“True.” Maya dug into her noodles. “Have you decided what you’ll do about Margaux’s offer yet?”
I hesitated. “Not yet.”
Margaux had offered me the sous-chef position at Brasserie M. Working with her wouldn’t be easy—she was a tough boss—but it would be familiar. Comfortable.
But was I really throwing away a lifetime of certainty only to settle for comfortable?
Maya observed me, her gaze assessing. “Forget the chef aspect for a minute,” she said. “What do you want? I mean,reallywant. If you could snap your fingers and get anything your heart desired, no fine print included, what would you wish for?”
I didn’t overthink it; I just went with the first thoughts that came to mind, no matter how sappy they were. “Two things: to marry you and make you happy.” I paused, my next words slower to roll off my tongue. “And to open my own restaurant.”
Maya and I were taking it slow, but we both knew marriage was on the horizon. This story was always supposed to end with us together.
Owning a restaurant, though? I’d never admitted that to anyone, not even myself. When I said I wanted to run a kitchen, most people assumed I’d join an already-established business. I was untested as a professional chef, so trying to make that transition while starting a new restaurant from the ground up would be like trying to hike Mount Everest in flip-flops.
Plus, I was still grappling with some personal hang-ups. The revelation that I hadn’t been responsible for the launch’s food poisoningorWellgrew’s death had lifted a weight off my shoulders, but it was hard to shed years of fear and guilt overnight. Running a restaurant also meant I’d be responsible for my customersandmy staff. If I failed, they’d suffer too.
But I had to bet on myself and take that risk. I couldn’t let the past hold me hostage, not if I wanted to build something worth having.
Maya’s eyes went bright and soft. “Marry me, make me happy, and open your own restaurant,” she repeated. “So three things?”
I smiled. “Three things.”
“That better not have been your marriage proposal, Sebastian Laurent.”
I laughed, my chest loosening. God, I loved her so fucking much. “Do I look like someone who would half-ass a proposal like that? No, when I propose, you’ll know.”
I couldn’t wait for that day.
“Good.” She returned my smile, her expression turningpensive. “Your own restaurant. I can see it. Chez Laurent.”
“Sal.” I set my chopsticks down and leaned forward. “Please don’t tell me you think so little of me that you believe I’d name it something as trite as Chez Laurent. That’s a nickname for my personal kitchen, not the moniker for a Michelin-starred restaurant.”
“Sorry.” Her eyes gleamed with amusement. “So you want to open your own restaurantandget a Michelin star.”
“Or three.” I shrugged. “Shoot for the moon, land among the stars.”
“That type of thinking is for other people. You’re Sebastian Laurent. You’re three-star material.” She spoke with utmost confidence.
Warmth kindled in my chest. “What about you? What do you really want?”
“Besides what I already have? Nothing.” Maya laughed when I shot her a skeptical look. “I’m serious.”
“Nothing? Not even the Gastronomic Event of the Year Award or a Nobel Prize?”
“Well… they would be nice,” she acknowledged. “Winning a Nobel is a little delusional, but I swear, if we don’t make the shortlist for GEYA, it’s rigged. Another International Marketing Excellence Award would also be great. I’d be okay if I didn’t get it, though. Truly. I’m so proud of us for pulling off that second launch after… everything.” She gestured around us. “The odds were stacked against us, but we persevered. That’s success. And honestly, I don’t feel the constant need to prove myself anymore. I can’t think of anything I want that wouldn’t be for pure ego purposes.” Another, smaller smile. “I’m happy.”
I didn’t press for another answer after that because that was what I wanted most of all—for her to be happy.
We finished our meal, our conversation turning to lightertopics. Once we were done, I tossed the trash and locked the door.
“Speaking of happy, there’s one thing we still have to do,” I said.
Maya furrowed her brow, no doubt running through the extensive Last Day Checklist in her head. “What?”
“Christen the conference room.” I picked her up and set her on the edge of the table again. “We can’t leave without giving it a proper goodbye.”
“You said that would be inappropriate,” she accused.
