He broke away, one more time, and I knew. I knew it was over.
"We can't," he murmured, his eyes opening slowly. "Jill, we..."
He didn't sound entirely convincing, probably because he didn't sound entirely convinced. Yet. He was still caught up in the moment, but he was grasping for something.
Please don't find it. Please just let me have this.
But it was already too late. He was pulling away. Not far, but far enough to say what he couldn't quite but into words.
My hands were trembling. I clasped them in front of me, awkwardly, anything to stop the shaking. I tasted blood and realized I was biting my lip.
"I'm sorry," he said, softly. He wasn't bullshitting me. Sorry was written across his face, and not just because he was walking away from an easy lay. He was Chef Maxwell Dylan, for fuck's sake. He could get any woman, any time he wanted.
But he wouldn't take me. Not even when I was practically serving myself up, on a silver platter.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Entremet
An entremet is something sweet, a palate cleanser served between courses. Sometimes it refers to a dessert served afterwards, to clear the savory richness of the main dish. As much as we all love salt and garlic, no one wants to leave the table with the taste still in their mouth.
- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes
***
Max
***
"Melissa! Answer the phone, for fuck's sake!"
People were staring. I hadn't been in full Drill Sergeant Mode since I arrived, but things were going to be different now. No more Mr. Nice Chef.
It was the hangover, I told myself, the lack of sleep - certainly not because Jill had gotten smashed on thirty-dollar drinks and thrown herself at my feet. Certainly not because I had to turn her away, for her sake and for mine. Certainly not because she was all I wanted anymore.
Certainly not that.
Thorne's words had lodged in the back of my mind. It was so simplistic, and so clichéd, but I was beginning to suspect it was true. Find someone you're happy with, and you stop worrying about the rest.#p#分页标题#e#
It was half-right, anyway. If I could give up all my Michelin stars to make Jill love me, I would have done it.
For God's sake. How hard would Beckett laugh at me now?
"Chef?" came a quiet voice from my elbow.
"WHAT?" I whirled around, only to see Lydia standing there, her mouth drawn to a thin line.
"Your first interview is here," she said, her eyes hard as flint. Lydia had slipped into Survival Mode. I knew it well, and it was a sign that I was officially out of control. But at the moment, I didn't care.
Before I knew what was happening, I found myself seated across from someone with their resume in front of my face, and it looked impressive, and they looked impressive enough - not twitching or sweating profusely or chewing their lip or anything like that.
"You like cooking?" I demanded, staring them down, as if any professional chef with ten years of experience could possibly answer "no."
"Is that a trick question?" he asked, calmly.
"Yes," I said. "No. It doesn't matter. When can you start?"
He blinked.
"Today, I guess."
"Then I guess you'd better get into the kitchen." I snapped my fingers. "Chop chop."
Lydia was lurking by the doorway, of course, and rapped lightly on the wood with her knuckles.
"Maybe we'd better go over just a few practical things first, Chef," she said.
I waved my hand dismissively, and stormed out of the room.
***
"We need to talk."
Jill said this, without much conviction. I had a feeling Lydia was behind this.
"Fine," I said, gesturing towards the chair in the mess of an office that my erstwhile staff had left behind. "Sit."
She cleared her throat, and began what sounded remarkably like a prepared speech. "I'm very sorry for last night," she said. "It won't happen again."
I was trying to keep as stoic as possible, but no - I couldn't sit here and listen to her take responsibility for what I'd allowed to happen.
"Please," I said. "Don't apologize. You didn't do anything wrong."
My voice came out much softer than I intended, and when she looked up at me, I swore that her eyes were starting to redden. Of all the indignities Jill had suffered at my hands, this was the absolute worst.
"I don't..." Her voice was starting to quiver. "I don't know what came over me. The drinking's no excuse. I never..."
"Jill, please," I practically begged, my arm instinctively stretching across the table as if I could reach her hand. "Please stop, please don't. The whole thing was a massive lapse in judgment on my part. I take full responsibility. I never should have put you in that position. I know sometimes it's...." I took a deep breath. "...difficult. Lines can get blurred. You have nothing to apologize for."