Yes, Chef

by Waitlyn Andrews

But I can tell you what clean soap smells like. Damn it. I can tell you that James Sullivan smells like it, and I hate that I know that.

“The sear is too soft.” “You added too much butter.” “The slice on the eggplant is uneven.” “Your soufflé is falling.” “Your whipped cream is too stiff.”

With my favorite glass of wine in hand, I sit down at the tiny bistro table, elevating my poor leg on the extra chair, and dive into my current e-reader selection. It’s a small-town romance that makes me think I could be a ranch wife if I tried hard enough. And Montana does sound appealing . . .

Lol

Le goûter: a small meal or snack typically eaten in the late afternoon or early evening made up of simple and light foods such as fruit, yogurt, a slice of cake or pastry, a baguette with butter and jam, or a small sandwich.

But driving through Paris is no joke—it’s not like the movies, and there’s no montage of romantic music playing.

And just like that, whether he knows it or not, there’s a shift. Just like that, we’re on the same team. Turns out, I’m an easy friend to win over.

“After seeing how much work goes into each bottle and how many variants are simply out of a person’s control, I kind of learned to appreciate each wine for what it

is,” I try

to ex...

There are plenty of reasons I shouldn’t go: my leg hurts; I’m not exactly the most filtered when I’ve had too much wine; I love to dance a little too much and could easily get carried away . . . but dadgummit, I want to go.

Not thinking about how when those denim eyes catch mine, I momentarily forget how to form coherent sentences. That would be an absurd way to spend my mental capacity. God. I read too much. That’s the issue.

lol

I make an effort to lose myself in the music again. I may not have sultry-chic stilettos on, but my practical leather loafers can outlast any spiked heel on the dance floor, and I have to use every weapon at my disposal at this point.

good God, he shouldn’t be allowed to smile at me like that.

But the past few weeks have shown me that maybe being an introvert doesn’t mean giving in to solitude. It’s nice to have people to check on, people to cheer on, and people to talk about the simple things with.

I know it’s because of the stupid romance novels I read, but every parting seems like an opportunity for . . . well, you know. Even in perfectly platonic moments, a “goodbye” suddenly has the potential for lingering stares, prolonged hugs, or standing at the door a little too long.

The best gift reading gives to me is not the over-inflated sunshiny rainbows I claimed the other day when talking to James. It’s empathy. Reading gives you a rare insight into the motives behind why people do what they do, and since I’ve started devouring books at an insatiable rate, I feel like I have more capacity for understanding why people act in certain ways.

Great thought

He orders for both of us, and I thought that was something only book boyfriends did, but alas, here is my ultimate book boyfriend dream standing right in front of me . . . and I can’t—no, I shouldn’t—do anything about it.

He grabs a few books, and when he sees me start to carry a pile, he grabs them from me and holds them. I almost lose it then and there but somehow manage to keep my cool. It would be weird for me to ask him to marry me, sure, but after a stunt like that, could you blame me? No.

😅

It’s always weird seeing your coworkers outside the context of the work environment.

Every member of the team simultaneously screams and jumps for joy, hugs all around. As James pulls me into an excited side hug, butterflies shoot off in every direction, fireworks behind my eyes, the whole shebang. And it was a damn side hug.

One of the biggest mistakes you can make after getting a star is changing your ways to accommodate your new popularity, sacrificing your service in the process.