Page 18 of From Paris, with Butter
This was certainly new information.
I looked intently at the back of Laurent’s head, the only part of him I could see from this vantage point.
He used to be achef? This made his cooking denials even weirder. Possibilities rocketed through my mind. Had things ended badly in Aix and he was trying to put his past behind him? Was he in some sort of witness protection program that required him to take on an entirely new career and never mention his old one?
But then why was he volunteering as head chef at a charity event? What the actual hell was going on with this man?
I don’t consider myself a particularly lucky person (No one who has accidentally dropped a fork on a diner’s head, then watched as said fork bounced off the diner’s head, hit the man’s (full) glass of red wine, which itself then shattered onto the hapless diner’s lap, could consider themselves lucky), but sometimes the universe cuts me some slack. This was one of those times. (And yes, that man had his meal fully comped.)
As Fatima discussed how the chefs would be working together, two women sitting at a table in front of me bent their heads together.
“Laurent Roche. You remember him, right?” one woman whispered. Myears perked up.
“Of course. His mother was one of my closest friends growing up. I didn’t know he lived in Paris now,” the other whispered back.
Lacking any shame, I elbowed Yasmine to get her attention.
“He left Aix when his restaurant closed and his relationship ended,” the first woman said. “Did you know his girlfriend left him for a coworker? Very messy. He came to Paris for a new start.”
“What?”
The word hissed out of me involuntarily. As the women turned my way, I stared straight ahead and acted as though I was deeply enthralled by Fatima, who was now discussing bathroom locations for the gala. Ah, yes. Fascinatingandimportant to know.
My outburst seemed to have distracted the two women though, and they didn’t pick the conversation back up.
As Fatima continued, now on the subject of dishwashing policies, my mind reeled. So Monsieur Roche was a former chef, and at a Michelin-starred restaurant no less. They didn’t give those stars out like candy.
And he had a tragic dating history to boot. Well, we had that in common. Next time we met in the hallway we’d have to compare notes. Then I could see if Laurent had also been tricked into a blind date with a person who’d tried to pressure him into a perfume-related pyramid scheme that also sounded vaguely like it might be human trafficking.
But you’re not going to talk to him again,I reminded myself.Because he’s a curmudgeon whose only hobbies are secretly cooking and lying about secretly cooking.
My lack of focus must have been obvious because Yasmine elbowed me in the ribs. When I turned her way, she tilted her head toward Fatima, indicating I should be paying attention. She was right, of course. I was here to fulfill an obligation to her, not go on a side quest digging up my neighbor’s mysterious background.
Fatima clapped her hands together. “This is an excellent time for a break. Take a half hour, enjoy some food, then the culinary team will reconvene and begin putting together a menu.”
I was the first to stand. Pulling Yasmine behind me, I shot through the doorsand into the bustling main room. It was filled with the scent of freshly-brewed coffee and baked goods laced with honey. Momentarily caught up in the crowd, I looked around for some place to go, my fingers still wrapped around Yasmine’s wrist.
“The bathroom is down that hallway,” she said, pointing. We made a beeline for it. As we did, I reached out my free hand and grabbed one of the honey pastries. For research purposes.
As soon as I pulled the door shut behind us, I turned to Yasmine.
“Did you hear that? That neighbor of mine who keepsswearinghe doesn’t cook—even though I smell him making dinner every night—is an actual chef!”
“Wasa chef,” Yasmine corrected. “You told me he’s some sort of businessman now.” Yasmine shook her head in mock disappointment. “Poor man. All those career struggles and not one person told him his path clearly lies in modeling.”
“Yasmine. Focus.”
“Oh I am. Did you see the way that suit fit him?”
I raised an eyebrow at my friend, but she kept on, undaunted.
“I’m telling you, Margot. This is a gift from the heavens. This is karma rewarding you for being nice to that woman who tried to bring her pet snake into the restaurant last month. Get yourself a hot hookup, girl. Just leave before he gets weird about making you breakfast.”
I snorted. “Ah yes, just what I always dreamed of. A fling with a compulsive liar who only cooks with the door locked and the drapes drawn.”
“You can’t be too picky, Margot.”
I rolled my eyes and took a bite of pastry.
