A la Carte (The Royale Series) Read online

  Laurence is nowhere to be seen.

  I glance at my watch. We had agreed to meet at nine. I click my tongue in disappointment, but I’m admittedly unsurprised. It’s not too much of a stretch to believe that Laurence has left me alone to finish the dishes by myself. He thinks he’s too important, after all. He’s too busy running the kitchen to be bothered to do such a menial task. I decide to get straight to work, rolling up my sleeves before filling one of the sinks with soapy hot water.

  “Should’ve let them soak overnight,” I think to myself aloud. Many of the dishes are caked in grease, making for a messy start to my morning.

  Laurence finally decides to show up two hours later. He arrives through the back entrance, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. I frown at him, polishing off the last plate.

  “Nice of you to show up,” I snap.

  “Look at that,” he whistles, glancing around the pristine kitchen, “I knew you could take care of it.”

  I slap the polishing rag down onto the nearest counter. “I thought Kate said we were supposed to do the dishes together.”

  Laurence snorts, rolling his eyes. “I’ve got more important things to be doing.”

  I knew it.

  “More important things?”

  “Yes. I can’t waste my time on stuff like this. I was coming up with the new winter menu.”

  “This took me all morning,” I huff, exasperated. I wave my arms around, gesturing at the clean space.

  “Do you want a round of applause?”

  I shake my head. “You’re such an ass.”

  Laurence actually has the audacity to grin, the corners of his lips pulling up mischievously. “Is that any way to talk to your boss?”

  My head’s still pounding from the night before. I don’t want to listen to anymore of this. I take off my apron and place it on the counter next to the polishing rag before brushing past him.

  “Where are you going?” he asks me, his words teasing.

  “I need an aspirin,” I say through gritted teeth. “It’s the only way I’m going to get through today if you’re going to be this shitty.”

  “Words hurt, you know,” he says flatly, but he’s still grinning at me like he knows he’s won.

  But just as I pass him, I feel my foot slip out from underneath me. There’s a tiny wet patch on the tile floor. There’s no time to catch myself. I brace for the harsh impact that awaits me, but it never really comes. I feel Laurence’s arms grab me by the waist. I see his spilled coffee before anything else. He tumbles with me, thrown off by the flailing momentum of my arms. Before I know it, we’re both lying on the cold kitchen floor together.

  Laurence must have taken most of the force of the fall. I slowly rise up from where I’ve landed upon his chest. He’s incredibly warm and smells like sandalwood aftershave. A few strands of his hair have been tossed out of place, and I catch his dark brown eyes watching me intently. It occurs to me that I’ve never been this close to him before. I notice a tiny scar along his jawline and the faint freckles that dust both his cheeks. I can feel my own heat up and my heart quicken when I realize he still has his arms wrapped around me.

  I expect him to yell. I expect him to give me a dirty look. But the scolding never comes. He looks as stunned and as embarrassed as I do, which is a surprise in and of itself. I’ve never seen Laurence caught off-guard, so I don’t know how I’m supposed to react.

  “You know,” he says slowly, “you’re too clumsy to work in a place like this.”

  “I’m not clumsy,” I argue, clearing my throat. “You’re just always in the way.”

  “Lucky for you. You could’ve hurt yourself.”

  “I would’ve been fine,” I protest.

  At that very moment, Kate walks in through the back doors and observes the two of us. She smirks. “My, my,” she coos. “And how are we all doing this morning?”

  I struggle to stand up, knocking his hands away. I clear my throat. “Good morning, Kate,” I say hurriedly. “We were just–”

  “We were just testing Claire’s non-slip work shoes,” interrupts Laurence. “They don’t work very well. Must’ve gotten a pretty cheap pair.”

  “Mm-hm,” hums Kate, eyebrow raised. “Sure.” She walks past the both of us and goes straight to her office, stifling an energetic giggle along the way.

  “Sorry about your coffee,” I say after a moment longer. “I’ll get you another.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I’d rather not owe you,” I admit.

  There’s a beat between us. The awkward tension lingers in the air, thick and practically tangible. Laurence is the first to break the silence, clearing his throat. “Didn’t you say you needed an aspirin?” he reminds me.

  To be completely honest, I had forgotten all about my headache. All I could think about was how strong his arms felt around me. I shake my head, forcing myself to concentrate. But my stomach’s doing flips and my heart just won’t stop racing. I make my way to the staff bathroom, yanking open the tiny medicine cabinet beside the sink. When I finally find the bottle of aspirin, I realize that my headache is already gone.

  The news about the Royale doing poorly has my stomach in knots. The Royale was the first and only place that I applied to work at after I graduated from culinary school. The fact that the restaurant wasn’t doing well felt more personal than it should have. The restaurant isn’t doing well, which means I’m not doing well.

  It’s only the start of the month, but the very idea of turning things around in just thirty days seems monumentally impossible. Maybe I should consider applying elsewhere, get ahead of things while I can. I shake my head, ridding my mind of those thoughts. I can’t give up on the Royale. Not yet. Kate needs me to keep the team going. It’s far too early to throw in the towel.

  Dinner service this evening isn’t as bad as it was last night, but it’s still the usual level of hectic. Table seven keeps sending their appetizers back, saying that the garlic-butter covered escargot are ‘too garlicky.’

  “What does that even mean?” I ask the waitress. She just shrugs.

  “They just keep sending me back. They want another one made up.”

  I gesture to the appetizer. “But this one’s already half-eaten.”

  “They say if you don’t make them another one, they want it comped from their bill.”

  “So they’re trying to get a free appetizer, is that it?” I sigh. I don’t have any patience today.

  “Don’t shoot the messenger, Claire,” says Laurence. He walks on over to look at the half-finished plate. He takes it from me, his fingers briefly brushing against the back of my hand. His fingers linger there for a moment, but I brush it off as nothing more than my imagination.

  “Stay here an expedite,” he orders me.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Just going to have a little chat with table seven. Work a little wax.”

  “Why bother? They’re clearly fishing for a free meal.”

  Laurence shrugs a shoulder. “A happy customer is a repeat customer,” he explains, giving me a knowing look.

  I briefly think back to our conversation with Kate and nod in agreement, albeit resigned. I watch as he rolls down his sleeves before stepping through the kitchen doors onto the floor. I make my way to the rail, reading out the next chit that comes off the printer.

  “Fire two specials,” I announce to the rest of the team behind me.

  “Yes, Chef.”

  I busy myself with plate presentation, wiping down stray sauce with a clean rag and garnishing where necessary. Fresh thyme leaves for the French onion soup, a rosemary sprig atop every seared steak. Clarke brings up a side salad for me to inspect.

  “What did you two talk about with Kate last night?” she asks me, curious.

  “Oh, you know,” I mumble absentmindedly, “she just wants us to stop fighting in front of the kids.”

  Clarke lets out a little giggle. “Chef seems to be in a better mood today.”


  “Does he? I suppose he hasn’t really yelled at anyone today.”

  “He hasn’t yelled at you,” she stresses. “He went off on me earlier about adding too much lemon to the vinaigrette.”

  “But you were adding too much lemon to the vinaigrette.”

  Laurence finally returns from the floor with a rather triumphant look on his face. His chest is puffed out a bit, head held high in victory.

  “Well?” I urge.

  “The nice ladies at table seven seem to really like me,” he says wryly, holding up a business card between his fingers. There are several phone numbers scribbled on the back.

  “That’s hard to believe,” I mutter.

  “Jealous?”

  “You wish. Do they want the escargot made up again or not?”

  Laurence shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair. He tucks the business card in the front pocket of his apron. “They said they’ll pass. But they’ll be back again soon to try our other apps.”

  “Great,” I say dryly.

  Dinner service finally ends, as it always does. As instructed, the dishwasher leaves at the exact moment the Royale closes down for the evening, leaving Laurence and I to finish whatever he didn’t manage to get to. To my surprise, Laurence actually seems to be pulling his weight.

  “So what really happened with table seven?” I ask him, putting a stack of freshly sanitized soup bowls away on a shelf.

  “What do you mean? They gave me their numbers.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Why not? I can be charming when I want to be.”

  I have to kneel down to put the bowls away. My knees and feet are aching terribly. There’s a surprising amount of walking involved with my job. I glance at my wristwatch and stifle a yawn. It’s drawing closer to one in the morning, but unlike yesterday, we may actually be able to finish everything on time. We spend the hour working in relative silence. That is, until Laurence decides to pipe up.

  “Hey,” he says, voice barely above a murmur. There’s no need for him to shout since the hood fans are off. It’s admittedly weird to hear him so calm.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry for being late earlier.”

  I look up from where I’m crouched over. I blink, confused. I’ve never heard Laurence apologize before.

  “Oh, er,” I stutter, “it’s okay. I guess.”

  “I slept through my alarm,” he offers as an explanation. “I’m not really a morning person.”

  “Me neither,” I admit.

  Our eyes lock for a moment. It occurs to me just how different he is when he’s not working. Or, at least, when he’s not commanding an entire kitchen staff. I finally glance away. My heart’s pounding a little faster, a little louder, but I don’t know why.

  It only takes us another ten minutes to finish up. I pull on my jacket while Laurence flicks off the lights to the kitchen. The only source of light remaining is the soft glow coming from the liquor display case behind the bar, which radiates through the small circular windows in the kitchen’s double doors.

  He locks the Royale’s doors behind him as I step down into the back alley. The streetlights are already lit, paving an illuminated path for me. A chilly breeze brushes past us, causing me to shiver in my light jacket. I make a mental note to pull out my thicker winter jacket from the storage room when I get home.

  Laurence fishes out his car keys from his pocket, which jingle lightly on the end of the keychain. “Do you…” his voice trails off, in thought. He sounds hesitant. “Do you need a ride home?”

  “It’s okay,” I say, cheeks flushing a little. It’s not like him to be so considerate. “I live two blocks away. I’ll be alright.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  He’s standing less than a foot away from me by the door. He has to tilt his head down to look me in the eye. My stomach does a flip when I come to the realization that he looks genuinely concerned.

  “I could… I could walk you there if it’s close by,” he offers. His words are shy, almost gentle. “It’s a little late to be walking by yourself.”

  “No, it’s really okay,” I protest. “It’s out of your way. It’ll take me five minutes.” I begin to turn away, shoving my hands in my pocket for warmth. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say to him over my shoulder.

  “Yeah,” I hear him mumble. “See you tomorrow.”

  ***

  Laurence

  I can’t stop thinking about how good Claire smells. It’s embarrassing, really. The first and only thing that should be on my mind is the Royale, my job, the fate of my career. I didn’t actually get phone numbers from table seven. I don’t know why I told her that I did. Maybe because I wanted to see what her reaction would be. Maybe I could make her jealous. It’s not that I would really care, but I wanted to tease her. Claire has occupied my thoughts all day, and I hate to admit it, but it’s almost alarming.

  There’s a faint hint of raspberry in her hair from whatever shampoo she uses. Her skin’s incredibly soft, maddeningly so. I think about the way she fit perfectly in my arms. I think about how cute she gets when she’s flustered. I think about her big, green doe eyes, her plump lips, her beautiful golden locks that she tucks away behind her ear. I think about how surprisingly light she is and start to wonder if she’s getting enough to eat. The role of a sous-chef can be demanding, and I know I’ve personally missed my fair share of meals to get the job done.

  Maybe it’s you and your arrogant attitude.

  I’ve been working with Claire for almost a year now, but something different. I’m no longer watching her work to make sure she’s doing everything properly. I watch her work because I like the way she moves, the way she handles herself. I like how long and delicate her fingers are, the way they curl around the handle of a skillet or knife. I realize how much I like watching her taste the sauces that she makes, watching as she licks at her lips, making them wet and glossy.

  I’ve known Claire since culinary school. She never particularly stood out in my mind until now. She was usually very quiet, always set up her station at the back of the class. We had a few of the same courses together, but not a lot. She had always been in my periphery, just close enough that I was aware she was there, but not so close as to grab my attention. I was too busy with my studies, after all. I didn’t have time to worry about relationships, either serious or casual.

  But know I realize I want to touch her. I’m curious to know what her reaction will be. Will she push me away if I try? Probably. I wouldn’t be surprised if Claire hates my guts. I get in my car and sit there for a moment, trying to gather my thoughts. I feel like such a fucking teenager, it’s almost shameful. I run my fingers through my hair and let out a deep breath. I decide that maybe I should take a cold shower when I get home. Maybe I shouldn’t be wondering what it would be like to have her bent over in front of me. Maybe I shouldn’t be wondering what she sounds like moaning my name.

  I shake my head vigorously, like it’ll somehow shake the thoughts loose from my brain.

  What the hell did she do to me?

  CHAPTER THREE

  Claire

  Over the next couple of days, I start to notice little, almost inconsequential things about Laurence as I watch him work. I always thought that he was the kind of chef you don’t want to mess with, the kind that you need to steer clear of when he’s working along side you in the kitchen. And that’s partly true. He walks around the Royale like he owns the place; confident and firm in every action he takes. He’s a master of the craft, and he knows it.

  But I notice the way he places a gentle hand on my shoulder when he’s walking behind me with hot food. He’s always done this, of course, to make sure that I don’t accidently run into him while we’re moving about. But now I notice how he never seems to do that with any of the other cooks. His touch seems to linger for a little longer than necessary. His touch is so gentle that I sometimes don’t realize he’s the
re.

  When he helps me plate or expedite, I notice the way he leans in. He watches me work with a level of interest that I have never realized before. He glances away sheepishly when I look him in the eye. I can’t remember if this is how he always is, or if this is something completely new. When I hand him a dish, our fingers accidently graze against one another. It makes my breath hitch and my stomach flip.

  Kate sends me to take stock of what ingredients we have every Friday morning so that we can determine what we need to order for when we open on Monday. It’s an incredibly time-consuming task and actually requires a lot of attention to detail, which I find myself severely lacking as of late.

  My mind keeps wandering. I think about my job here at the Royale. I think about how the restaurant is on a decline. I think about where I should apply in case the Royale really does close down. I think about where my coworkers may end up. I think about what Laurence will do next. I think about Laurence catching me in the kitchen. I think about how nice he smells and how strong he is and how soft his voice can actually be.

  I take a sharp breath, clearing my mind. I try to refocus, counting the number of fresh tomatoes and bell peppers we have remaining. We may not have enough to make it through dinner service. We’ll probably have to eighty-six a few items on the menu. I think about telling Laurence this and try to imagine his reaction. No one likes change; least of all a perfectionist like him.

  But I imagine our conversation anyways. He’ll probably shake his head and frown at me, crossing his arms across his chest like he always does when he’s disappointed. I’ll explain that it’s not my fault we’ve run low on ingredients. But he’ll find a way to blame me, like he always does. He’ll likely glare at me with his deep, dark eyes and let out a sigh. He’ll have a snide remark ready to go. He’ll likely rub his hand over his jaw, feeling the rough stubble that’s growing in against his calloused palms. His fingers will run over the scar that’s on his jaw. I wonder how he got it. I wonder what it would feel like to press my lips to it. I wonder briefly if he’ll let me.