In the Distance

by Eileen Griffin

  Chef Boulanger’s eyes twinkled before he turned toward the double doors. “C’est merveilleux! Allons-y.”

  When we reached the hostess’s podium, Chef Boulanger waved off the overly eager young lady and scanned the dining room until he apparently found what he was looking for. He pointed to a square on the hostess’s map, then led me over to a four top near an enormous bank of windows.

  “I’m delighted you could join me today, Monsieur Pratt. Our charity brunch has long relied on the talent of guest chefs who volunteer their time to make it successful, and you have brought us not just one, but two chefs to help make that happen.”

  I started to argue that I actually had nothing to do with bringing either chefs here, since Jamie had set up his first visit without even consulting me and Natalie had volunteered long before I even knew her name, but instead I smiled, knowing it was better to just go with it.

  “Well, thank you, Chef Boulanger, but I’m the lucky one. Both Jamie and Natalie make my job easy. Ethan, on the other hand?”

  Chef Boulanger chuckled. “Ah. Monsieur Martin. He is talented, but quite a handful, non?”

  I covered up my snort by taking a quick drink of water, then replying, “You can say that again.”

  “Oui. Alors, that is what makes him unique. That and his and Monsieur Lassiter’s latest contribution to our scholarship program.”

  I stopped scanning the room for any sign of Tyler, and looked back at Chef Boulanger. “They did?”

  “Ah, oui. Tyler Mitchell is the current recipient of the scholarship M. Martin set up last year, but both he and M. Lassiter generously added to that initial endowment to keep the scholarship active for at least the next ten years.”

  It was times like this I really wished I could hate Ethan without guilt. I’d always known he was protective of Tyler, but I hadn’t known it had extended to making sure Tyler got the chance to go to school. Just like Martin to destroy another opportunity to hate on his surly ass.

  “Mais, bien sûr, the scholarship only covers so much, but M. Mitchell seems to be handling the rest just fine between his job and picking up shifts here at the Institute’s restaurant. He is a very dedicated young man. Very patient and helpful with his fellow students, too. I know he is in the culinary arts program, but he would make an excellent teacher. Either way, we are lucky to have him in our program.”

  This was all news to me. I had known about Tyler’s insane schedule between school and work, but I hadn’t known about picking up odd shifts to help make ends meet. With sickening clarity, I realized just how easy I’d had it growing up. To Tyler, I must seem like a spoiled brat.

  I heard him approach our table before I saw him. Being the coward that I was, I studiously looked at my menu instead of turning around to face him.

  “Good morning, my name is Tyler. I’ll be your server today. Can I get you some coffee or juice?”

  One glance at Chef Boulanger’s smile was enough to tell me he had known exactly whose station we were going to sit in. I wasn’t sure if that knowledge made me angry or embarrassed, but it was nothing in comparison to the look of utter humiliation on Tyler’s face.

  “Ah, Monsieur Mitchell. I was hoping we would get your station. Just a coffee for me, s’il vous plaît. And for Monsieur Pratt?”

  Chef Boulanger paused and looked directly at me. My turn. It took a moment for Tyler to shift his attention from Chef Boulanger to me, but the look in his eyes almost undid me. Tyler was skittish on the best of days, but today, he looked like he’d rather be anywhere than waiting on our table. I tried for the warmest smile I had. “Um, just a coffee for me, thanks.”

  Tyler turned to Chef Boulanger. “Will you both be enjoying the buffet and specialty stations? Or would you like to order off the menu?”

  It made my stomach turn to see how embarrassed he was. Could this situation be any more fucked-up?

  Seemingly oblivious to everything going on, Chef Boulanger ordered as if there was nothing out of the ordinary going on.

  “I will pass on the buffet, but I could not help but notice Mme Lindt’s poached pear and cinnamon turnovers when I was in the back. If they taste as delicious as they smell, I cannot think of anything else I will need.”

  This time, Chef Boulanger paused and looked directly at me. Without taking my eyes off the menu, I pointed to Nat’s featured selection. “I’ll take the hazelnut chocolate panini with a side of bacon.”

  “Excellent choices. I’ll be right back with your coffees.”

  As unobtrusively as possible, Tyler took our menus and left. Everything in me wanted to follow him to the back, drag him off to a corner somewhere and kiss him senseless until he understood none of this meant anything to me.

  Just as I was going to excuse myself to go find him, Chef Boulanger said, “I look forward to this weekend every year.”

  I sighed and settled back in my seat. “It’s your main fundraiser, right?”

  “Oui. Ah, merci beaucoup, Tyler.”

  Tyler arrived with our coffees but only stayed long enough to place cream and extra sugar on the table before moving on to his next table. Between him leaving and Chef Boulanger wanting to make chitchat, I was essentially fucked. And not in a good way.

  “Oui, this weekend provides us with almost 75 percent of our scholarship funds. Of course we have private donations throughout the year, but this weekend is a reminder to those in our community to give. Which brings me to something I wanted to discuss with you.”

  Fucking hell. Please, for the love of all frustrated trust-fund babies who want to go maul the very attractive, very elusive men they lust after, if he tells me he wants to go into the public spotlight and I’d be perfect as his manager, I think I might have that nervous breakdown that’s been eluding me for the past few years.

  Instead of having my midlife crisis early, I sipped my coffee and closed my eyes as the caffeine flooded my system.

  “What can I help you with?”

  “I am sure you are well aware this weekend not only benefits our scholarship recipients, but the various charities the Institute has chosen to sponsor.”

  “I remember a few of them being recognized the last time I was here.” In truth, I didn’t remember much about that evening except for how much I’d wanted to punch Ethan.

  As if reading my thoughts, Chef Boulanger said, “Yes, one charity, in particular, we have chosen to sponsor was due to M. Martin’s passionate support of them.”

  Of course it was.

  “Which charity is that?”

  “Ah, that would be No More Hunger.”

  Just as the words had left Chef Boulanger’s lips, Tyler appeared with our food. From his expression, he’d heard at least part of our conversation and thought we were talking about him.

  “One breakfast panini with a side of bacon and one poached pear turnover. Can I get you anything else? More coffee?”

  I turned to face Tyler, wanting desperately to talk to him. And say what, though? For once I was lost for words on how to make any of this better.

  “Merci. C’est parfait.”

  A quick nod and Tyler was out of there. As I watched Chef Boulanger cut into his turnover, my stomach did its own turn over and I pushed my panini aside. Either completely oblivious or ridiculously hungry, Chef Boulanger kept right on talking between mouthfuls of food.

  “We would like to expand our charity event, maybe add another or two, in order to expand our help for No More Hunger. M. Martin has spoken to our committee several times about the need for our field to do more for our community members who are barely surviving. Did you know Seattle is ranked just behind New York and Los Angeles for having the highest percentage of homeless? Our numbers are lower than Portland’s, but Seattle still has one of the highest populations of homeless youth in the country. For too many reasons—lost jobs, family issu
es, illness, sexuality—people find themselves without a place to live, let alone a way to feed themselves.”

  “Trust me, I see it in New York every day.”

  Chef Boulanger nodded, but his normally jovial expression turned more serious. “In our industry, it is unacceptable not to do more. Alors, our goal is to expand our charity work, maybe even become involved in some of the youth programs M. Martin has so passionately educated us about. Either way, the project will be much larger than what we are accustomed to handling and the committee has decided we need help.”

  “Unfortunately, most of my fundraising contacts are back in New York, but I can ask around, if you’d like.”

  “That would be most helpful. The committee is looking for someone who is not only passionate, but good with people. Someone who will be able to manage not only the fundraising part but the—comment dit-on, how do you say? The schmoozing part?”

  Chef Boulanger’s gaze lingered on mine just long enough to let me know he already had some ideas on who could do some schmoozing for him. When he looked away and took another bite of his turnover, I was suddenly aware of how much I’d underestimated him.

  “Laurent, I’m sorry to interrupt your meal, but we have a question about the setup for tonight. Can I steal you away from your guest for a few minutes? I promise it won’t take long.”

  Chef Boulanger turned to smile at the brunette standing behind him. “Mais, bien sûr, Deidre. M. Pratt, will you excuse me for a moment?”

  “Not at all, Chef. Actually, I have some things to take care of myself. However, I’d love to pick up the bill for today’s brunch as a thank-you for everything you’re doing this weekend.”

  Chef Boulanger waved my wallet away as I was pulling it out of my pocket. “Ah, merci, mais non. Brunch is my way of thanking you for helping us figure out a way to expand our commitment to helping our community. I’ll let the kitchen know before I leave. À bientôt, Monsieur Pratt.”

  The smug bastard turned around and walked away with the pretty brunette without even waiting for an answer. After all this time, I had finally discovered why Ethan and Jamie worshipped the man. Chef Boulanger had a way of wooing you to get what he wanted while making it next to impossible for you to say no.

  I put my wallet away and looked around the dining room for Tyler. I spotted him at a table for four, his smile warm and genuine as he pointed to something on the menu. The urge to pull him off to the side and apologize for the awkwardness and distance almost overwhelmed me, but I knew this was neither the time nor the place. Still I couldn’t leave without somehow reaching out to him. I grabbed a napkin and scribbled out a quick note, praying Tyler, and not a busboy, would find it. T—Brunch was great, but I’m sure it will pale in comparison to dinner tomorrow night. Trevor

  I fished my wallet back out and placed a fifty-dollar bill on top of the napkin. Chef Boulanger’s comments about the scholarship and financial aid had been knocking around in my brain throughout the entire meal. I knew brunch would be comped, but that didn’t justify not leaving a tip. With one last glance at Tyler, I left my table, already counting down the hours until tomorrow so we could talk about what the fuck just happened here.

  Chapter Twenty

  Tyler

  Saturday Night

  I dumped the julienned carrots into the bowl next to me and grabbed a new bundle, my hand rocking back and forth with what was usually a relaxing, repetitive motion. Nothing was relaxing about tonight. Although my second shift of the day was in the kitchen, thank God, I still couldn’t shake off seeing Trevor in the school’s restaurant this morning.

  It had been humiliating enough to see the shock on his face when he realized I was in a waiter’s uniform instead of my chef whites, but to see him ignoring me both before and during lunch had been excruciating. True, I hadn’t told him I was working the brunch event. Also true, I’d had plenty of time to tell him about it while he was at my apartment last night. But in my defense, I’d been more worried about my tongue tangling with his than talking about my shift as a waiter in the school’s restaurant. And why should I have had to tell him? We’d both known he was way out of my league when we’d first met, and barring an unexpected lottery win—even though that would be next to impossible, given I had no money to even buy a lottery ticket—I’d always be out of his league. I wasn’t ashamed of where I worked or the jobs I was willing to take on to pay the bills. The money had to come from somewhere.

  Still, it had caught me off guard to see him standing in Chef Kitterick’s kitchen wearing a suit coat and dress slacks worth more money than I could ever make in a month.

  A part of me knew it was selfish, but it had been easier to pretend we were just Tyler and Trevor with two thousand miles separating us. That was it, though. We’d been pretending things between us were normal for the past two months. After years of pretending in my parents’ house, I was a pro at it. But things weren’t normal between us and they never would be. Even if I worked my ass off and took every overtime shift Bistro 30 had for the next month, I still wouldn’t be able to drop a fifty-dollar tip for a meal that only cost thirty dollars.

  My anger spiked every time I thought about Ulysses S. Grant staring straight at me when I’d gone to take care of the check. None of the humiliation I’d felt over Trevor seeing me wait tables and then having to wait on him and Chef B had compared to the humiliation I felt when I’d found Trevor’s tip. I might have been good for a booty call, but the tip proved just how far removed I was from relationship material for someone like Trevor.

  “Mitchell, I asked you to julienne those carrots, not mince them. Take a breather and walk the floor for me. Check for anything that needs to be replenished and report back when your head’s back in the game.”

  A sarcastic comeback was on the tip of my tongue, but I held it back. I needed to pull my head out of my ass and focus on what was in front of me. I’d have to deal with Trevor at some point, but it wasn’t happening tonight.

  The banquet hall oozed money and glamour. Men were in tuxedos. Women were in full-length gowns that sparkled more than the crystal chandeliers dotting the ceiling. If I’d thought the difference between me and Trevor earlier had been drastic, it was nothing compared to the extreme excess in front of me. Then again, this was what I had signed up for, so it was time to suck it up and do my job. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen it, so why should it bother me now?

  I’d stopped at one of the appetizer tables when I heard a familiar voice behind me, “I would pay an obscenely large amount of money right now to be in chef whites instead of this monkey suit. Think they have an auction item like that on the list tonight?”

  I turned to find Ethan standing awkwardly behind me. I was used to seeing him in his chef whites or jeans and a T-shirt, but the tux looked good on him. His scowl and the way he kept tugging at his collar, however, said he was miserable.

  “Be careful what you wish for, Chef. I seem to remember that’s how Jamie got you to cook for him a few years ago.”

  A slow smiled spread across Ethan’s face as he turned his head, scanning the crowded banquet hall. I could tell the minute he found his husband by the way his smile softened.

  Ethan turned back to me. “Yeah. That was totally worth all the Pretty Woman jokes.”

  I snorted, remembering their tense but ultimately successful reunion. “Well, if you really want out of that tux, I’m sure Chef Kitterick would be happy to see you again.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t complain about another set of hands, but Jamie would kill me.”

  “Yes, Jamie would. Slowly and painfully. If I have to go to these things, you do, too.”

  Jamie nudged Ethan’s hip. I was about to ask him how things were at Bistro 30, when the words died in my throat. Trevor stood a few feet behind Jamie. The other men in the room looked good in their tuxes. Trevor looked like he’d just stepped of
f the runway. The urge to go to him was overwhelming. Stupid idea. Not just because of earlier at the charity brunch, but because he wasn’t alone. Standing next to Trevor, laughing and smiling, was a handsome older guy who looked exactly like someone Trevor would be interested in. Wealthy, privileged, at ease with everyone and everything in the room. On top of all that, he could not seem to stop touching Trevor. I watched in morbid fascination as his hand traveled from Trevor’s shoulder to his forearm and squeezed. He was absolutely perfect for Trevor. And I hated him on sight.

  Not once did Trevor look up to see me standing there. He and his companion were lost in some deep discussion, making everyone and everything around them insignificant. This was the side of Trevor that Ethan had warned me about—the professional flirt who wooed everyone around him, unless that someone was Ethan.

  Needing to be anywhere but here, I turned back to Ethan and Jamie. “I better get back to the kitchen before Kitterick comes looking for me.”

  “Yeah, Kitterick’s not one to fuck around with on the best of days, but with something like this—” Ethan swept his hand around the packed ballroom, continuing “—he’ll have your ass for not being at his beck and call. To be honest with you, I’ve hit the wall. I’m about to grab Jamie and make a run for it. He won’t complain too much if I ply him with beer and cheesy bacon fries from the food cart down the street.”

  Before I left, I chanced a glance at Trevor again, but immediately wished I hadn’t. The guy standing next to him had leaned in closer. They looked intimate. As I watched them together, a foreign and completely irrational feeling settled in my stomach. At first, I thought it was renewed anger at Trevor for using me to get off last night, then leaving me a tip as if I was some kind of cheap trick he was buying off. But then, I realized it was something else. Envy. For just a moment, I wanted to feel the confidence they did. To be utterly at ease with myself, never wanting for anything, especially company at the end of the night.

  Without another word, I headed for the kitchen. Shame burned in my chest as I pushed through the crowd of rich people who didn’t even notice me. I didn’t have time to think about Trevor again until an hour later when Chef Kitterick barked, “Mitchell, start the breakdown of the hors d’oeuvres table so we can set up for dessert.”