CHAPTER 7
Maya
MINOR ANTAGONISMS ASIDE, SEBASTIAN AND I SETTLED into a surprisingly easy rhythm over the next three weeks. We already knew how the other worked, and our meetings were actually productive once he stopped rage-baiting me.
Thanks to him, we got Derek Gardiner to create the recipes for the frozen foods collab. The handsome, award-winning chef was the perfect person to headline a national campaign, and I had to give Sebastian my reluctant props. As annoying as his golden-boy status was, his connections did come in handy sometimes.
“I heard this place is the best date spot in town,” Nikhil said. “I hope you like it.”
I blinked, disoriented by the sudden conversation.Right. I wasn’t at work, and I wasn’t with Sebastian.
I was on another date, this time with a doctor whom my mother assured me was “one of the most eligible bachelors in the tri-state area.”
The last man she set me up with had a Napoleon complex and a penchant for mansplaining every dish on the menu, so I took her words with a grain of salt.
Nevertheless, I firmly pushed aside thoughts of a certain Frenchman and smiled at my companion. “I’m sure I’ll love it,” I said as we entered the restaurant in question.
Nikhil gave his name to the hostess, who checked us in and led us to our table in the center of the dining room.
Brasserie M was the city’s latest restaurant du jour. New York cycled through new hotspots every few months, but the intimate bistro had kept its chokehold on people ever sinceMode de Vie named it “the most romantic restaurant in the U.S.”
Ambiance-wise, I could see it. It was only big enough for a dozen or so tables, and the dim lighting, cozy seating, and soft background music lent it an air of sexy elegance. I recognized several other diners, including a famous news anchor, a Tony Award-winning actress, and Charles Whitaker, my father’s business rival. He was having dinner with his wife and didn’t seem to have noticed me.
“So, I hear you’re a surgeon,” I said after we placed our orders. “That must be exciting. Tell me the truth: how accurate isGrey’s Anatomy?”
Nikhil laughed. “Not that accurate, I’m afraid. I mean, in the first episode alone…” He launched into a long-winded explanation of every detail the show got wrong.
I kept my smile in place even as my eyes glazed over. I’d promised my mom I would give my dates a fair chance instead of dismissing them from the start, but so far, none had passed my first test.
I asked them about themselves and waited to see how long it took for them to ask me something about my life. The answer was usually never.
Nikhil was still going on aboutGrey’s Anatomy and his own medical
training after our appetizers came.
Aaaand another one bites the dust.
I sipped my wine and looked around, already counting down the minutes until the night was over.
I knew I should’ve asked my friends to give me an out. I usually had Sloane or Ayana call after thirty minutes so I could leave for an “emergency” if necessary, but my mom had been relentless since Priya’s engagement. If she found out I’d cut the dinner short, she’d murder me.
To be fair, Iwanted these dates to work. They just… never did. You couldn’t force chemistry and compatibility, no matter how much your family prayed, cajoled, and pressured you to.
“Good evening.” A smooth, deep voice interrupted a nightmarish daydream of my mom and aunties lined up in front of me like a tribunal.
Verdict: Guilty of depriving us of bragging rights, future grandchildren/nieces and nephews, and the opportunity to outshine our friends’ daughters’ weddings.
Sentence: An eternity of blind dates with interchangeable, self- absorbed men.
I shook off the image as the voice continued. “How are you enjoying
your dinner so far?”
Wait one fucking minute.
My head snapped to the left, where amber eyes and a devilish smile
greeted me.
You’ve got to be kidding me. “What—”
“It’s good so far, but we haven’t had our entrees yet.” Nikhil chuckled, oblivious to my sputtering shock. “I guess we’ll see if this place really
lives up to the hype.”
“I certainly hope so,” Sebastian said without missing a beat. “I saw you ordered our mushroom bourguignon and gratin dauphinois. Both excellent choices.” He retrieved two business cards from his breast pocket and placed them in front of us. “My name is Sebastian. If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask for me. Enjoy the rest of your meal.”
He smirked at me on his way past.
I flipped him off under the table, and his low laugh grated on me long after he was gone.
I drained the rest of my glass, so thrown by Sebastian’s appearance that I couldn’t appreciate the objectively exquisite wine. It was yet another thing he’d ruined for me in a long list of items dating back to our childhood.
How could I have forgotten this was one of his family’s restaurants?
But even if I’d remembered, the last thing I would’ve expected was to run into him.
Sebastian was a C-suite executive. His job didn’t include working the dining room or handing out business cards to customers.
He was up to something. I just didn’t know what.
“Now that’s good service.” Nikhil examined his business card. It only stated Sebastian’s name and email, not his title or phone number.
“Sebastian Laurent… Wait, you don’t think he’s one ofthose Laurents, do you? The ones who own the entire restaurant group?”
“I don’t know. Maybe,” I muttered. I picked up my card and was about to toss it to the side when I spotted a scrawl of black ink on the back.
Best wishes on your date. Any man who can talk that much withou is clearly a keeper.
That sneaky little bastard. He must’ve been spying on me throughout dinner, which was so fucked up. But if that were the case, why did I feel
like laughing?
It’s the wine talking. It had to be.
I tucked his business card into my purse and schooled my expression into something that hopefully resembled interest as Nikhil resumed his detailed accounting of his med-school years.
Now that I knew Sebastian was watching, I couldn’t look bored. I refused to let him see me suffer or, worse, smile at something he’d given me, even if it was the most interesting part of my evening so far.
Our server brought out our entrees, and I redoubled my efforts to pay attention as Nikhil abandoned his med-school stories in favor of waxing poetic about his upcoming camping trip with “the boys.”
What was up with men and camping? I had a strong aversion to bugs
and peeing in the woods, so the appeal was lost on me.
Still, I scrounged up a laugh at his joke about bears. A pleased expression crossed his face, and he rambled on about how he could totally take on a black bear by himself.
Someone kill me.
At least the food was good. It was the only redeemable part of the night.
I took another bite of bourguignon and snuck a peek around the dining room. I hadn’t seen Sebastian since our appetizer course. He’d probably left, which made sense because why would he stay when… My eyes snagged on a familiar figure near the hostess station.
He’s still here. My heart skipped a tiny little beat, which was obviously my sign to stop drinking. I’d had so much wine it was wreaking havoc on my internal organs.
Sebastian stood facing me. He was talking to the maître d’, but he glanced over right as I was about to look away.
Our gazes collided, and the intensity of his stare hit me like a shot of pure whiskey in my bloodstream. My ears buzzed as I fought not to turn away first.
God, I hated the way he looked at me, like he knew exactly what I was thinking. How I felt, what I wanted—everything he had no business knowing but did anyway.
Sebastian’s eyes glittered with mocking amusement as he held my gaze for one long, deliberate moment. A small smirk tugged at his mouth.
My fingers curled tightly around the edge of my seat, my pulse thudding with painful awareness. Just when I was about to cave and blink, he broke eye contact to resume speaking to the maître d’.
My muscles instantly loosened, and I inhaled a shaky breath before I returned to my conversation with Nikhil. He hadn’t noticed my lapse in attention at all. He carried on with his monologue until our server cleared away our dishes and brought out a decadent slice of chocolate cake. It was topped with glistening strawberries arranged in an elaborate flower shape.
“I think you have the wrong table. We didn’t order this,” I said, even though my mouth watered just looking at it. Strawberries were my favorite comfort food after chocolate.
“This is on the house.” The server set the dessert on the table with a wink. “Compliments of the owner.”
I didn’t pay attention to Nikhil’s questioning frown; I was too busy staring at the minuscule note tucked halfway beneath the cake.
Better luck next time. -xo, Seb
Sebastian
“Tell me. What’s bothering you?”
I leaned against the wall and popped a truffle fry in my mouth. I hadn’t eaten all night, and the first bite was like fucking nirvana. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Margaux took a deep drag of her cigarette. A perfect smoke ring curled into the cool night air. “You were distracted tonight,” she said.
“You’re never distracted.”
“I wasn’t distracted.”
“Is that why you kept sneaking out to the dining room when you were supposed to be helping in the kitchen?” Her knowing gaze dug holes in my denial.
Margaux was one of the most lauded chefs in the world. She’d started her career scrubbing dishes and worked her way up to the top of the food chain (no pun intended). She’d seen a lot of bullshit in her life, and right now, she saw right through mine.
“I have a lot going on,” I answered vaguely.
“I’m sure you do.” Another smoke ring billowed between us. “Who did you send that free dessert to earlier?”
I sighed. Nothing happened in Margaux’s kitchen without her knowing about it.
The restaurant closed over an hour ago, but I wanted to catch up with her and take a quick food break before going home.
I already regretted my decision.
“No one important,” I said.
“If they weren’t important, you wouldn’t have sent them free dessert.”
I finished my fries and tossed the empty container into a nearby trash can. We were in the street behind the restaurant. It smelled like garbage and food grease, yet I felt more at home here than in my family’s boardroom.
“It was an old schoolmate,” I amended. Margaux had the tenacity of a pitbull, so I had to give hersomething, or she’d never let me off the hook.
“But not a friend,” she observed shrewdly.
“No.”
What Maya and I had was too complicated to classify as friendship.
Friends didn’t compete as often as we did. They didn’t live to get under each other’s skin, and they certainly didn’t cancel guys’ night to crash the other’s date instead.
Every morning, I received a list of VIP guests who were scheduled to dine at my restaurants that day. The reservation was under her date’s name, but he’d listed Maya as his companion. She was the VIP, not him.
I’d told Margaux I wanted to shadow her in the kitchen tonight when I’d really wanted to see what Maya was like on a date. What did she order? How did she act? What did she wear?
They were questions I should’ve already had the answer to, considering we’d grown up together. The fact that I hadn’t until tonight bothered me for reasons I couldn’t name.
“Is your father still being a little bitch about you becoming a chef full time?” Margaux asked.
I smirked. She was one of the few people who knew about my ambitions, and she was one of thevery few who was brave enough to
talk about my father that way.
“Évidemment.”
She made a disgusted noise. “So corporate.T’as un don naturel pour la cuisine. Tu ne devrais pas perdre ton temps à suivre les conseils de ton père alors qu’il n’y connait rien.”You have a natural talent for cooking.
You shouldn’t waste your time listening to your dad when he doesn’t get it.
“I have a natural talent for marketing too.”
“That’s not the same, and you know it.” She pointed her cigarette at me. “Do you know what your problem is? You ask too much and don’t negotiate enough. You’re his only son, and he needs you more than he lets on. Use that to your advantage.Make him take you seriously.”
I was silent.
Margaux was right. I could force my father’s hand more, but doing so would require me to believe in myself one hundred percent. I had to wholeheartedly, unequivocally trust that becoming a chef was what I was meant to do, but I was only ninety-eight percent of the way there.
As much as I wanted it, there was still two percent of me that doubted myself. My previous failures hung over me like a cloud, and until I figured out a way to get past that, I was stuck in limbo.
I couldn’t tell Margaux that, though. She had too much conviction about what she did, and admitting I didn’t have enough would simply be another failure on my part.
“That’s a problem for another day.” I pushed off the wall and headed for the main road. “Thanks for letting me shadow you tonight. I’ll see you around.”
She stubbed out her cigarette and lit a fresh one. She was aware her smoking habit might kill her one day, but her attitude toward death was the same as her attitude toward everything except cooking: fuck it.
“Don’t get used to it,” she called after me. “Next time I see you in the
kitchen, you better be the one running it.”
I laughed even as a pang hit my chest. I tossed my hand up in a casual wave goodbye and turned onto the main avenue.
It was a long walk home, but it was a gorgeous night, and the city was strangely calming when it was this quiet.
My footsteps echoed in the near-empty streets. Besides the occasional passing car and pedestrian, it was just me and my thoughts.
My father. Maya. The product launch. The past and future and everything in between. There were a dozen roads splitting off into a dozen more, and I wished I could commit to a path without second- guessing myself every step of the way.
I made it halfway downtown when my phone buzzed. I almost sent it to voicemail before I saw who was calling.
Interesting.
I picked up, my mood lightening. “Miss me already?”
“You wish,” Maya said.
“I can’t think of any other reason you’d call me after midnight.
Unless…”
“Don’t finish that sentence unless you want me to throw up,” she warned. A beat passed, and then, “Why did you send me that dessert?”
That fucking dessert. It was my second most foolish decision of the day, after canceling guys’ night to work.
“You like strawberries and chocolate,” I said. “I was being nice.”
“You’re never nice.”
“I’m always nice.”
“Not to me.”
“Fair point,” I conceded. “What can I say? I was in a good mood.”
“You’re up to something, Laurent.” Her obvious suspicion made me smile. “If I find out you put laxatives or something in that cake, I’ll kill
you.”
Cause of death: anaphylactic shock.
The memory of the coroner’s pronouncement floated through my mind. My smile wavered, but I kept my voice even. “One, I wouldn’t damage my restaurant’s reputation by doing something so stupid. Two, that’s rich coming from someone who was planning to do that exact thing to me at her family’s dinner party last month.”
A long silence greeted my response.
I pictured Maya sitting in her penthouse, her mouth open with shock, and my good mood returned.
“You thought I didn’t know?” I tsked. “I can predict your every move, Sal.”
Truthfully, I’d run into Diya on my way to the conservatory that night.
She’d refused to tell me why she was holding a bottle of laxatives, but I’d
put the pieces together myself.
I’d never tell Maya, though. Let her think I could read her mind.
“I had no such plans,” she said, her tone wholly unconvincing. “And if I did, you deserved it.”
“If you say so. But if you really want to know the truth, I sent you that
cake because you looked miserable.”
“I wasn’t. I was having a good time.”
Another lie. One of these days, she’d figure out that she couldn’t hide the truth from me. Not when it came to stuff that mattered, and not when it came to her.
“I’ve seen people have a better time getting mauled by a lion,” I said.
She huffed. “Why do you care if I’m miserable? I thought you’d love seeing that.”
“Because.” I stopped at a red crossing light. “I’m the only one who gets to make you miserable.”
Another silence, this one weighted on both ends.
Maya was stress and frustration and escape all rolled into one. Our interactions never failed to raise my blood pressure, but in a world where my days blended together with mind-numbing ease, she was the only person who made me feelalive. Her anger, her drive, her rare moments of genuine vulnerability. I couldn’t get enough.
I wanted to stash her emotions in a bottle and carry them around with me because seeing her feel made me feel too. Without our constant battles, my life would resemble a flat desert landscape.
Empty. Predictable. Boring.
So, no. No one else was allowed to make her feel the way I did. That privilege was reserved solely for me.
“You are such a bastard,” Maya finally said.
There was a strange note in her voice, but she didn’t give me a chance to respond. When I checked my screen again, she’d already hung up.
It didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was still thinking about me hours after that dessert. I’d say that was a win for me.
My mouth curled into a grin.
I continued my walk home, my steps lighter than before.
Sending Maya that cake hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.