I shook my head. “It’s fine. You apologized last night—”
“But I didn’t mean it then.” My mouth dropped open in shock and he shrugged. “Just trying to be honest. Last night I would have . . . well, I probably would have said you were the greatest chef of all time, if that’s what I had to say to keep kissing you.”
I matched his dangerous smile with my own. “I don’t know if I should be insulted or flattered.”
“Be flattered. And, for the record, Bouille Hadley is the best dessert I’ve ever tasted.”
My eyes flew open—flirtatious teasing and sincere apologies temporarily forgotten. “Do you mean that?”
Max nodded earnestly. “I do.”
For one brief moment, it was as if none of it had ever happened. He wasn’t the guy who had called me Hayley and thrown my curry dish at Aguste Bissett, and he wasn’t the guy who had taken my anger and turned it into passion in the length of two steps. He was the great Maxwell Cavanagh, whose career I had followed and whose show I had loved—not that I ever intended to confess that to him. He was the youngest chef to ever receive nine Michelin stars. He was a James Beard Award winner. He was quite possibly the greatest chef of our time, if not quite of all time—though he wasn’t going to get me to admit that to him unless he made me something more substantial than lettuce wraps.
And my dessert was the best he’d ever tasted.
“Thank you, Chef,” I whispered.
I’m not entirely sure, but I think all of our history faded for Max too, there in that moment. We were each back to basics, and united in our mutual desire to make an impact on the culinary world we loved so much.
“Thank you for creating the dish, Chef.”
I smiled at him and savored the moment. I knew it was one that would forever remain in my mental scrapbook of career achievements.
I didn’t get to savor very long.
“I think the biggest thing for me—the reason I need to practice—is that the way you are on camera, and kind of the way you are in the kitchen in general, really drives me insane.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not saying that’s why I was a jerk to you, but—”
“Wow,” I said as I involuntarily took a step back. “You’re quite the gentleman, Chef Cavanagh. Maybe you should stick around for dinner and we can talk about how I’ve gained a little weight, and you can help me decide whether or not the gray hairs I’m starting to get will pass as blonde highlights a little longer.”
He lifted his hand to his face and scratched his beard-covered cheek, and then sighed and shook his head. His eyes left mine and traveled down to his feet as his hands formed tightly clenched fists. “I knew it was probably a mistake to bring it up—”
“But you persevered in spite of your doubts, and for that I’m eternally grateful.”
His hand lifted before his eyes did, and he held it out in front of him as he said, “Can you just listen to me? Can you maybe just . . . I’m not good at . . .” He exhaled, and finally his eyes lifted. “I’m not always good at talking, Hadley. I’m good at talking about food. I’m good at talking about travel and adventure, and what’s wrong with everyone else’s cooking. But I’m not good at the real stuff. I promise you I’m trying my best here. And I promise I’m not trying to hurt you.” His palms reached behind him and grabbed onto the edge of the counter. “Can you just give me the benefit of the doubt for one minute?”
Whatever had happened to lock our eyes in place before happened again, and I couldn’t say a word. At least nothing of consequence. I simply nodded—slowly—and said, “I’m going to take the water chestnuts and go sit over here.”
A confused laugh bubbled out of him. “Okay . . .”
“I’m going to try really hard to give you the benefit of the doubt and just let you say what you want to say. I just . . . I think a little space will be good.” I shakily reached out for the container of water chestnuts and took them with me to the table. “So you just stand there and cook lunch and say what you need to say—”
“Do I have to cook while I say it?”
I nodded. “I’m starving.”
A gentle smile spread across his face and I knew he understood, as I did, that cooking would create an environment that made us both more comfortable.
“Okay,” he replied. “I’ll cook. But I’m going to need the water chestnuts.”
“Do you need all of them?”
That smile deepened. “No. Not all of them.”
“Let me know when you need them.” I took a bite out of one and set the container down on the table as I sat. This really felt like more of a job for popcorn or pork rinds, but Max’s ambiguous vegetables would have to do. “Okay. I’m ready.”
He chuckled softly, and for a split second there was emotion in his eyes that I didn’t recognize. It was gone as quickly as it came.
“So, here’s the thing, Hadley. I gave this a lot of thought and—”
“You need to cook.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry.” He looked around the island and gathered the ingredients he needed right away, and went straight to the pans of mine he intended to use. As he grabbed olive oil from my pantry he said, “Like I said, I just want to be honest. I think you deserve that.”
“I deserve to be told everything that you think is wrong with me?”
“What happened to the benefit of the doubt?”
I sighed and gestured that he should continue.
“If I thought any of this was anything that was wrong with you, I wouldn’t bother. I’m not seeing any of this as flaws. It’s not that. It’s just . . .” He looked around him and then to me. “Where do you keep your knives?”
“Behind you.”
He turned and spotted them. “Ah. Thanks.” He began dicing the raw chicken. “Hadley, the thing is, I think you’re remarkable.”
I froze. “You think I’m remarkable?” I asked with a mouthful of water chestnut.
His dicing hand hovered a couple inches above the cutting board. His eyes tightened up and his jaw clenched, but then instantly his eyes and his jaw and his dicing all went back to normal.
“To have made it in this business the way you have? Putting up with jerks like me? Yeah. That’s pretty remarkable. If anyone knows how difficult it is, and how much it has a tendency to sap the life out of you, it’s me. And you deserve more respect than I’ve given you to this point.” He looked at me. “I’m sorry.”
I probably would have been moved and honored by his words if the promise of analyzation of my shortcomings wasn’t still lingering in the air.
“I appreciate that, Max. Really. But . . .”
His eyebrow rose. “But what?”
“Oh no . . . that wasn’t my but. That was your but.”
Yeah. That’s actually what I said. I kept my head down and held on to hope—for the briefest of silent seconds—that he’d heard what I meant rather than what I said.
His snickering made it very clear he’d heard exactly what I said.
“Don’t worry. I have no difficulty at all distinguishing between the two.”