CHAPTER THIRTY
Noa
Saint meets me in the deserted parking lot, as promised.
He appears from behind the dumpster as I get out of my car, his white chef coat reflecting as bright as the moonlight when he steps up to me.
“You’re on time. Good,” he says, gesturing with his chin for me to follow him.
I’m not sure how I got myself into this situation, but I follow him into the back of the restaurant, clinging to the words he said to me likedetermination, focus, practice, andChef.
The potential he sees in me brought me here, and even during my darkest moments, I can’t forget my dreams.
We enter the kitchen, where Dr. and Mr. Stanton are at their station, along with Rad and Danny. All four look up at the same time and applaud my entry.
“What? No, don’t clap.” I wave them off.
“Why not?” Dr. Stanton says. “You deserve it. We’re glad you’re here.”
“Yes, don’t let the scandal of a secret pregnancy with the hottest actor on the planet keep you away,” Danny says.
There’s no venom behind it, just a genuine grin, and I try to laugh at it in the way he must see it. It’s a strange pull of my lips, to smile at what was once so painful, but I have to admit, it’s different in a good way.
“Plus, I prefer to lose to my top competition through a fair fight, not because a bitchy diva kicked the spotlight away,” Rad says.
To that, I laugh. “I’d prefer it, too.”
“Enough chitchat,” Saint says, clapping his hands together to get our attention. “Tonight’s a tough one, and I’m not taking it easy on any of you. Noa, especially. As your de facto sous chef, I’ll expect to see perfection in everything you do.”
I nod, my chest lifting eagerly. This is exactly the distraction I need.
“Let’s get started with coq au vin and pear galette. Two of my favorite meals, so don’t fuck it up.”
“He’s so lovely,” Danny mutters to Rad.
I jump to it, setting up my station and throwing myself into preparing the food.
Saint wasn’t lying when he warned he’d become a sous chef nightmare. He critiqued everything I did, insulted my pastry methods, and all but tossed my first attempt in the trash beside our station.
If I wasn’t so desperate to disappear into the bowl of macerating pears, I would’ve stormed out. If my storming out wasn’t so parallel to how Stone behaved in this class, I would’ve thrown my apron at Saint and said none of this is worth it. A couples’ cooking class isn’t supposed to be somean.
When, in fact, it completely distracted me from my real life.
I took each of his criticisms on the chin, redoing my cuts and re-chopping—essentially starting over every time he snapped, “Nope.”
I had brief respites when he’d move on to the other stations, but he always returned, his footsteps soundless but his expression speaking volumes.
By the time I’m finished, I’m covered in flour and smelling like chicken fat and vanilla—not a great combo.
But my dishes look fantastic.
Even Rad gives an impressed downturn of his lips as he passes. His husband, Danny, hugs me tightly before leaving, as does Dr. Stanton. They clean up a lot faster than me since they didn’t have to repeat the recipes three times, but I don’t mind. Where do I have to be? I made it so I could disappear.
“You have talent,” Saint says, standing in front of my station.
“Really? Because I was about to ask if you convinced me to return simply for your twisted entertainment.”
Saint smirks. “I seek better forms of entertainment than watching an amateur slice chicken.”
