The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,96
right in my grasp.
“Yes,” I said, lowering my head. I rocked back and forth on my heels. “So, is there still a chance?”
“For what?” he asked, and my heart catapulted into my stomach.
My gaze leapt to his. “For us?” I said, my voice rising. “Isn’t that what you want?”
He went silent for a moment, watching me wring my hands and fidget. He took a step forward. I took a step back. He took another step forward, a wild look in his eyes. I didn’t know what was going on, his movements and his expression intense. I took another step back and Remi followed. He took me in his arms and we shared an out-of-this-world kiss, me exploring each ripple of his back, him with his hands in my hair, pulling me closer. When we finally broke apart, we were both panting and wide-eyed. Breathless with lust and the heart palpitations of the beginnings of love, I said, “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Ah, mais oui, Sophie, I believe I did,” he said, a seductive grin twisting his lips. “And I’d really like to answer your question again.”
My knees went weak and I fell into his embrace, his muscled arms wrapped around me.
* * *
Phillipa and Jane waited for me in the salon. Floating on a cloud of happiness, I meandered into the room in a state of complete euphoria. Phillipa pointed to a bouquet of roses, at least two dozen of them. “Somebody sent you these. Maybe lover boy?”
“Rémi and I are still moving slow,” I said, and Phillipa rolled her eyes dramatically. Blushing, I snatched the envelope from her hands and ripped it open.
The flowers are from Miguel. I hope you enjoy the gift I’ve enclosed and that you are still thinking about my offer. O’Shea
“Where is the box the flowers were delivered in?” I asked.
Phillipa pointed to the bar. The card fell to the floor as I raced over and pulled out a copy of the Times magazine from the bottom of the box, gasping so hard I started to hiccup. O’Shea was featured on the cover and almost every article in its glossy pages was dedicated to the food world. I flipped to his piece on fearless female chefs, where he not only wrote about what happened at Cendrillon, he destroyed Eric and Trevor Smith in the process.
I thumbed through the pages.
Chefs, most of them female, wrote the other articles with headlines like “Misogyny in the Kitchen,” “Michelin Can Take Its Star Back,” and “Why There Is a Lack of Female Chefs.” It was as if the entire cooking world had leapt to my defense.
“What’s going on?” asked Jane.
I waved the magazine triumphantly over my head. In between excited hiccups, I said, “My name has been cleared and then some.”
Phillipa picked up the card off the floor and read it, her lips mouthing the words. “Bloody hell! You better not be thinking of going back to New York,” she said.
I wrapped my arms around her. “I’m not going. I’m staying here, right here where I belong.”
Her head twisted to the side and she shot me a wicked smile. “So, since you’re not taking up O’Shea on his offer, don’t you think it might be a good idea to tell him?” asked Phillipa. “Like right now?”
“Yes,” I said. “It is.”
I pulled out my phone. “It’s too early to call him. It’s two-thirty in the morning in New York.”
“Text him,” said Jane.
“Yes, we need to see it with our own eyes,” said Phillipa. “At least I do.”
Chef—Thank you for clearing my name. Thank you so much for everything. While I appreciate your offer, I unfortunately can’t accept it. My grand-mère’s health is in decline and I’m taking over her kitchen at Château de Champvert. I finally have the chance to tell my story. I hope you understand. The best of wishes, Sophie. P.S. If you ever find yourself in France, please visit Champvert and we’ll take care of you!
Within seconds, my phone buzzed with a response from O’Shea.
Sophie, I understand. And I’m very proud of you. You are going to light the cooking world on fire. And I will take you up on your offer . . .
Phillipa sandwiched me in a hug.
“Is it too early to celebrate?” I asked.
“It’s never too early for champagne,” said Jane. “I’ll pop open a bottle.”
* * *
My muscles didn’t want to listen to my mind. For at least five minutes, maybe more, I stood in front of the carved oak door of