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My eye twitched involuntarily.
"This croquembouche," he said, "it's like you're trying so hard to be something you're not. In reality, it's just . . . excessive. Caramel crème pâtissiere? A terribly gauche choice. Very . . . American. It lacks the finesse and elegance of true haute cuisine."
"Chef Luigi, I—" I tried to interject, but he cut me off with a wave of his hand.
"In trying to prove your skill, you've committed the cardinal sin of the kitchen: poor taste." His voice oozed condescension. "You're a decent vegetable chef, but pastry-making? I'm afraid it's just not for you."
Humiliation seared my cheeks as I fought back tears. All that hard work, all those sleepless nights spent perfecting my craft, only for it to be brushed aside with such disdain.
"Maybe I could learn?” I said, aware how desperate my tone of voice was now. “I could join the pastry team as an apprentice and work my way up. I don’t mind how menial the tasks are, I—"
"This isn't a training kitchen, Elara." His hand was back on my shoulder.
"I know that, Chef."
He sighed theatrically. "Pastry is complex. It's the interplay between science and art. Every little thing must be precise, perfect. You need to be creative under pressure, but also able to do the same thing over and over again, without deviation. Only the very best chefs can make it in the world of pastry.”
I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. "I'll work harder. I want this more than anything, Chef."
Luigi glanced at the door before fixing his gaze back on me. "It's clear this means a lot to you." He inched closer, so close I could feel the warmth emanating from his wiry frame. "Look, like I said, this isn’t a training kitchen." A sly smile played on his lips. "But maybe you could benefit from some private lessons. At my place? I could teach you the intricacies of pastry-making."
I crooked an eyebrow. "At your place?"
"We could even have a little fun while we're at it." His hand slid down from my shoulder, grazing the bare skin of my arm, his fingers lingering on my flesh. Alarm bells clanged in my head.
"Chef Luigi, I don't think—"
"You know, the good pastry schools in New York, like the Pierre Trouffant school, charge upwards of $25,000 for their programs, and that's one teacher to at least a dozen students. My lessons, on the other hand, would be one-on-one, so to speak. Intimate. And there would be no tuition fee."
I jerked my arm away. "The only cost would be my self-respect."
"My little éclair, don't be so dramatic," he scoffed, as my skin crawled. "I'm only trying to help you become the pastry chef you aspire to be."
"No, you’re not."
"This is the best offer you’re going to get, Elara,” he barked. “The only way someone like you will ever stand a chance of making it as a pastry chef."
"I'm leaving."
"Elara, let's not be hasty," he warned, his voice taking on a threatening edge. "You're making a big mistake."
"Am I?" I retorted. “Only mistake I made was not leaving sooner.”
He smiled wickedly. "I like that fire, Elara. It's why I hired you." He leaned in, pressing his forefinger against my chest.
I recoiled, my back hitting the edge of the bench. "Stop it."
"Think over my proposition, Elara."
Something snapped inside me. I jumped to my feet, trying to put distance between us, but he stood too and seized my wrist, yanking me toward him. Panic rising, I looked around, searching for anything to fend him off.
The croquembouche.
I slapped my hand into the tower of choux pastry, caramel, and crème pâtissiere, shoving the whole lot straight at him. Hard.
It hit him square in the groin.
Cream exploded over his chef's whites, and he grunted in surprise, releasing his grip on my arm. "You little brat!"
