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She pulled in several long streams of air. Went to that place in her mind where positivity and optimism reigned supreme. Mentally shook off her tension.
Then she flashed her camera-ready smile.
“Bon Dieu!” Pierre’s blond brows shot up. “Liane was right about you. She said you could light up an entire room.”
“That’s very sweet of her.”
Liane was the former main hostess of Davila’s. A new friend of a friend Bayli had recently met. And likely the only reason Bayli had scored this opportunity, because according to Liane, there was a foot-high stack of submissions from much more qualified candidates on Pierre’s desk.
He said, “It was kind of her to make a recommendation after, unfortunately, we had to let her go.”
Bayli’s head cocked to the side. “Let her go? I thought she quit in order to start the fall semester at NYU.”
“Ah, is that what she claimed? She’s a lovely girl, so please don’t mention to her that I told you that Chef St. James excused her when she turned away the governor for a table.”
“Wow.” Bayli’s mind reeled. “The governor of New York? Who would be—”
“A man you do not shoo away because he doesn’t have a reservation. Especially when he shows up with foreign dignitaries he wants to impress. I’ll make it all perfectly clear how to accommodate situations such as that … provided Chef gives you the head nod.”
The head nod.
Oh, fuck.
She inhaled again. Held the breath. Let it out slowly.
Back to your happy place, Bay.
The smile easily returned. “I’m fine,” she assured Pierre again, though her heart thundered and her pulse raced.
Okay, desperation was a bit of a scary thing. But she bucked up, because being “on” came naturally to Bayli.
Finally stepping out of the shadows of her past and really being seen was what motivated her, what drove her to succeed no matter the bleak years and pain she’d suffered back in California. Like Jewel had told her, this was Bayli’s time to shine.
And shine she would!
Hitching her chin a notch, she said, “Let’s go meet Chef St. James.”
Oh, dear God, please let him like me!
* * *
Rory St. James was already planning the new menu that would roll out in a couple of months. It was his custom to keep changing up the selections that came from his kitchens, not just to ensure loyal patrons didn’t feel a sense of repetitiveness but also because there were endless dishes to surprise and enthrall diners. One of the reasons Rory preferred a different style of cuisine for each establishment.
Wine country chic in River Cross, California. Fresh seafood in Boston. Cuban fusion in Miami. Traditional pub-food-taken-to-the-next-level in London. Six courses with wine pairings in Paris …
At thirty-two, Rory did not yet feel as though he’d fully explored his culinary genius and therefore continued to study and practice and add to his repertoire. In his mind, there really was no such thing as being at the top of your game in this business, because around every corner there was a new discovery to make and a new direction to take.
The steakhouse was meant to provide a basis for some of the classics with Rory’s twist on them. Medium-rare filet mignon cooked at sixteen hundred degrees and drizzled with a decadent crab-béarnaise sauce. Pepper-encrusted New York strips. Beef Wellington. Chateaubriand. Thick, juicy T-bones. All with his own spices incorporated—and all of which he was currently preparing for an elite group of food critics sitting in his dining room. He also prepped samples of Australian rack of lamb and Chilean sea bass for variety.
He’d already offered three different types of specialty soups. Now he plated the salads and arranged them on a serving tray with a bread display and accompaniments. He hadn’t requested a server for today’s affair. Pierre poured the wine, and the sous and dessert chefs were on hand, but Rory wanted to take a more personable approach with these particular critics as they immersed themselves in his menu, so he chose to be more engaging than usual and deliver the food himself.
He knew his reputation preceded him. Type A, control freak, perfectionist. He’d heard it all—and deserved the labels. He’d lost his temper more than once in his kitchens. It was no secret he could be surly when he was in the zone. Not out of extreme arrogance, though, yes, he was proud of his achievements even as he continued to strive for greater excellence. Rory just wasn’t a people person, per se. It was the main reason he stuck to what had been deemed his “den” by the epicurean media and let Christian or Pierre or the front-of-house managers at the other restaurants converse with the customers.
Rory comprehended the importance of circulating throughout the dining room, inquiring as to whether everything had been prepared to guests’ satisfaction. But the majority of the time, he was deep in thought, challenging his own knowledge, concocting more creative dishes.
It was hugely helpful that Christian was so charismatic—and women fawned over him. It was also advantageous for both men that they were on the same page when it came to diversity at each of their restaurants. Neither settled for the status quo, and Christian was always open to new innovations.
They’d met at Columbia University and had hit it off instantly.
