Page 36 of From Paris, with Butter
“More than anything I’ve ever done,” Laurent said softly. “When Les Champs D’Or opened, it felt like I’d finally found my purpose. It made all the work, and stress, and long hours worth it. My life shifted from a jumble of jobs and fraught decisions to a path leading me right to where I needed to be.”
As Laurent spoke, the tension in his shoulders eased and the lines around his eyes and mouth smoothed. He stopped fidgeting with his utensils, trying to get them perfectly parallel to one another. Instead, he let his hands drop into his lap.
Looking at him, his eyes alive with passion, I realized that the Laurent I had seen—tired and demoralized from work—was only a fraction of who he really was. Who he became when he was a chef.
“Why did it close?”
The light in Laurent’s eyes went dark. “A lot of reasons. Mostly it was because I was foolish,” he said, with a finality that encouraged a change in subject.I could certainly understand not wanting to discuss past career failures.
Moments later, our main courses arrived. My chicken looked glorious, the skin golden-brown and crackly, resting on a bed of sautéed leeks and apples. The intermingled scents of cider, poultry, butter, and thyme wafted over me. I cut off a piece of dark meat, and it was so tender it practically slid off the bone. I speared a sliver of apple, too, and put it in my mouth. As I chewed, I found myself smiling. It was all done so perfectly. I looked up to see Laurent watching me.
“It’s wonderful,” I said fervently. “This is the best chicken I’ve had in ages. How is the cotriade?”
Laurent’s meal looked just as delicious as mine. The stew’s broth was rich and golden with chunks of fish, onions, potatoes, and leeks bobbing around in it.
“Excellent,” Laurent said. “They included eel, which adds a depth of flavor that I like. I would have added just a splash more of vinegar though,” he added with a wink.
“Oh, I know that chef type,” I said, happy to talk about something that didn’t dredge up painful memories. “Your kind always finds a way for a dish to be improved. Chef La Croix is exactly the same.”
“You know, he has quite a reputation in the cooking world. Beyond his cooking prowess, I mean. Is he really a terrifying old monster?”
I laughed again. “Not really, although I think he enjoys having that reputation. He probably makes up most of the rumors himself. I’ve realized recently that he’s actually a softie,” I added impishly.
“Jean-Baptiste La Croix? I’ll believe that when I see it,” Laurent said, laughing now, too. “How are your ideas coming along for the gala?”
“I have some. They may not be that good, though,” I said, losing confidence.
Laurent frowned. “And why wouldn’t they be?”
“I mean, I’m just a home baker,” I said, remembering Sabine’s unimpressed expression as she read over my credentials. “I don’t know nearly as much as a professional pastry chef.”
“I wouldn’t be so certain. Personally, I’d be thrilled to have that tarte tatin you made served in any restaurant I was running.”
I’d been looking at my hands, but now I glanced at Laurent, looking so earnestly at me. A heady emotion came over me–a mixture of happiness and the urge to cry.
“Thank you. That’s very nice of you to say,” I told him, once I was sure my voice wouldn’t wobble.
It started to rain, so we decided to nix gelato and split a slice of cherry clafoutis for dessert instead. Laurent pulled his chair around to my side of the table so our elbows were nearly touching. Having him so close to me—I could see a sprinkling of freckles across his nose I’d never noticed—made me giddy.
“How appetizing,” Laurent said, eyes locked on mine. “Ladies first.”
I thought he’d wait for me to cut off a piece, but instead he cut into the clafoutis himself. Plump cherries were nestled in the creamy base, their juices spilling into the pale custard and turning it pink. A few drops dripped off the piece he’d speared with his fork.
“Open wide.” My whole body tingled at the sound of his voice.
Obeying, I parted my lips; Laurent slipped the forkful into my mouth. It was still warm. The flavor of tart cherries and sweet custard exploded in my mouth. I chewed slowly, my eyes never leaving Laurent’s. After I’d swallowed, I insisted that he try the clafoutis himself, but he fed most of it to me, bite by bite. I was nearly panting by the time the plate was cleared.
Outside, rain was coming down heavily, so Laurent hailed a taxi. As soon as we were seated inside, he took my hand. We were quiet on the ride back. All my thoughts were focused on every part of my body that touched Laurent’s. I ran the pads of my fingers over the scars and burns his hands had accumulated from years of working in kitchens.
When we arrived at our building, we had to break apart to leave the car, but after Laurent paid, he opened my door and helped me onto the sidewalk. It was still raining, and I watched a raindrop slide down the bridge of his nose and drip to the ground.
“Should we go insi—”
Laurent’s lips were suddenly on mine, and everything else fell away.
His mouth was warm and eager, and he tasted slightly of cherries. His arms came around my back to grip me firmly. I stepped closer so thatour bodies pressed together: chest to chest, hip to hip, thighs to thighs. We were getting soaked to the skin, but I was only dimly aware of the rain. A blazing heat ran through me. I felt as warm as if I was sitting next to a fire.
The top button of Laurent’s shirt had come undone, exposing a triangle of smooth, wet skin at his throat. One of Laurent’s hands came up to my hair, and he stroked it gently, then moved to the base of my neck. He ran his fingers gently across the tender skin there. I gasped a little, and Laurent pressed his mouth more firmly to mine.
