Page 7 of Falling for Paris
“I’mJeff and this is Dominique.” Jeff pointed to his younger companion. “We’re on our honeymoon.”
She beamed at the friendly, handsome couple. “Congratulations!” she cheered. “Whose idea was it to spend two weeks in a Paris kitchen?”
They playfully pointed thumbs at each other before bursting into laughter. The sound elicited a grumbling “ahem” from in front of the class and, without even looking, she knew it was Rafael.
Dominique leaned over the prep table and whispered, “He definitely remembered you, darling.” And then winked.
Tori fought down the heat that rushed up her cheeks. She changed the subject. “Where are you both from?” she whisper-asked. “I’m assuming you’re American.” Their accents and mannerisms signaled as much.
She didn’t know why she whispered like a kid in the back of the class. Sure, theywereat the back of the class but they weren’t kids. Yet something about Rafael’s stern focus affected Tori. Made her want to whisper, to conspire, knowing the mild act of defiance would make him lean closer. Ridiculous, really.
“Denver,” Jeff answered. “And you?”
“DC. I just got here yester—”
“Pardon me. May I get you started here,madame?” the assistant interrupted, showing her how to start the gas stove of her individual station.
Chef Anton was leading them through a simple omelet technique while making light conversation. She followed along, focusing on the task at hand. She never thought of herself as a talented cook, but she loved the way preparing ingredients focused her mind, the way flavors could surprise. And she loved fooda lot.
But Rafael, with his austere stiffness, flared nostrils, and barrel arms was upsetting her equilibrium and distracting her from the simple task. She dropped a spatula, earning raised brows from classmates. And when she went on her knees to grab the tool that had rolled to the bottom of her worktable, she imagined Rafael’s eyes glued to her lifted ass. Instead of being embarrassed, Tori’s arousal percolated her system—singeing her nerves and tightening her core.
“Get it together,” she mumbled to herself while scrambling to her feet.
“Victoria? Um, Madame Espinoza? How are we doing back here? How did you manage?” Anton urged.
“Yes, quite well, thank you,” she responded cheerily. Because she did, in fact, make a rather fine omelet.
Rafael, scowling like a displeased headmaster beside the amiable Anton, looked down at her offering with disappointment. “You will need to tap next time.”
“Tap?”
“Like this.” He took a fork and lightly tapped the side of the pan. “To remove the…” Instead of finishing his sentence, he made a wiggling motion with his hand that meantwhat, exactly, Tori had no clue.
“It will be better,” he stated. His voice sounded gritty and low, his French accent more pronounced than she remembered. Rafael’s fingers brushed hers when he handed her the fork. “It will be smoother,” he stated through a clenched jaw. “Creamier.”
He might as well have nipped her neck, the effect of his voice was that unexpected. He spoke in a sultry whisper set to a different register. He glanced at her lips which she had involuntarily licked and parted. Had sheeverbeen this thirsty? Like literally, her throat was parched as if she was panting in hundred-degree weather.
“Whatever you say, Chef,” she stated jovially to hide her intense reaction. It was difficult to look away from his eyes which were lowered and heavy and dark. “Who wouldn’t want it creamier?”
His eyes flicked up. She didn’t mean to sound sassy but Tori came from a long line of snarky women. If the one-sided recognition surprised her earlier, the energy between them was summoning a different reaction, buoying her to meet the challenge of his curt instruction.
A split second passed as his eyes narrowed and nostrils flared. Then he moved on.
Tori spent the rest of the morning watching from the edges of the cooking lab. Rafael did little teaching at all, merely staying by Chef Anton’s side as the younger man toured through the pantry, demonstrated some equipment, and reviewed the schedule.
By the time Victoria gathered her things at the conclusion of class, Rafael was nowhere to be found.
The first day he ran class on his own, a unit pretentiously titled the Refined Art of Sauces was on the agenda. Just the thought of stirring and mixing over a simmering stove made him shudder.
He needed to be outside. Paris was unseasonably warm for early summer, rendering the sunny kitchen lab as searing as a sauna. He didn’t think his nerves could survive the rapt stares of his students and the literal heat of the kitchen. On a good day, Rafael was too restless for the confined space. But now that good days were scarce, being in the kitchen lab was unbearable.
Most importantly, hisbrachial neuritis—what the doctors called the chronic nerve pain that seized his right shoulder, arm, and hand—was brutal and unpredictable. No one needed to watch him make a fool of himself if the sharp lashes of pain sliced into his system.
“Today, there will be a change in our agenda. We are going to the, um, to the…” His voice trailed off when his gaze landed onher. She wore her black hair in a low ponytail and a flower dress the exact shade to make her sun-kissed skin glow. Matching his scrutiny, she crossed her arms over her chest. It was a signal of guardedness but one that deepened her cleavage.
Rafael cleared his throat and turned on his heel. With a determined nod he assumed they would all follow. Ridiculously, he imagined he looked like a mother duck leading a line of students on route toMarche Bastille. He heard one of the assistants call out to shepherd the group. This reassured Rafael thatsomeonewas making sure these adults’ hands were held.
The collectiveoh’sandah’stested his patience. Had these people never seen oysters before? Walking past the fish and meat stalls, Rafael welcomed the familiar pungency of the public market. Past the poultry, the cloying smell of ripening fruit and assertive muskiness of fresh mushrooms overwhelmed his senses. Rafael raised a reluctant wave at Madame Gaudreau, whose nuts and olives stall was a local landmark.
