after a hasty courtship among many rumors of gold-digging and his questionable citizenry.
"Please, do tell her to come down and say hello if she'd like," I said.
"She'd be far too nervous," said Thorne. "And anyway, is that really in my best interests, Chef?"
He was still smiling, but fixing me with an unnervingly steady gaze.
I took a risk by laughing. Thankfully, he laughed too, a small soft chuckle that broke the tension.
"Sorry," he said. "That was a bad joke."
"Don't worry about it," I said. "Do you have a copy of the menu?"
He produced it from his coat pocket, and we went to work.
***
"Can I ask you a personal question?"
Thorne glanced at me. "You can," he said. "I might tell you to fuck off, though."
Things were going well. I'd expected to lock horns with him, always assuming he was a nerd with a complex and a constant need for macho posturing to remind himself of his value in the world. But my armchair analysis failed me, and I found he was friendly and honest, with a touch of something wicked underneath the surface.
I liked him.
"Fair enough," I said, speaking a little more quietly. We were separate from the rest of the staff, but still close enough that I was mindful. "You married an employee, didn't you?" Don't glance at Jill, don't glance at Jill, DON'T GLANCE AT JILL.
"How'd you know?" he said, dryly. "Lower your voice, there might be some un-contacted tribes in Peru who haven't heard the news."
"All right, all right." I considered my next question carefully. "But did you...I mean, how did you handle the backlash?"
Thorne crossed his arms, still with that slight smile. "I suspect you know at least as much about negative press as I do," he said. "If not more. What are you really asking?"
I really didn't know.
"I mean, are you happy?" The words came out in a rush, before I had a chance to filter them.
"That is a personal question," said Thorne. "But I think I know what you mean. Is it worthwhile? Do I feel guilty for having dragged her into this life? Do I lose sleep at night? Do I ever wish I could recover my reputation from before people thought I was being taken in by a gold-digger, or taking advantage of an employee? Do I ever think about how things could have gone differently?"
I nodded, slowly. Yes. That was it. That was exactly it.
"I think about a lot of things," he said. "That's always been my gift and my curse. I never stop thinking. You know, the limbic part of your brain - where the fight or fight instinct is, that part of your brain doesn't understand levels of danger. It only knows 'good' and 'bad.' As far as it's concerned, if you're having an anxiety attack, you might as well be running from a bear. If my stocks plummet, my lizard brain thinks I'm about to die." He paused, glancing around the room. "So I worry," he said. "I spend a lot of time worrying about things that don't matter. I worry about things
that have already happened, that I can't change."
He let out a long breath. "There was a time when I thought the money was all she really wanted," he said. "Not in a cold way, not that she realized it - you see, I thought I knew her feelings better than she did. And that's a terrible kind of judgment to make about someone. You're almost never right."
"But the thing is," he went on, "I'd be happy with her if we had to live in a one-bedroom shithole across the water. I've realized that now. And once you can realize something like that, you stop worrying so much about everything else."
Daniel Thorne, a romantic. Who would have guessed?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Fondue
Few meals are simpler, or more decadent, than a traditional cheese fondue. Save it for a special occasion. A fresh, crusty bread is perfect for dipping, alternated with seasonal vegetables to cut the richness. To make sure the cheese stays perfectly melted, take care not to smother the flame, but do not let it burn too high.
- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes
***
Jill
***
Two days into our kitchen boot camp, everyone was responding remarkably well. With one notable exception.
Tom, the floor manager, seemed even worse than when we arrived. Between his constant smoke breaks and his compulsive need to sarcastically comment on everything, I wondered if he was absorbing a single useful tidbit from all our efforts.
After the tenth or twelfth time he stormed out, Max sidled up behind me, and said the first words he'd spoken to me voluntarily in days.
"You know what that man needs?"
I couldn't even venture a guess.
"He needs a stiff drink," Max said. "Tonight? We're taking him out."
"We?" I repeated, turning to look at him.
He nodded, smiling. Actually smiling at me, for the first time since he'd lost his stars. My heart flip-flopped.
"Unless you have plans," he said.
At that, I just laughed.
When Tom finally sulked back in, Max took him aside. The floor manager went white as a sheet; his fear of being fired was driving most of his actions, I realized, and now he thought for sure that the time had come. But all he was getting was a friendly invitation. He still looked wary once Max walked away, but some of the color had returned to his face.
When the day's work was done, and we'd changed out of our "kitchen chic," Max led me and Tom outside and down the bustling sidewalk, towards a bar that had a crowd of people milling around outside. Max pressed through them without hesitation, speaking to the bouncer in low tones until he cleared a space for us, and someone inside led us to a sequestered corner, behind a few sets of curtains, where it became clear that we could have as much privacy and prompt bottle service as we desired.
This was, I realized, quite normal for a man like Max. I considered looking the club up on my phone, to find out how hard it was to get into, exactly. But I was afraid the information would just psych me out. Plus, I couldn't remember seeing a sign at the door.
Tom was nursing his first whiskey when a statuesque blonde came wafting over to invite him to dance. This was clearly a new experience for him, but he took it gracefully, following her out onto the floor.
Max and I were tucked into the less visible corner of the seating area, which was fine by me.
"No paparazzi in here, I guess?" I ventured, clutching a designer martini that seemed too beautiful to drink.
Max shook his head. "They can't allow it, or this kind of clientele would never show up."
"I can't imagine," I said. "Dealing with that all the time."
He shrugged.
"I know you must get used to it," I said. "But I can't imagine just ignoring them."
"They're very skilled," said Max, leaning back in his seat. "Manipulative as fuck. You can beat them at their own game, but only one way - by not playing. If you say nothing, eventually they stop chasing. They won't waste their time."
"Easier said than done, I guess."
"At first," he said. "And they'll always pop back up when there's something juicy. But you just have to remember, if you say anything, they win. Even if you think you're not giving them what they want, you are. All they want is a reaction. When they're buzzing in your ear, just remind yourself what they are. They're flies. Just brush them off."
I had to smile, but I was still incredulous. How long could you possibly ignore that kind of obnoxious, invasive behavior? I suddenly had a lot of sympathy for every celebrity who'd been accused of punching a photographer in the face, or breaking their camera, or...
"Jillian," said Chef, snapping me out of my train of thought. He had that look in his eyes.
"Yes, Chef," I said, automatically.
"Speaking as your boss. You're forbidden to talk to these people. Do you understand?"
I swallowed thickly. "Yes," I said. "Of course."
His eyes flickered, as if acknowledging the sudden switch between friendly conversation and Chef Dylan's Orders™. Did I see a hint of...self-doubt? No, surely not. He cleared his throat and glanced at the floor briefly before looking back at my face.
"My reputation's on the line," he said. "Everything you do, and say, reflects on me. For as long as you work for me, you just can't engage with them."
"I understand." My heart throbbed in my chest. I felt ashamed, scolded, like a little kid who'd done something bad, just because they didn't know any better.
***
"That is one thing I'll always appreciate about this city over Boston," said Max, finishing his umpteenth vodka tonic. "Bars closing at two o'clock? What kind of nonsense is that? God bless New York."
"Come on," I said, eyeing my latest designer martini with suspicion. Would this be the drink that finally came back to bite me? I was fast approaching the "one drink too many" line, but I hadn't crossed it yet. "Has anything good ever happened in a bar after two A.M.?"
"Plenty," said Max, grinning. I wasn't sure when it happened, but he was splayed out far enough on the lounge that his leg was pressed up against mine. And I wasn't making any concerted effort to move it.
In my knee-length cocktail dress and black tights, I felt sadly underdressed compared to the V.I.P.s I saw milling around us. But Max was looking at me like I was the best thing he'd ever seen, and really, that was enough.
"This, for instance," he said, still looking at me. "This is good."
"I don't think it's after two," I said. "I mean, I'm pretty sure."
"But how sure you can you be?" His mouth, I couldn't stop staring it, and the tip of his tongue flicked out, going for the tiny straw in his glass - God. A sudden wave of arousal crashed through me, and thanks to the alcohol, I was powerless to stop it. I shuddered a little, feeling a slow, steady ache set in between my thighs.
This is ridiculous. Stop it, Jill. Stop it.
But I couldn't stop it, and I couldn't help but remember every time we'd touched or almost touched, and when he'd invited me into the ring, his muscles so taut and strong, a body that could easily hold me down until I begged for mercy.
How drunk was he? If I put his hand between my legs, right now, in this bar - what would he do?
My lips were parted as I struggled to catch my breath, and I realized he was staring at me. In the low light, would he be able to see how flushed my skin was? How dark my eyes had gotten?
I didn't know if he could or not, but he looked a little breathless too.
Our mouths crashed together a second later - who started it, I couldn't be sure, but his tongue slipped hot and wet into my mouth and I moaned, muffled, against him. All I wanted was to climb onto his lap and grind down on him, until he understood what he'd done to me - what his ridiculous, sexy, infuriating self had inspired - but I wasn't sure I had the coordination.
He broke away, panting.
"No," he said, shaking his head, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "You're..."
"Drunk," I supplied. "So are you. But I know what I'm doing."
He hesitated long enough for me to kiss him again, sliding my hand around the back of his neck, reaching for the arm that was closest to me, and bringing it...closer...
He broke away, one more time, and I knew. I knew it was over.
"We can't," he murmured, his eyes opening slowly. "Jill, we..."
He didn't sound entirely convincing, probably because he didn't sound entirely convinced. Yet. He was still caught up in the moment, but he was grasping for something.
Please don't find it. Please just let me have this.
But it was already too late. He was pulling away. Not far, but far enough to say what he couldn't quite but into words.
My hands were trembling. I clasped them in front of me, awkwardly, anything to stop the shaking. I tasted blood and realized I was biting my lip.
"I'm sorry," he said, softly. He wasn't bullshitting me. Sorry was written across his face, and not just because he was walking away from an easy lay. He was Chef Maxwell Dylan, for fuck's sake. He could get any woman, any time he wanted.
But he wouldn't take me. Not even when I was practically serving myself up, on a silver platter.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Entremet
An entremet is something sweet, a palate cleanser served between courses. Sometimes it refers to a dessert served afterwards, to clear the savory richness of the main dish. As much as we all love salt and garlic, no one wants to leave the table with the taste still in their mouth.
- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes
***
Max
***
"Melissa! Answer the phone, for fuck's sake!"
People were staring. I hadn't been in full Drill Sergeant Mode since I arrived, but things were going to be different now. No more Mr. Nice Chef.
It was the hangover, I told myself, the lack of sleep - certainly not because Jill had gotten smashed on thirty-dollar drinks and thrown herself at my feet. Certainly not because I had to turn her away, for her sake and for mine. Certainly not because she was all I wanted anymore.
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