Page 6 of Falling for Paris
“We’re partners. You’re still the founder, Rafael. Now stop being a shit and get to Paris by morning.” At that, she had hung up.
Which is what landed him in his present dilemma. Hands behind his back, neck itchy from a starched collar, his head pounding, and sandpaper behind his eyes because insomnia didn’t care that he needed some rest before leading a class he wasn’t prepared to teach. Such were his thoughts as he tried not to glare at eager, beaming students.
What were they so happy about? Silly tourists. Thinking that if they splurged a few thousand dollars, they would actually understand food. As if money could buy that feeling of being at home in the kitchen. Of being at home in yourself.
Anton, the associate chef tasked with introducing Rafael, was in his element. The young man was often requested by the celebrity clientele for weddings or vacations. His charm was as good as his skill. Rafael allowed himself some pride in that he’d mentored Anton at the beginning of the young man’s career.
“It is a pleasure—truly a privilege—for me to announce that this class will be run by no other than the founding executive chef ofEcole Supérieure de la Gastronomie de Lyon.Everyone, please help me welcome the renowned Rafael Baptiste Lyon.” A burst of applause made him flinch.
The ruckus was abruptly interrupted by aclangand acrash.He didn’t have to look to know those were the sounds of various utensils spilling over a metal prep table.A woman’s curses from the back of the crowd competed with the racket of fallen metal bowls twirling on floor tiles.
People parted, revealing a woman on the floor gathering the mess. She was wearing clingy black pants and a red shirt with gaudy glitter and the unmistakable script of the wordParis. Her hair burst out like plumes of black velvet, her bent body gaped the tacky shirt to offer a glimpse of a lacy purple bra.
If her shirt repelled him, that bit of tender skin encased in lace awoke his interest.
“Please,madame, leave it. You mustn’t—” Anton reached over to take her hand as Patrice swept in to tidy the clutter.
When she looked up, Rafael was arrested by enormous brown eyes and the amused line of plump lips. It was…
“Rafael? Wow. I can’t believe…I, um, hi?!” She cleared her throat and shook her head briskly, layers of shoulder length hair swishing over her flushed neck.
“It’s so good to see you again,” the woman stated, years too late.
He didn’t know what to say, so he evaded. “Have we met,madame?”
The rush of heat to her face disgraced him. “It was a long time ago,” she mumbled. “I can’t imagine you’d recall our meeting.” Her eyes were more deep-set than he remembered.
It was ages since he’d thought about that pretty college girl in a dark alley sharing his sandwich. Yet having her in front of him made their encounter seem like it was yesterday. For a man whose sense of time had tunneled into when to tend his garden and which medication went with food, the fact that Rafael remembered anything from over a dozen years ago was nothing short of a miracle.
“It’s Victoria,” she stated, and then smiled. “Though of course you wouldn’t remember that either. Anyway, you worked at a restaurant in Montmartre and were very kind to me.” As she spoke, the sparkle in her eyes dimmed and her voice wavered.
“Victoria, welcome to the class. It is very good to see you again.”
He knew he sounded fake and formal. Did he have a choice, really? Was he supposed to match her warmth and cheer when all he thought about was how far he was from that young man she’d enchanted so effortlessly? He was assaulted by a specter of a feeling, almost like a lost limb that nonetheless tingled. The need to surprise. To please. To nourish. But it was a phantom feeling. An echo of another time.
Rafael, during that time of his life, thought of nothing but cooking. He would lie in bed, eager to play with the flavors unearthed by the upcoming season. He’d meticulously documented every new combination of spices. He was the first person to arrive and the last to leave in every class he ever took. He’d steal nights in his boss’s kitchen, long after the restaurant closed. Hours and hours spent exploring new techniques or improving tested recipes. Entire seasons concocting the thrilling emulsion of food and heat and time and flavor.
The broken man today couldn’t be more different from the boy who created with passion and tasted with hope.
“Thank you, Chef,” she mumbled through stiff lips. She retreated into herself and looked to the front of the class, willing him to leave her side. So that’s what he did.
Well, that was embarrassing.
Tori got carried away; the moment of recognition brought a rush of surprised excitement. The man in front of her was the same kid she recalled fondly from ages ago. Who could forget that name? Rafael was the name of an angel. An angel with the sexiest cleft on his chin and the softest-looking hair.
He still looked ridiculously handsome, although in an entirely different way. She vaguely remembered that his hair had been short on the sides and at the back, while fairly long in front. He had donned dark blond strands with just enough lift and flop and volume to frame the face of a Roman statue—haughty nose, high cheekbones, square jaw, and heavily lashed eyes.
Today, his hair was trimmed to a military precision. Dark blond strands mixed with silver threads, making him look like he was wearing a crown while lording over his domain. If Tori recalled him as eager and sweet in the past, the man before her exuded detachment and control. He had the confidence cultivated from being skillful and stunning all his life, so he could take admiration for granted.
Gray-green eyes. She’d had a sense, in the darkened alley long ago, that his eyes were light. She had no idea they were the color of a jade stone faded by time and touch. She was surprised to learn that his thick lashes were so much darker than his hair and that his aroma, when he passed her, reminded her of a garden under a scorching sun. Not flowery, although there was an unmistakable sweetness. He smelled of rich earth and herby greens and lavender traces and citrus notes. And with just the hint of sandalwood soap and salty sweat, he smelled like…like aman.
He stood in front of the kitchen lab—features unreadable and hands clasped behind his back—dominating the space without even trying. It was that element of the man that drew her most of all: quiet authority and impenetrable indifference.
She vaguely recalledEcole Supérieure de la Gastronomie de Lyonwas named after its founder. There were celebrity chefs she’d recognize as international stars but that’s not Rafael. The school’s website had pictures of food and amenities, but no people. Certainly no Rafael Baptiste Lyon. She was a marketing director and unconsciously noticed those details. A picture of this man would have caught her attention.
“Victoria is such a pretty name.” A middle-aged man with a trim beard, polo shirt, and cargo shorts turned around to address her.
“Thank you,” she answered warmly. Tori welcomed the distraction away from Rafael’s haughty stance and gray-green eyes. There was a pause in class instruction as assistants circulated to prepare different stations.
