Page 15 of Next Season
“Not cheffing jobs?”
Jean-Claude chuckled. “Certainly not. I am what you would call an accidental chef. I started clearing tables and sweeping floors at a French bistro that tried to be an Italian restaurant in Saguenay. One day, they needed extra hands in the kitchen, preparing plates for a large party. My job was to cut sprigs of parsley, chop radishes, and help stir the marinara. Silly things, but I loved the energy…fast-paced and furious. Made the adrenaline zip through my veins. When I had enough money to move again, I headed for Quebec City, enrolled in a culinary academy, and soon after, I was an apprentice at a Michelin-starred restaurant, and eventually, I becamechef de cuisine.”
“Head chef,” I guessed, nursing another small sip. “I could have sworn Vinnie said you were from Montreal.”
His eyes lit with mischief. “You have been talking about me? Interesting.”
I was grateful for the dim lighting as heat flooded my cheeks. “Well, yes but not really.”
“Yes and no? Which is it?” he teased.
“He mentioned that you and Nolan…um…and I thought you’d met in Montreal. But we weren’t talking about you.”
Jean-Claude arched a brow, a smile tugging the corner of his mouth. “If you say so,” he singsonged.
“Okay, weweretalking about you, but not in a bad way. I was curious about you.”
“Or suspicious? You wanted to make sure I didn’t spike your tuna, eh?”
“Something like that.” I laughed. “So…what’s the story?”
“I hate to be popping bubbles, but there is no exciting story. I moved to Montreal for a better job and met a cute man at a gay bar. That’s Nolan, by the way. We got along so well, he extended his vacation. A month later, I accepted his invitation to come and see his diner in the mystical town of Elmwood and I never left.” He waggled his brows and drained his glass. “What is your story?”
“I don’t have one. I play hockey. That’s all I’ve ever done.” I retrieved the wine bottle from the counter and topped off his glass, setting a calming hand on his shoulder as thunder boomed loud enough to wake the dead. “Relax. As my mom used to say, the angels are bowling and one of them just hit a strike.”
Jean-Claude cleared his throat. “You misunderstand. I’m not afraid. I am only…mildly anxious. It’s October.”
“What does that mean?” I asked with a laugh.
“October storms give me jitters. I’ll tell you the story…it won’t seem terrible to you, but it was scary to me.” He opened his hands and leaned forward in what I could only call storyteller mode. “When I was a teenager, my brother and I went camping near Lac Chibougamau with a couple of friends. It was unseasonably warm for October, so we thought it was a good idea. Not so much. It was a total disaster.”
I smiled at his self-deprecating tone. “What happened?”
“What didn’t happen? The tent had a hole, so we slept with bugs and were bitten everywhere. We lost a fishing pole, caught one tiny perch, and just as we were about to pack it in, the heavens opened up. Lightning struck one of the metal stakes my friend had pulled from the ground and it sizzled his tent. No joking. The rain put out the sparks…Dieu merci, but it scared the shit out of us. We huddled under the good tent—four big teenagers in a small tent for hours until the storm passed and my father finally came to pick us up. To this day, October storms make me nervous. Any other month, no problem. But October…”
I snickered. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”
Okay, that sounded weird and flirtatious. Not my intention at all. Before I could sputter and reassure him I was perfectly sane, he sighed theatrically and slumped in his chair.
“Merci.I feel much safer now.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep my grin in check. I liked this guy. Jean-Claude was charming and funny. His goofy sense of humor softened his edges and made him seem so laid-back. I got the impression he thickened his accent for comedic purposes. All it did was spark my curiosity.
“Good. So how long did you live in Montreal? I love that city. Toronto’s better,” I taunted playfully. “But I might be biased.”
“Hmm. Four years in Quebec City, two in Montreal, and five years here…or six, I think.” He tapped the side of his glass and leaned forward. “Now I have a question for you. What time are you planning to eat? The reason I ask is I am hungry and luckily, I made enough to share.”
I snorted. “Is that so?”
“Yes, so you can invite me to stay for dinner…if you want.”
“I was planning to wait till seven.”
He checked his watch. “An hour and ten minutes from now. I can’t wait that long. I will die.”
“Now who’s dramatic?” I barked a laugh and stood, rescuing the tuna container and a jar of Dijon from the refrigerator. “Okay, let’s eat.”
Jean-Claude washed his hands and dried them. “I will need access to your toaster, two plates, a knife, and a dash of salt and pepper.”