HungryforMore




Trust your instincts over your recipe.

—JAMES LACHANCE, The Meal of a Lifetime

Chapter 8


Amy and James retreated to the barista station. Now that the crisis was over, it bugged Amy that she needed to thank James for saving her. She liked running her own show, thank you very much. “Thanks, but that wasn’t necessary. I could have handled that schmuck. That guy was just—”
James held up his hand. “Don’t want to know.”
But Amy wanted to explain herself. She wanted James to know that she ate jerks like Bob for breakfast. “But don’t you want to know why he—?”
James turned to her. “I don’t care if you killed his mother. If he messes with you in my dining room, he’s gone. This is a business, and a business can’t operate if we’re not a team. Always. Whatever happens. If you screw up, you’re gone. If you do your job, then you stay, and that lardass is gone no matter what you’ve done in your past. My kitchen is filled with ex-cons, ex-drug-addicts, ex-hustlers. But I stand by them. Always. And in turn, they do the same for me. Always.” He paused, searching her face. “I’m not sure you get that.”
She was stunned. When had anyone ever stood by her like that? Not her mother, who split the moment she learned that her soul mate was not Amy’s father. And certainly not Maddie, who split, too.
Fact was, after that encounter with Bob, Amy was ready to split herself. What was she doing hanging around this place, anyway, waiting for a woman who might or might not show up? Who might or might not have her spirit-voice? It was so not her style. She had a code of her own: When the going gets rough, set sail for calmer waters till the storm’s over. The Gypsy way. She had enough in tips to last her a while, and she could stay with Troy for free. She didn’t need to owe James anything. “Don’t worry, I’m leaving.”
His eyes hardened, just the way they had the first day, after she had given him her necklace.
She felt all the anger of the last three months well up inside her. “Why do you care, James? Don’t give me that trust bullshit. Or that teamwork bullshit. I’m not a member of this dysfunctional restaurant family you’re trying to make here, with you as Papa Chef. I had a papa, and I don’t need that shit.” She shook off the emotions that always flooded her when she thought of her father.
He shook his head. “You don’t get it at all, do you?” Then he straightened his apron and strode away from her, moving from table to table, greeting thrilled diners, shaking hands, not looking back.
Amy watched him with frustration. What had she expected, that he’d beg her to stay? She sucked at this job, and he clearly hated her guts.
She spotted Troy, who was watching her from across the room, his face dark and suspicious. His eyes bored into hers, full of questions. Full of doubt.
She felt sick to her stomach. For the last few days, he had thought she was the good one, the rescuer come to save him from his flaky mom. It had felt embarrassingly good to play that role.
Just like it felt kinda good to play the role of damsel in distress for James.
But they were just that, roles. Not who she was. Just who she was pretending to be. Just like James was pretending. He could yap about his crew all he wanted; live for his imaginary family of cooks and servers, but in the end, in this world, you’re on your own.
Even if once, a sexy chef stood up for you.
In front of everyone.
For no good reason.
James went back to his stove, aware that his line was watching him uneasily. He was so mad he couldn’t speak. Not without blowing up. And he had to keep his cool. It had been exhilarating standing beside Amy, the two of them against the world. He hadn’t experienced that kind of rush since the main water pipe exploded halfway through second service three months ago, and they managed to stick it out with a bucket brigade from Alma and free wine for everyone in the house.
But then she said she was leaving. Just like that. Hey, thanks for saving my butt, bye-bye.
He threw some shallots into his pan and tossed them over the high heat, trying not to acknowledge the memories that were accosting him. Amy was just like his father, always leaving, off to another three-month-long business trip, to another affair. Even after James’s mother died and an endless string of servants raised James, his dad still left, as if a kid didn’t mind being alone with strangers who were paid to be there.

Your dysfunctional restaurant family . . . with you as Papa Chef. So, he was used to paying people to stand by him. He wasn’t an idiot; he knew his staff wasn’t his real family.
Thank God. His real family was his father, and that man was a constant disappointment. It had taken a long time for James to learn that his behavior didn’t matter a whit; his father left no matter what young James did. In fact, the more dependence and need James showed, the faster his dad split.
Which was why James never showed any weakness. Never let on that he needed a thing.
He flicked the shallots with a jerk of his wrist, and one flew out of the pan and into the fire. It sizzled and then was gone in an instant.
James stared after it, then shook himself from its spell.
He didn’t need anything except his restaurant. The food and work had become like a drug, blocking everything else out. He wasn’t blind; he knew that his life was lacking a certain, well, normality. He had heard his staff wonder about him when they thought he wasn’t around: why he had no family; why he showed up every single night, without fail; why he cared so deeply about every garnish, every pat of butter. But he had it figured out; Les Fleurs filled him. It was enough. It was solid. It was constant.
But, then, why could he not get Amy out of his head? So she’d quit? She sucked at her job. She had no sense of loyalty or responsibility. She didn’t belong here.
Or did she?

She inspired the best dish I’ve created in years.

The lobster salad wasn’t a dish; it was a revelation.
He splashed red wine into his pan, and the whole thing burst into flames that disappeared as quickly as they came.
If he could keep Amy here, what else could they make together? If he had a whole menu of dishes as inspired as the lobster salad, he could go for a third star.

I could get my third star .
He looked around his kitchen. It was good. But who wouldn’t be hungry for more? It would help all of his staff, make everyone’s life better.
But it was too late for that; Amy was gone. And no way was he chasing after a woman who was so unstable, so disloyal, so willing to flee at the first shadow. Plus, he wasn’t his father. He didn’t use people for his own ends. He wouldn’t use her. It was good she was gone.
But then why did he feel so bad?