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He thought right, but he was beginning to wonder if Lili would ever truly be with him. If she would ever make the leap necessary to meet him halfway or if he was no more than a prop to her fragile ego. He knew she cared up to a point but all the noise—her family, her history, her fear of change—was drowning out the possibilities for their future. At the mere mention of anything related to what comes next, she shut down emotionally and became Lili the temptress.
Think of your needs, sweetheart. Her hands turned into weapons of sensual torture. What about grad school? Her lips nibbled and grazed, advance scouts for her warm tongue.
Shucking off her insecurities would take more than Jack whispering sweet nothings through the voluminous hair that drove him lust-wild. He wanted it settled before he signed the contract, otherwise she’d use that as an excuse to retreat.
Irked at himself, he picked up the paper Laurent was making notes on, his large expressive scrawl barely legible. “Duck a l’orange? I know retro is in, but they can just as easily take away Michelin stars as give them.”
Laurent’s mouth tipped up in a grin. “Trust me. I have something special in mind.”
Jack knew better than to doubt it. Laurent’s brand of genius was quiet and methodical, and Jack often wondered why he stuck around all these years instead of branching out on his own. He would readily invest in any venture led by his right-hand man, but luckily for Jack, he’d always seemed happiest at Thyme.
Feeling nostalgic, Jack cast his eyes about the room, drinking in the polished wood and gleaming brass finishes, all molded in the style of a nineteenth century Parisian brasserie. He and Laurent had planned it together down to every last detail, from the copper pans imported from Marseille to the antique light fixtures, exact replicas of ones they’d discovered gracing the walls of a rundown Pigalle bistro. It had been their baby, their big splash in the Big Apple, but as much as he loved it here, Jack knew in his marrow it didn’t belong to him anymore.
Laurent must have noticed something in Jack’s expression. “Lunch starts in thirty minutes. Did you want to run the kitchen?”
That too-familiar twist of apprehension wriggled in his gut. He hadn’t run a kitchen, a real kitchen, in over a year. “I’d love to, but I have a meeting with my agent.”
Laurent raised an eyebrow, resulting in a parallel rise of Jack’s defensive hackles. His friend had never begrudged Jack his success, but tended to be amused by it all instead. The look he was giving Jack now was on the other side of diverted.
“You should be here, Jack.” Laurent’s usual blue twinkle had suddenly acquired bite. “You don’t enjoy the current show. Why would you enjoy this new one?”
Jack harshed out a laugh that rang hollow against all that shiny brass. “What makes you think I don’t enjoy it?”
“Because the Jack Kilroy I know would never have lost that cook-off with Tony DeLuca.”
Jack stared. Blinked. Stared some more. “You were fairly hung over during the taping but surely you recall our hosts engaged in a spot of cheating.”
Laurent made a sound that could only be described as ‘French.’
“You are the best chef I have ever worked with, but you’ve lost your edge. None of your dishes that night were half as good as you’re capable of. You’ve been coasting for while now. Cheating or not, Tony deserved to win, but a year ago there would have been no contest.”
Where the hell had that come from? Jack readily acknowledged that cooking had ceased to be an enjoyment since he’d swapped his chef’s toque for the bright lights, but he didn’t think the work had suffered. Not really. Knowing his diminished passion manifested where it counted—the fucking food, stupid—flicked his ego like a rusty nail over a raw wound. But in the last few weeks, he’d felt that passion’s joyful return as he planned his new Chicago menu. As he fed Lili and fell in love.
“Thought you like it when I’m gone. Gives you a chance to boss all the young bucks,” Jack said, half in jest but really to cover his discomfort about his best friend’s annoyingly pointed conclusion.
Laurent gave one of his trademark Gallic shrugs. In truth, he was the executive chef at Thyme except his name wasn’t on the menu. He’d never ask outright, which was part of his problem. No drive. Too much of a dreamer.
“You don’t need the money and you certainly don’t need any more reason to attract women,” Laurent said in a seductive cajole, more like the easygoing Frenchman he knew. “Come back to what you love.”
Come back to what you love. Food, Jules, Lili. These were the things he loved and he would fight to his last breath to have them all.
Thirty-Six
“So the advice of your elders means nothing?” Cara traced the rim of her martini glass and tilted those accusatory sapphire blues up.
Lili hid her smile in the mouth of the microbrew bottle she’d never heard of and looked around the chic bar, another recent addition to the neighborhood. Scattered throughout were gamine pixie dream girls and bearded hipsters wearing bowling shirts and trilby hats because it met their weird definition of irony. Trendy watering holes were not her usual tipple but Cara only frequented places where the bar staff had advanced degrees in mixology. And she was buying.
“I’m not seeing Jack to annoy you. I happen to like him.”
Cara’s expression became so inflexible it could rival Botox as a beauty regimen. “How much?”
She imagined stretching her arms out to their full span. This much. Clearly, the pause had gone on too long because Cara jumped in pout-first.
“Oh God.”
“This was all your idea, Cara.”
“A hot and sweaty one night stand, I said.” She inclined her platinum crown and the muted light from the wall sconce caught it just right, giving her a halo. “Hot. And. Sweaty. Not our-second-car’s-a-Volvo. Not don’t-forget-to-pick-up-little-Emily-from-violin-practice. You’ve gone and done exactly what I said you shouldn’t do.” She lowered her voice. “You’ve fallen for him.”
