I think it’s an excellent idea to feature both options in Falcon Haven, attending to traditional and evolutionary needs, but I will never tell this chef that.
The restaurant isn’t open for business yet and they pushed aside dining tables in favor of four metal prep tables lined up in a row directly in front of the food run station.
Couples surrounded by bowls, vegetables, knives, and other kitchen paraphernalia occupy three tables. Our table shines in comparison because there’s nothing on it.
I take position behind it while Noa greets each table individually. I recognize some, namely the elderly Mr. and Dr. Stanton, the latter being my pediatrician and Ma’s cribbage partner. Noa says hello to another pair. I catch their names as Danny and Rad. I don’t recognize them, but they do me. The older one, Rad, has a jaw-drop moment as I pass and feigns fainting into his partner, who backhands his arm and demands more decorum in the presence of Superman. The last couple is young, right out of college, and they peel themselves off one another to politely introduce themselves to Noa. The woman, Claire, gives me a shy smile while the boy glances sideways at me a lot like I did to the chef.
The man himself takes his place at the center of our tables and behind the food run station, the red mosaic tiles behind him adding somewhat of a blood-thirsty charm.
“I thank all of you for enrolling inC’est Trois’sexclusive French master class,” he says, drawing upon a handy French accent when deciding to sound like an authority on the subject. “While I vastly appreciate your support, I must warn you, there will be no coddling during these lessons. I’m here to nurture talent as much as you’ve arrived to prove yourselves, and I willmeet any lack of effort with immediate dismissal.” Saint scans the tables, silent throughout his speech. “My father’s the nice guy. I’m not. You will not receive accolades, a degree, a chef’s hat, or any kind of reward for completing my classes. You’re here out of passion, a desire to learn in a subject that perhaps passed you by when you had the chance or circumstances have prevented you from pursuing a professional chef’s career.”
Noa’s body goes limp next to mine. I glance down at her, noting how fiercely she’s staring at Saint. Somehow, she missed her chance, and the why of it eats away at me. I make a mental note to ask her about it the next chance I get. A girl like her with such dashed dreams shouldn’t have to lay herself at the feet of a man like this, who acts like an overlord in his little slice of Falcon Haven.
You deserve better, I want to say to her.
As if sensing my intensity, she looks up, notices my attention and jerks her head toward Saint, silently demanding me to listen.
“With that in mind,” Saint continues, “We’ll start today with blank slates. I’ll reserve judgment until a moment of indignity reveals itself.” He stares pointedly at me while stating that.
I meet his gaze.Game on..
“Before you are the ingredients for traditional French cassoulet. Mr. and Mrs. Williams, you’ll have to grab the ingredients yourselves since you arrived late.”
“Oh—we’re not married,” Noa says. Too loudly, in my opinion. “Or together, actually.”
Saint raises his brows. “Oh?”
“I thought this was couples only,” Claire whispers to her boy-toy.
Noa, realizing her faux pas, shuffles beside me.
“We are together, actually,” I say, putting my arm around Noa’s surprised shoulders and smiling at Chef pointedly, mystare conveying what my words cannot.You touch her, you will die.“But considering my circumstances, I’d prefer to keep it private, if you don’t mind.”
“Let’s move on,” Saint drawls with a glare. “We’ve lost enough time as it is.”
“What wasthat?” Noa whisper-shrieks once Saint turns his back.
Now that eyes are not on her, eyes that are notmine,my territorial jealousy abates. Somewhat. “I was proving a point.”
“And what point was that, Stone?”
“That you’re not his.”
Noa wrinkles her brows in confusion, then jumps to attention when Saint barks out orders.
I’m forced to admit how much I enjoy observing her in her natural environment, collecting utensils and ingredients and instructing me on how to do the same without batting an eye.
I never noticed how adorable it is when her brow scrunches with concentration as she chops, or how she bites her lip when she slices. What floors me the most is how the tip of her tongue pokes out when she works the saucepan on the hot plate. Her tongue shines a rosey pink, pointed in my direction, and when a piece of dark hair falls in front of her face, I want to tuck it behind her ear and suck her tongue into my mouth while doing it.
The part of me that’s not supposed to be present twitches. I readjust my pants and show an intense focus on preventing the beans from burning. I’m hot, I’m sweating, and the apron tie is wildly uncomfortable against my neck, but to my surprise, time passes quickly, especially when I put all my energy into observing her.
Chef Saint wanders our way. I move in front of Noa.
If he notices, he gives me no sign as he clasps his hands behind his back and hums deep in his throat as he assesses our progress.
“The fat on your duck breast could have better knife scores,” he says while prodding the meat Noa just finished searing. “And you could have rendered it better.”
Saint pulls a knife and fork from the cup of tasting utensils on our table. Without asking permission, he cuts into the middle of one of Noa’s painstakingly prepared duck breasts and clucks his tongue. “How disappointing. It’s raw in the center.”
