A/N: Hi Beans! I'm really sorry for the delay in getting this chapter up and I hope you enjoyed the Valentine's day special :> who knew chess could be so hot hehEHEHEHEH. The last couple of weeks, I have been working on a new cover for Baked Love. Which was why I took a short break from writing. If you're keen on seeing how it looks like, you could head over to my Instagram at hisangelchip. 

Enjoy the chapter!

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[Vanilla]

"Leroy, you're on a seventy-two. There is no need to know what I am up to in the evening," I established first before realizing just how long my gaze had lingered on the collar of his shirt. "If you're that curious, well... I'm heading to Siegfried's for a five course."

His frown was subtle but did not escape observation. "You landed a table?"

"A couple of weeks in advance, with a little help from... contacts. No critic would be in the right mind to miss your father's seasonal menu." The slip was horrendous and embarrassing; I watched his eyes darken at the word and made the subsequent inference. Working in the same kitchen did nothing to help their relationship.

Averting my gaze soon made apparent the lack of purpose in my arms and hands. I kept them out of sight behind my back. "So, um... any recommendations?"

"The water's good," he said with a snort, glancing down at my signature on the bottom right corner of the papers. He'd chosen to avoid speaking about the food in three efficient words. "Just you?"

"Yes." I looked back up, meeting his gaze. "Most critics dine alone. There is no need for a second opinion."

"People aren't just for second opinions." He advanced, lowering the clipboard that occupied the space between us. Somewhere along the way, Chen had cleverly excused himself without my notice and for some reason, the idiot before me seemed to know exactly when to misbehave. I stood my ground.

"To the everyman, yes, that is not incorrect, but to a true critic, the very presence of an additional mind beyond their own could potentially distort the truth of independent thinking."

"So what was that last night?" He had the audacity to mention in broad daylight, under the roof of a prestigious school, with a smile prime for disarming.

I had to look over my shoulder in panic. "Good god you're—oh thank goodness the girl's left but, y-yes regardless, behave yourself!" I held him at arm's length, eyes fixed on the entrance. "This is school premises we are currently... it's a practice kitchen, for goodness sake. Anyone could walk in right this moment and if you're so bent on continuing this matter of debate then perhaps it'd make sense if I told you that I did not dine as a critic at any point in time last evening."

He had the obligatory look of confusion on his face for a good second before cracking a different sort of smile. It did not do very well for level-headed thinking. "So what were you?"

"Not a critic," I re-emphasized, quite afraid to go anywhere further, closer to a flame that perhaps could not be observed by the current eye. "Haven't I said that already?"

He laughed then; short and low before taking a step back, letting up rather quickly which, admittedly, surprised even myself for a moment.

"Enjoy your dinner."

"Oh. Well, um. Thank you," I managed, watching him nod and return the clipboard back to its original position. Between us. "And thank you for your service. I apologize on behalf of the school for the um... stupid, no, foolish oversight and do let us know about the um..."

"Student?"

"Yes," I rejoined. "Yes, the student. Unfortunately, my mind's running ahead. I'm dwelling on the next thought—I forgot to mention. Saturday. I'll be in school all morning. Conducting a higher-level class for the seniors and um I'm afraid it's not..."

The rationale: given a choice, I'd very much rather agree to a single instance of an entire day than multiple instances (which might not even occur) of one-two hours in a boring restaurant. I searched his gaze.

"It's fine," he went with a tone of indifference that did not quite suit the look in his eyes, turning to take his leave. This did well to hide the other half of his face. I stopped him.

"So instead of the... the plans, you came up with, I was thinking. Perhaps. Four-five hours, spent wisely, of course, at the Victoria and Albert Museum." I offered as an alternative. Equally attractive to someone like myself but, well, as it turns out, I am unfortunately distant from the status quo.

I waited for a response. He'd stopped in his tracks, back faced towards me. A good long silence stood between us.

"N-no? That is fine. It is to be expected, I suppose. Museums aren't for everyone. Oh and rest assured, we could um, as in, I'd like to work something out to accommodate the full-day plan you had in mind." That did not come across quite how I'd intended. "What I mean to say is that I would not like for your effort to go to waste and um—"

"It's not something I'd do," he turned with an expression that reminded me of younger days and ice cream parlours. The first time he'd taken my order at the counter. "But if I get a cute guide in return... why not."

"Oh museums are self-guided most of the time unless you register for the guided tour which usually only comes in audio form, and not, well, the physical manifestation of a... human being, thing, and um... I see you're laughing. I am confused." He stood there, shaking his head and looking over his shoulder as though there was someone in the doorway I couldn't quite see.

"Did you hear that?"

"Get your ass moving, Cox. Chief's assigned a couple of rounds for hydrant checks since we're nearby," came a voice from the hallway and nearly at once, I was appalled by the idiot's decision not to warn me about his colleague being several feet away from the entrance and and and within earshot!

"Leroy—"

"See you on Saturday." He turned to leave; the corners of his lips far too amused for someone who's just had a scandalous, intimate conversation of theirs overheard by a member of the public.

"Heads up sir," his colleague peered into the kitchen, flashing a smile that implied a cross between pity and um, distorted enjoyment. "You're dealing with uncultured species. Dude doesn't even know the name of the Natural History Museum. Just calls it The one with the fucking dinosaurs."

*

"I've been sitting here for ten minutes, Vanilla. My tea's gone cold and my lipstick needs re-application."

I handed the company's best-selling cookbook author a bag of Starbucks. Inside was the all-new Pistachio Latte she had been going on about for the past week on Twitter. "Ten minutes? Outrageous. How dare someone make you wait for ten minutes."

Violet Birchwood was not the kind of person to change very much despite her age and experience. Phrased poorly, this trait of hers meant a rigid stubbornness and inability to adapt to change; yet, in the age of fads and volatile trends, her unique brand and vision resisted all attempts to sway and crumble under the weight of tech-savvy teens and millennials. Simply put, the pastry chef had stayed true to her roots despite fame and fortune—believing in the core person that was herself.

"This better be that Pistachio Latte I was dreaming about on my flight here," she held up the Grande-sized drink, searching for the hand-written label. "Okay I forgive you. By the way, that video of you and Andre was hilarious. His face was orange and I'm pretty sure it's not the lighting. Oh and leave the vest you were wearing in the video at some thrift store. There's one down the street."

I sat across her, pouring myself a cup of tea most likely prepared by Florence. "Don't be ridiculous. That vest is a personal favourite of mine. And yes, Andre's orange face had nothing to do with the lighting. I don't intend to see it ever again, regardless. How was the flight?"

"Stupid. First class was practically empty and only two people asked for my autograph," she rolled her eyes, sipping at the piping hot latte in her hands. "Anyway, the guy from Food Network said you're judging for that TV thing they were going on about in their previous pitch. Why didn't you say so? I thought it wasn't your thing. They invited me to be a guest judge for episode... uh... I forgot."

I paused for the longest second before hitting the call button for Florence. "Apparently, I am now agreeing to things I've never even heard of. When exactly did you hear about this?"

"What? Like, just this morning at the airport. There were a couple of people from two or three production companies trying to get me on board some of their programs after the press conference."

"How are they so fond of making things up for attention?" I managed under my breath, briefly sifting through all unopened emails from this morning. Nothing from production companies. "Forget it. I'll deal with them later. All of a sudden, I have become a celebrity in high demand within less than a day of my landing here."

"Don't worry you'll never be more famous than me," she dismissed in a beat, admiring her nails. We exchanged a look of mutual sarcasm. I'd picked it up over our years of working together back in culinary school. "So you have the samples for the new book? I'm dying to see the designs in hardback matte."

"Yes, I'll have someone from the creative department come over with them in a minute. We should first discuss the marketing plan for your stay here. Ritz is sponsoring your signing event tomorrow and your room for the rest of the week. Have you checked in?"

"Not yet. But you do know my boyfriend's father is a major shareholder, right?"

I glanced down at her printed schedule. "Is... that so. Makes sense, I suppose. Why would The Ritz pay you any attention when you're not even half as famous as Gordon Ramsay?"

"What would you do without me."

"Pretty much nothing less than what I am doing now," I said with a smile and her eyes turned the shade of death over the top of her Grande Pistachio Latte. The tiny foam moustache rendered the former expression entirely useless. "You... have a boyfriend?"

"Yes." She quipped, turning curiously to the side and averting her gaze as she did. "Why?" An embarrassed Violet was nearly impossible. Either way, I had been so oddly certain of hearing such information from Si Yin instead of Violet herself.

"Nothing."

"Do you have a—"

"No."

She paused, staring me straight in the eye before attempting to repeat her question. "Are you sure you don't—"

"No." I marked Ritz off her schedule. "I'll send you a reminder to share the article about your arrival in London. Promise to be on brand with our sponsors when you do. I know you'll be involved in several demonstrations nearing the end of the week so I'll remind you again when that happens but you have to be sure... what are you doing?"

Violet had leaned across the coffee table to peer at the screen of my phone that was unlocked, and, without my permission, begun swiping across it as though looking for something. "Not a single dating app!"

"I—why would I need a dating application, that's for people with the luxury of time and text-responding energy. I lack both. Now if you will re-direct your attention to the matter at hand..."

"Come on Vanilla, it's literally just flirting on text you can't be that much of a failure at words, I mean, in person, yes you are, but as a writer you should be great at flirting on text!"

I gave her a look. "You're mad. And dating applications are a waste of storage space."

"I'll buy you a new phone with four dating apps pre-installed. When's your birthday again? Wasn't it, like, October... hold up, that's next month. Good. That's settled then."

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I'd spent the next couple of hours sorting things out with Violet in the office and informing my secretary of the false advertising some broadcast companies have resorted to for the purpose of riding on the attention I was being given by media in the industry. Thereafter, I called for an Uber and headed straight for my highlight review of the week. Already, I was well aware of the readers waiting for my next article with bated breath. Casual ones called it the backbone of GLACE's online magazine. Critics called it the ugliest form of written text.

Needless to say, I tended to have higher expectations for highlight reviews. They were often Michelin-star restaurants with big names and big chefs with bigger egos. Unfortunately, the owner of Chef Andre's restaurant had, himself, invited me; unlike the places selected for highlight reviews, usually decided through an online poll.

Siegfried's restaurant had been on my list since Uncle Al last reviewed it nearly ten years ago. Back then, of course, I hadn't a clue who he was. Let alone his family and, well, Annie and Leroy being his wife and son respectively. I recalled a single dish leaving my uncle simply enchanted and it was the lobster ravioli. He could not, for the next year or so, stop raving about it. Quite frankly, Siegfried Cox had made himself out to be a master of fine-dining and this was what exactly I'd come to put to the test after twelve years of quiet anticipation.

To many others, it was an honour to even set foot in his kitchen as a garbage boy. To Leroy whom Siegfried had brought into the kitchen at the mere age of eight... well. That was a different story.

"Mr. White." Siegfried's front of house were trained to be as professional as they were in his kitchen. "You're right on time."

I nodded politely, unsurprised by the fact that she'd recognized me almost at once. "Waiting for two months would have that sort of effect, I suppose. I've heard six is the norm. I consider myself extremely fortunate."

"Seven months, now, sir. We have been receiving an influx of international calls quite recently. It's been rather hectic."

I noted the number at the back of my mind, appreciating the exterior of the restaurant before the host showed me in. Almost at once, I found myself seamlessly handed over to a server who escorted me further into the perfectly-crafted atmosphere and up to the second floor of the restaurant overlooking a classy central dining area. It was the kind of restaurant designed for an incredible evening.

The amuse bouche. A pine oil & wild mushroom velouté that was simple and gentle on the palate but a cup full of flavour that had me ready for the next dish. A trio of canapés. Soft, fluffy butter dinner rolls. And then, the first course of the evening—Cornish crab prepared by Basque. Brown and spider crabs covered by a smooth and delicious foam with pomelo and lampong pepper; perfectly cooked, sweet crab meat presented excellently in enchanting dishware worthy of praise. The flavours and textures, combined, were stunning. The next course was a roasted scallop the size of my palm, flavoured with Tandoori spices and a beurre noisette that complemented the thick, sweet flesh of the scallop.

It was as soon as the dish was cleared that I noticed someone approaching my table in the reflection of my wine glass. As distorted as the image was, I'd quite frankly made a decent guess without turning around.

I watched as he gestured to the seat across mine. "May I?"

The answer was obvious but seemed a tad too difficult to actually voice. "Would the kitchen do alright without its head chef?"

He laughed—a serious, solemn sound—and waited for my cue. "Not ordinarily, no. But I am fortunate enough to have a competent sous chef and, as so... have some time to spare a very important guest. What brings you here tonight?"

Lips thin and uncertain, I nodded at the seat across. Siegfried obliged. I did not take to answering his question at once. Naturally, I'd wished to know who it was, which version of Vanilla Julian White, he'd come to see. The friend of his son's from seven years ago or the infamous new critic in town.

I tested first. "So you must have heard things about me."

"Everyone's heard things about you, Vanilla."

I stared, straight at him as the maître d' came round with an additional glass of red. "Bad things, I hope. I couldn't possibly live up to the good ones. People tend to set the most unrealistic expectations of myself and disappointing the human race is apparently a greater sin than starting off as a disappointment."

Again, he laughed. This time, with an aged smile at the corners of his eyes. "What a personality."

"Oh I have none, I assure you."

This was the first of Siegfried's Michelin star restaurants I'd ever come close to visiting, which therefore dubbed this our first-ever meeting and conversation. On many levels, I did not and perhaps would not expect him to remember me, let alone keep an eye on my activity as a rising critic in the industry.

"Anyone who can keep up with Leroy's culinary knowledge in kindergarten is not allowed to say that."

Fazed, I'd set my glass aside and struggled to gather my thoughts.

"How did you know?"

"Annie mentioned a boy like that. Surprised me enough to remember." He sipped at his drink. "To think you and Leroy met again in high school. A grand coincidence."

"I'm afraid I don't believe in coincidences," I told him, wondering if the head waiter had purposefully delayed my next course to free up some time for his head chef to carry out a short conversation. "Is there... a reason you've come to see me personally?"

"Well you invited yourself into the lion's den, Vanilla."

"As a full-time critic and restaurateur, yes. I see no problem in that." I tidied the napkin on my lap. "In fact, to a good critic, no place should ever be a lion's den. Fear is not the writer of truth." I looked up just in time to observe the smallest of smiles, hidden behind his glass of wine.

"Do you really not have kitchen matters to attend to, head chef?"

"No, actually." He opened his arms, indicating the relaxed, comfortable stance. It was in that moment I saw absolutely no resemblance between him and that fiery idiot.

"Well then," I'd paused, slightly confused. "Who would I have to thank for the pleasant meal?"

He appeared to look over his shoulder. "Are you in a hurry?"

"Not exactly."

"An hour and a half," he proposed, to which I nodded warily. "The sous chef will come to see you personally." And with that, he rose, taking with him his glass of wine and then gesturing to a passing server, who nodded.

I stood and extended a hand, not forgetting my manners regardless of the person. Siegfried took it with a firm shake and, with a moment's worth of hesitation, asked a curiously intuitive question.

"You've seen him?"

The smile he wore was strange and uncharacteristic of fame and fortune. It did well to startle me, really. And my lack of response, perhaps coupled with the averting of my gaze, prompted the head chef to probe further.

"How is he?"

"Indisputably content," was all I could say. It was the truth. Leroy was very much in good hands of his crew members, doing all that he can to serve the city.

I watched his father falter. "Well. Can't say I'm surprised." And then, he left.

*

One look and I knew. It was the kind of thing one could tell; sometimes even feel. It shocked me just as it might have stunned everyone else but for a different reason. To think Siegfried would introduce his fiancé to a stranger—to me, a mere critic without standing or relation—and willingly trust a writer from the very same industry not to sell this as quality gossip to hungry tabloids.

"Allow me to introduce my sous chef and fiancé. Antoinette Du Bellay."

I rose to shake her hand but it was presented to me with her palm faced downwards; the cue to kiss her hand. I took it and, as expected, felt her raise her hand slightly. I obliged but, again, was fairly surprised by the traditional greeting.

"Good evening Mr. White. Thank you for waiting. My first name is Antoinette, but... uh... you may have known me as Anthony. A few years ago. When I was still at Arpège's in Paris."

A stroke of recollection. A name once well-travelled around most of Europe.

"Your culinary skill has been described as phenomenal. Unmatched. And perhaps I now understand why. The seasonal five-course was delicious," I resumed a seated position, peering down at my glass that was near empty. "I'm sure you wouldn't have to introduce yourself by your former name anytime soon, at the standard you are cooking at."

"You are very kind," she smiled, glancing up at her fiancé who had his hand over her shoulder. "Siegfried says you are clever too."

"Does he?" I turned his way, giving him a look. "I am merely honest. And I imagine being your fiancé's sous chef must be... well. I suppose it speaks volumes about the strength of your relationship. Couples in the same kitchen almost never work out."

Antoinette laughed. A genuine, beautiful laugh. "I've put up with him for more than ten years, Mr. White."

Ten years. Again. Yet, another surprise. Ten years. So even back then...

"Well. It was nice to meet you, Chef Du Bellay." I finished. Concluded. The truth was, I could not, after much waiting around in anticipation, think of much to say in the face of a matter so private and yet, so oddly intertwined with the life of a person I truly cared about and had, for all intents and purposes let down. Attempting to end the conversation was the only solution I could think of. "Thank you for the meal. I wish you a pleasant evening."

All of a sudden, I was overcome with a strong urge to leave.

"I-is that so? You're leaving?" The sous chef seemed flustered. "Uh, I... look forward to reading your review."

"I look forward to publishing it," I nodded in return, and, out of politeness, waited for them to step away from the table and retire from the conversation.

Neither appeared to do so. Even worse, I watched as Antoinette paused and looked up at Siegfried with something in her eyes. Both hesitated.

"I suppose I am to ask the obligatory question?" I breathed a sigh, finishing the final sip of wine that remained.

In return, I received a stiff laugh from the owner of the restaurant. "And what would that be?"

Surprisingly, I did not hesitate.

"Does he know?"

At once—a good, long, troubled silence.

"Annie?"

"Annie knows," Antoinette was able to say. "I wrote her an email. She responded."

"Alright," I breathed. The entire evening was a lot to take in; let alone a single minute of stunning new information. "I'm not quite sure if all this should be... well, made known to myself. After all I'm not exactly the best liar, as you may have known already. Also, I plan on seeing Leroy every other week, at the very least."

"Oh we're not trying to keep it a secret." Siegfried stepped forth to clarify but I stopped him.

"And I do not plan to be your middleman, Chef Cox. If you wish for Leroy to know, you must at the very least have the courage to tell him in person. He deserves the minimum, after years of submitting to your demands." I stood my ground, dabbing a corner of the napkin across my lips before folding it neatly, rising from my seat. "I'll have the bill at the entrance."

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A/N: Hello Beans! Huge apologies for the delay, again. So next week will be the museum date and some insight into Leroy's feelings throughout the years he spent alone in London. Also... Mama Cox :> And yes, Antoinette is my first trans character >< I'm looking to develop a whole diverse set of characters as I grow as a writer so!! ^^ Do help me along the way and correct me if I require corerctions. 

-Cuppie