Page 27 of Only Mine
Saint pulls a block of cheese, a rustic loaf of bread, and something green and leafy from a low refrigerator. His movements are easy and sure as he slices the bread with a long serrated knife and grates the cheese onto the slices.
“Grilled cheese?” I ask, watching him slide the open-faced sandwiches under a salamander broiler mounted above the counter.
He sends me an insulted crook of his brow. “Gruyère. Arugula. Pain de campagne.”
Saint’s attention goes back to the broiler.
He could have just pointed me toward the market down the street. He could have ignored me entirely after patching up my pathetic scratches. But he didn’t. Saintbrought me into his sanctuary, his domain, and now he’s feeding me.
The cheese bubbles and browns. He slides the tray out, the aroma nutty and warm, then reaches for the arugula, tossing a handful lightly with a vinaigrette I didn’t see him make, then places them on the sandwich.
He plates the sandwiches on simple white plates, adding a small pile of cornichons alongside mine. He slides the plate across the counter to me.
“Eat.”
It’s simple yet perfect. Miles beyond the sad salads I usually make for myself.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice thicker than intended.
Saint leans against the counter opposite me, arms folded again, watching me expectantly. He doesn’t get himself any food. He just watches like he’s waiting for a verdict.
I lift half the sandwich to my lips. The bread crackles under my bite, the cheese oozes with a sharp tang, and the peppery arugula slices through the richness.
An involuntary sound, more elemental and euphoric than any moan I’ve ever uttered, bursts from my throat.
Cheese does that to me. Especially melted.
Saint freezes. His gaze snaps to my lips, then lifts to my eyes, the blue in them darkening like a sudden storm cloud. His knuckles turn white where his hands grip the edge of the stainless steel counter. For a fraction of a second, the air crackles, the professional distance dissolving into something spicy and unexpected.
The controlled chef disappears, and the man looks hungry for something else entirely.
Heat flares low in my belly, a direct response to the way his nostrils flare and how his chest seems to expand under the white coat.
A pan clatters loudly behind me. Someone clears their throat. The background hum of the kitchen falters, the rhythm disrupted.
I risk a glance sideways. Two line cooks exchange a wide-eyed look before quickly turning back to their stations. Even the young man Saint had spoken to earlier pauses mid-chop, his knife hovering over a pile of herbs. They saw it. They felt it too.
My cheeks flame hotter than the broiler.
Oh God. Did I really just make that noise? Over a sandwich? In front of him and his entire staff? I want to melt into the stool, disappear behind the microgreens. I quickly take another bite, chewing with far more fervor than necessary, staring intently at the pattern on the white plate.
Saint pushes off the counter, the movement sharp and almost violent. He spins toward the pastry station.
“Pierre! Are those tart shells blind-baked yet?”
His voice is rougher than before and very clipped.
“Oui, Chef!” Pierre calls back, startled by the sudden command.
Saint doesn’t look back at me. He strides toward the main cooking line, running a hand over the back of his neck, his shoulders rigid. He points at something in a sauté pan, barking an order in rapid French that I don’t understand, but the cook jumps to obey.
C’est Trois snaps back into its focused rhythm, but the air still feels peppery and charged.
I force myself to take another bite, then another, needing to finish and escape the echo of that mortifying sound and the fire still lingering in Saint’s wake.
Saint doesn’t return. He keeps his back to me, immersing himself in the work.
I’m left alone on my stool, eating the best damn sandwichof my life in the middle of a world-class kitchen, feeling more confused and strangely cared for than ever.
