3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Olivier

When I pull myself out of bed the next day, I can't help but browse the reviews for Cezanne to see if new ones have been posted. Like I said, I might just be a masochist.

A wave of relief washes over me when I see none, but a pang of disappointment hits too. I was kind of hoping to find a nasty review from a certain American history teacher.

I think I need to get my brain checked out.

Trudging into the shower, I stand under the hot water longer than usual, the scent of my lemongrass and cinnamon body wash warming up my brain. Then, I eat some leftover buns for breakfast before heading out to the farmer's market for some inspiration.

When I get home, my creative juices are flowing, and two hours later, I'm tasting a new and improved version of my dad's famous dish.

I close my eyes and savor the flavors and textures. A smile builds on my lips. This is good. Really good. There's the traditional sauce that makes this dish so special, but the splash of citrus and aromatic herbs bring a fresh twist that tickles the taste buds. This dish is classic enough to please the old generation and satisfy returning customers, but the new additions bring a hint of novelty. Jean-Pierre needs to taste this. When he does, maybe he'll finally understand what I can bring to the table. Literally. And I'll finally have one of my own recipes on the menu.

Placing a portion in a to-go container, I glance at the wall clock. I need to get going if I want to see him before my shift starts.

But, of course, getting to work is an absolute nightmare today. The streets have been congested all week because of the strike. Frankly, I'm surprised the city is still standing at this point. Between the daily demonstrations, groups of young rioters breaking store windows and setting cars on fire, and now the garbage collectors striking, this city has quickly gone from bad to worse.

I make it to work with barely fifteen minutes on the clock. Rushing into the kitchen, I heat up the meal for Jean-Pierre in the microwave. Not ideal, but it'll do.

"Not now, Olivier," Jean-Pierre groans when I run into him in the corridor. His tie is disheveled and his hair messy, like he's been yanking on it all morning. "Today is not the day. Half of the housekeeping staff just went on strike."

"Come on. Just a taste," I beg, holding the dish in front of me. "Please. I think you'll like it. It'll make your day just a little better."

He sighs, setting his pile of documents on a console in the corridor. "Fine."

I give him the plate, and he tries a couple of forkfuls. "What part of ‘stick to the original recipe' don't you understand?"

My heart falls. "I did stick to the original recipe. I just added— "

"No adding anything," he fires back, his face reddening. "Please, don't waste any more of my time. Just make sure you follow your dad's recipes to a T."

I nod, swallowing the dry lump in my throat. "Yes, sir."

All I want is a chance to show off my talents, have my own identity, be treated as a chef—not just a cook. But stepping into my father's shoes is a lot harder than I imagined. And I knew it would be plenty hard. My dad has big shoes to fill.

He was a three Michelin star chef for most of his career. He worked right here, in this Parisian landmark, for three decades before I took over. That's the only reason they even considered me for the job.

Though I've been off to a rocky start, I've finally earned the respect of my dad. In fact, I think this is the first time he's ever been proud of me. After I earned my stripes around the globe, he said I was finally seeing reason, working in France again, and in a palace where I belong. It's an incredible opportunity, he reminded me.

And he's right. Working in a palace opens a lot of doors, and it's a great learning experience. The job is rigorous and prestigious, but it's also not as liberating as other venues I've cooked at. There are countless rules and expectations in palaces. Especially when you have my last name.

Jean-Pierre gathers his documents back into a pile. "I knew you'd need a few months to find your footing, but this is taking longer than I thought. Don't forget, Michelin stars are awarded in March, and we don't know if the critics have come yet. If we lose a star—the first in over thirty years—you'll be out of here faster than a hot knife through butter. And good luck finding another establishment that will hire you after that," he adds, his blue eyes icing me out. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," I say with a nod, feeling like a puppet on a string. I wish I could scream at him to make him listen, but that's not how I was raised. And when you work in kitchens all your life, you learn to obey orders.

The truth is, I wouldn't be the only one responsible if we did lose a star. The restaurant has been declining for a while. As we've established, I'm something of a comment lurker, and the slew of bad or average reviews started trickling in last year. Before I even set foot in this kitchen.

My dad is an excellent cook, but he was very much set in his ways. He'd been serving the same menu for over a decade. When he had a health scare last spring, the management suggested that he retire. I was the natural choice to take his place since I had been working there as his second for a few months. He wasn't keen on the idea at first, but he eventually agreed, nudged by the doctors and my mom, who had been dying to spend evenings with her husband and have her weekends back.

So, yeah. There's a lot more on the line than just my reputation—or the restaurant's. It's my father's legacy.

Hazel

" Your flight has been canceled, " the email preview on my phone says. When I first read the words, all the blood drained from my face. I must be as white as the meringue I'm currently eating.

I open the email and skim through it. No, no, no. This can't be happening. I was well aware this was a possibility, since the air traffic controllers started striking yesterday, but I assumed my flight had slipped through the cracks since I hadn't received a cancellation notification. Well, here it is now. Great . They really like to wait until the last minute, don't they? Well, technically, my flight was supposed to leave in four hours, but still.

I try to call the airline's customer service number, but the line is so busy, it doesn't even let my call through. Reading a couple of articles online, I discover with horror that the strike is expected to continue for one to two weeks. That's a one-week minimum!

I immediately punch in Jeff's number.

" Bonjour, " he says in his usual cheery voice.

"Hey, Jeff," I grumble, my tone bleak. "Cheery" is not the mood over here. "Bad news. Air and train traffic controllers joined the strike, and I'm stuck for a while—not sure how long. I can't even reach the freaking airline. But if what I read online is true, it'll be one week at least."

"Oh, I see," he mutters. "Well, more time for you to enjoy all the fun Paris has to offer, then. Thank you for sending in your reviews, by the way. I haven't replied yet because we've been swamped this week, but we'll get them edited and posted ASAP. I'll let you know. And since you're stuck there, I'll send a list of new restaurants for you to try, but you'll have to get a table yourself. This extra leg of your trip will give you even more time to make your decision. "

A loud snort escapes me. "Oh, my decision is made, Jeff. This city is not what I expected at all ."

"Is it . . . better?" His voice is tentative.

"No, it's not better," I say louder than I intended, earning me side glances from the people sitting next to me in the café.

"Ah, well." I picture him scratching his head like he always does when someone dares challenge his overly joyous mood. "Maybe a few more days will change your mind."

"Sure," I say, not bothering to hide the sarcasm that leaks into my tone.

"Okay. Well, I'll send over that list in a little bit. Talk to you soon."

I heave out a long breath. "Bye, Jeff."

As expected, talking to Jeff only pumped up my anger meter. Having a bubbly boss is beyond frustrating. Anyway, it's not like he can do anything about my situation. It's not his fault I'm stuck here. I'll just have to go back to the hotel and see if I can extend my st—

Oh, crap.

Calling the gar?on over, I pay for my meal and hustle back to the hotel as fast as my stilettos allow. And when I arrive, the bad feeling I'd had proves right. The once-chic and airy lobby has lost its grandeur. The golden fixtures and massive flower arrangements are still here, but their opulence is tainted by the dozens of tourists cramped in the space, yelling at the staff or trying to calm their fussy children down.

Yeah. This is going to be a long night.