Page 17 of From Paris, with Butter
Yasmine clapped her hands and kissed me on both cheeks.
***
Thus, that weekend, at an hour when I was usually still sleeping or lazing about in bed, I found myself walking into an aging office building, wondering why I had ever agreed to this.
“The culinary team is meeting in room 24,” Yasmine said, leading me firmly by the arm as though I might abscond at any moment.
Which, to be honest, had been on my mind.
“Yasmine, I appreciate your confidence in me, but this is a terrible idea. Everyone else is going to be a professional.”
“Not at all. My mother told me half the sous chefs are still in school or only work in kitchens on the side. Plus, the only reason you aren’t a professional is because you haven’t gone to pastry school. You’d blow them all out of the water.”
My stomach churned. “I only promised I’d go to this meeting. Nothing else.”
“I know,” Yasmine said serenely. “And we’ll stuff our faces after the meeting’s over. Come on, the room’s right here.”
I wanted to say something more, to impress upon Yasmine that there was really no chance that I’d ever end up as pastry chef for this event, but she was already dragging me into the room.
Well, she’d realize I was serious when I didn’t change my mind.
As I entered a room filled with tables, I was still half-distracted as Yasmine led us to a pair of empty seats. It wasn’t until I had settled into my chair that I remembered my manners and turned to greet the person seated on my other side.
The man’s head turned, and I found myself looking into Laurent Roche’s gold-flecked eyes.
Chapter 8
Iwas caught so off guard that, before Monsieur Roche could utter a word, I’d stood up again, grabbed Yasmine’s arm, and dragged her to a new table at the back of the room.
“What is your problem?” Yasmine hissed.
“That’s my new neighbor,” I whispered, jittery from his surprise appearance. “You remember, from the restaurant.”
Yasmine immediately stopped frowning at me and craned her neck forward, trying to get a view of Laurent. I was hunched as low as humanly possible in my seat, but I could still see him turning his head in confusion. I ducked lower, my head now nearly level with my knees.
“Oh, wow. I didn’t notice how hot he was when he was being an ass at dinner. Look at those arm muscles,” Yasmine whispered, blatantly ogling him.
“Keep your shirt on,” I muttered. “He’s a misanthrope who lies about cooking.”
“What’s his name again?” Yasmine whispered.
“Laurent Roche.”
Yasmine flipped through the papers she held, but just then, a woman went to the front of the room and rapped her hand on the table for attention.
Reluctantly, I sat up. She introduced herself as Fatima, head of culinary services for the gala, and dove into the logistics of the event. As she spoke, my attention kept flicking back to Laurent.
What was he doing here? Monsieur Roche, who claimed never to cook, who was the epitome of the finance bro cliché–what was he doing at a culinary meeting for a charity event?
“Let’s introduce everyone,” Fatima was saying, and I turned my attentionback to her. She began to read off her list. For each person on the culinary team, she said their name, job they’d have at the gala, and a sentence or two about their background.
Since my only credentials were “longtime waitress at the esteemed Le Jules Verne” I felt awkward again when it was my turn, despite the people nearby giving me friendly smiles. No matter what Yasmine said, everyone else seemed to be a professional.
At least wondering about Monsieur Roche gave me a distraction from my anxiety. His name was last on the list, and by the time Fatima got to it, I was almost bouncing in my seat with curiosity.
“Finally, our head chef is Monsieur Laurent Roche. He recently moved here from Aix-en-Provence, where he was head chef at the Michelin-starred Les Champs D’Or.”
My mouth dropped open.
