Page 9 of Falling for Paris
“The cow or goat or sheep breed determines the richness of the protein,” he explained. “More than that, the nutrients of the land, the regional practices, these are all important for the development of flavor.”
He carefully decided the sequence of tasting, grumpily correcting one student when the man went off sequence. Do these Americans even know how to listen? And that Swiss couple, with their constant selfies,mon dieu! He scowled every time there was a pause to accommodate them. Is this how they spent their days? Documenting every minute as if anyone cared?
Rafael attempted to push past his exasperation—he only grunted alittle.In fact, he was barely scowling while showing the class how best to cut an aged gouda.
“You must ensure each piece has the perfect proportions of rind and heart,” he instructed.
“Heart?” Victoria’s voice was tinged with amusement. It was very distracting.
“It is the fullest essence of the cheese,” he showed her with the tip of the knife running down the center. It took all his concentration to keep his hand from shaking. Damn his nerves, which worsened with the drastic temperature change in the cellar and the intense attention of the woman leaning closer.
“The heart must be enjoyed with the rind to capture the complexity.”
“The good with the bad, huh,” Victoria teased.
A stray thought entered Rafael’s traitorous brain: that she would be bothvery goodandvery badindeed. As if she read his mind, her breathing hitched.
“It is cheese,mademoiselle, not a moral lesson. Please pay attention.” Rafael didn’t mean to sound austere but he was bothered. Not by her, exactly. He was aggravated by his body’s reaction when she refused to react appropriately to his frown.
Her eyes were laser points when she spoke. “Oh, I’m paying attention. And you could have fooled me about your moral indictment,” she spat back. “You make it sound like we’re committing an unforgiveable sin if we cut cheese the wrong way, or taste something without yourpermissionor, heaven forbid, document this once-in-a-lifetime experience.”
“Perhaps in America sins are so easily allocated.”Was that the correct word?He was unsure but refused to falter in the face of her accusation. “You’re in France, now, where it is merely bad taste. Which, some might say, is worse than sinning.”
Her glare was mostly malice with the barest hint of a dare. “I think that depends on the sin.”
His stomach tightened in response to her contempt. Who did this woman think she was, provoking him this way? Not at all like the girl he remembered.
Her initial reaction to seeing him in the kitchen lab was very similar to the sweet, enthusiastic college student from the past. Yet the more she was in his presence, other aspects of her personality emerged. She was still enthusiastic and sweet to everyone else, but to him: defiant when others were intimidated.
Rafael realized the room was utterly quiet, everyone watching their exchange with interest.
“Isn’t this why you came to France?” he sneered derisively. “To learn how to serve cheeses that you can post in your Instagram accounts?” And because he was too strained to speak in English, he blurted under his breath,Pour tweeter que tu es un expert après deux semaines dans une cuisine qui n’est même pas la tienne.”He mocked the constant tweeting or posting. Did they think they could be experts after two weeks in a kitchen they didn’t even own?
“Chef Rafael, I came to take this class in your kitchen, yes,” she said through gritted teeth, her eyes aflame with anger. “Because you are, as you keep reminding us, the expert.” She clearly understood his grumbling complaint in French. Victoria wasn’t done.
“However, if I had known your superiority complex was part of the program…” Her voice drifted when one of the other students released a loud guffaw and Patrice gasped.
“Please finish your thought, Victoria,” Rafael drawled with a detachment he didn’t feel. “We all await what you would have done if you knew French chefs were such bastards.”
“That’s not what I said,” she hissed.
“In that case, what a shame,” he droned, knowing he was acting very much like a bastard.
In his attempt to ease the tension, Luc offered his usual gregarious cheer. “Alas, enough talk of sins and bastards. Is wine in your budget for the tour, chef?”
He managed one tight nod before turning away and walking upstairs. Patrice would manage the bill and disperse the group. As a bastard accused of a superiority complex, Rafael was in no shape to do either.
“Chef Rafael, may I come in?”
She arrived half an hour before class officially began. Tori leaned against an office door that might as well have been a force field, the annoyance emanating from the man within was so palpable.Stay awaydidn’t need to be spoken. Yet Tori was determined to clear the air between her and the infuriating man, his force field be damned.
“Who is it?”
“Victoria Espinoza,” she said, pushing past the door to find the chef with his back turned, fastening the buttons on his wrists. She noticed he always wore long-sleeved shirts despite the heat. When he turned around, his face was as hard as a statue’s. A glaring and gorgeous statue.
“Why bother knocking if you’re not planning to wait for an invitation?”
She had just enough presence of mind to shut the door before snapping back. “I came to apologize but I’m starting to suspect it won’t matter.”
