"No?"
He shakes his head. "I wanted… Still want, to be the only one doing what I do. I knew I had to break the rules to create something new. To reinterpret the old classics. To redefine what fine dining meant."
"It’s why you never let a dish leave the kitchen unless it’s flawless," I state.
"I also know that what I’m making here is my legacy. This is the way I will pass something on. An identity. A philosophy. A mindset, perhaps."
I nod, entranced. All of this makes sense. The Michelin stars are like winning gold in Olympics, but in the culinary world. You must be beyond exceptional to have gained three like James has, and in such a short period of time.
"You live by discipline, hierarchy and precision. You must account for every detail in the kitchen. Orchestrate each dish like a symphony. So, each one is a masterpiece."
"You’re only as good as your last dish," he agrees.
It’s true.
"I don’t disagree, but?—"
He leans back on his heels.
He hadn’t expected me to complete his thought, huh? Me neither. Shut up already. Don’t say it. But I can’t stop myself.
"When you’re so obsessed with control?—"
He raises his eyebrows, probably because I used the word 'obsessed,' but I push on. "—when you’re so obsessed with control that any deviation feels like a failure, then it’s that very control that stifles your creativity."
There. I feel better speaking my mind. I’ve kept it bottled up these past three months. I’ve been mulling over how to tell him what I feel. And now, I finally have a chance to tell him.
He goes still. His shoulders seem to turn into boulders. His massive chest stills. He stares, unblinking. Those blue eyes of his turn into pools of glass. Colorless and fathomless. If the last time our eyes met it felt like a breeze had blown in from the Tundra, now it feels like we’re on the moon without any protective gear. That’s how stark and cold it feels. And it has nothing to do with the fact that we’re in a refrigerator.
My heart seems to stop beating. Did I go too far? Ice seems to bite the space between us.
A fresh wave of goosebumps dots my skin. Without conscious command, my legs seem to move of their own accord, and I rise to my feet.
I sidle toward the doorway, not daring to look over my shoulder. He hasn’t spoken a word, which is good… Right?
I reach the door and grab the handle when his voice stops me.
"Come here," he orders.
The command in his voice lashes through my nerves and settles deep in my chest. My toes curl.
It is not just attraction.It is the authority in his tone. The certainty. The quiet, unshakeable confidence with which he gives the order as if obedience is already a given.
As if he knows I will follow.
And he's right.
What turns me on is the way he takes charge. The way he orders me without hesitation.
Something inside me responds to that.
For once, I do not have to hold everything together. I do not have to think three steps ahead. I do not have to carry the weight of every decision.
With him, I can let go.
It feels dangerously good to hand him the reins. To let him decide. To let him push me.
Just like in the kitchen.
