She had worn it to work two nights before. He had seen it just after she had removed her coat and before she put on her chef’s jacket: a moonstone resting in the hollow of her throat. What would it be like if he were to stand beside her and slowly slide that moonstone out of the way to press his lips to that hollow? What would it be like to lay delicate kisses along the breadth of her collarbone? How would she respond? Would she push him away and tell him to stop, or would she throw her head back and wrap her arms around his neck, pulling him in for more? Hmm. If he did that in the kitchen, most probably the former, which is why he would never try.
He exhaled deeply, letting the tension ease out of his shoulders. He almost had to laugh at himself for turning into such a pantywaist. But he couldn’t deny it. Something about her called unto the depths of his being. What would it be like to taste her mouth? Her succulent lips like mandarin segments. Her melodious voice hushed by the union of their feverish mouths. He wondered what it would be like to unite their bodies, minds, and souls in this most fervent dance. It would be unlike anything he had ever experienced before.
And that was what he wanted with her, and nothing less. To kiss her until she was dizzy, to love her with all the force of his fiery being. But she was still his sous chef.
“She will leave when she gets back on her feet,” he said aloud, but no one was listening.
What would it be like to nuzzle her hair and trace the seashells of her ears with the tip of his tongue? He sighed. Logic had no place in his mind at the moment. Eventually, these thoughts would drive him crazy.
He wondered where he could run into her outside of the kitchen. Perhaps if she saw him elsewhere, she would be able to conceive of him as someone other than her employer. But he couldn’t think of a single way to draw her out without it sounding like a date. He was starting to get on his own nerves, and he didn’t have any answers. But even if they never went on a date, she needed to know there was more to him than foie gras and grill smoke.
16
Lumi
The second week of April brought longer hours of sunlight and, even better, fresh greens from farms upstate. The French Alliance was hosting its annual spring gala at DAX, and there was excitement in the air but also plenty of pressure. The staff knew that it was an honor for Julien’s restaurant to be chosen, but they also knew he was on edge.
It was a Saturday night, and since Lumi hadn’t worked on Saturdays since she started at DAX, she had forgotten to calculate that the A train was usually closed for construction north of 125th Street. She ended up having to take a shuttle bus, a regular bus, and the subway to get to work. Her usual forty-five-minute trip turned into a two-hour one, and by the time she popped into the kitchen an hour late, all the prep had been done.
All of her colleagues looked up as she swung through the door—except Julien. He was busy deboning a duck for the entrée, and he kept his gaze squarely focused on the task.
“Ms. Santana, nice of you to join us for the occasion,” he said, his square jaw slightly clenched.
Lumi was taken aback. He hadn’t called her Ms. Santana since last week when she had told him to call her Lumi, and she was surprised by how much it bothered her. She knew how important this event was to him.
“I’m sorry, Julien,” she said, looking down. “The A train was not running and I texted you fro—”
“It’s fine,” he cut her off. “There is plenty of work that still needs to be done, so let’s get going.”
Gloria gave her a sympathetic glance, and Richard walked by and squeezed her arm. But before she could get to work, she had to fix her bra. It had ridden up while she was running for the subway.
The women’s bathroom at DAX had two brushed chrome stalls. Lumi saw a pair of stilettos underneath one of them and instantly recognized their owner. There was only one staff member who spent all day seated.
She ducked into the other stall to fix her bra. Damn it. She wished her Crocs would’ve squeaked across the gleaming white tiles, as usual, so Esme would know she was being heard.
“Cristina—No, I didn’t pick up the phone because I’m not busy, I picked up because you’re my sister . . . Again?” Esme sighed. “How short are you on rent? . . . N-no way. Mami cannot go to the church about this.” She paused to let Cristina speak. “I’ll do it . . . The vacation? It doesn’t matter. Tell Mami I got it and not to go to the church about this, ’kay? . . . Okay. See you later. You too. Bye.”
Lumi tried to leave without making a sound, but her Crocs squeaked across the tiles. Her hands flew to her hair, and she busied herself with arranging her curls in the bathroom mirror.
The metal door creaked open, and Esme stepped out. Her under-eye circles looked darker than usual, and her eyes were downcast.
A twinge twisted in Lumi’s chest. The conversation was all too familiar. It reminded her of when she was a struggling culinary student, still not sure if she would even be able to get the loans she needed to start her business. Could Esme take on extra hours to offset the difference and not have to cancel her vacation? It may have been none of her business, but Esme was a hard worker. She was on time every day, and she stayed on top of all DAX’s administrative needs. It was too bad for her to lose her vacation.
Esme stood at the sink next to Lumi, and their eyes met in the mirror. Lumi forced what she hoped was a sympathetic smile, and Esme held her gaze. She nodded curtly, and they washed their hands in silence. They exited the bathroom at the same time.
Back in front of the refrigerator, Lumi took out the eggs, mushrooms, and gruyère from the refrigerator for a soufflé. She had never made soufflé for a hundred people before, and her stomach tightened at the prospect. Soufflés were mercurial, and just a few strokes too many could make the difference between light, fluffy goodness and a rubbery mess.
She blocked out the rest of the kitchen as she diced, grated, and whipped. She ignored the dull hum in her mouth that begged for another taste of Julien’s cooking. She worked as fast as she could. The canapé trays were already going out to the dining room, and the soufflés would need to be ready in about half an hour. She glanced at the clock and rubbed her temple.
Just then, a voice came from behind her, accompanied by the staccato click of stilettos on the floor tiles.
“Where’s Julien?” Esme asked in her usual listless tone. Lumi looked around the kitchen to cover up her surprise. She had been so focused that she didn’t notice he and most of the others had gone out to the dining room.
“Don’t know.” She shrugged.
Esme sighed impatiently and flipped her hair. Lumi chewed a corner of her lip, contemplating her. She thought they’d had a small human moment in the bathroom. Though Esme’s tone made it seem like nothing had happened.
Esme pressed a sticky note with a phone message to the top of Lumi’s workstation. “Well, I’ll leave this for him, then,” she said.
Lumi gingerly peeled it off and stuck it on the front of the refrigerator.
“So . . . what are you making?” Esme asked.
Lumi furrowed her brow. Esme had never hung around this much.
“Soufflé,” she replied tersely.
Esme nodded, her face lighting up. “Oh! Do you know how he likes it?” she asked. “Because I do.”