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"Today's the day,” I whisper into the empty room before throwing the covers off and racing for the bathroom.
I’m both excited and nervous about my first day of class. The entire class is comprised of some of the top culinary graduates from around the world. How the hell am I going to compete with that?
“They wouldn’t have invited you if you weren’t good enough.” I give myself a pep talk before heading out of the hotel.
I make it to class just in time to thread my arms through my chef’s coat and take my place behind one of the marble work stations. Maybe walking wasn’t the best idea.
Everything I can imagine needing to create wonderful pastries is strategically placed around the room, letting anyone who enters know they’re in for a complete experience.
"Hello. My name is Beckett." A good-looking man comes to a stop beside me, holding his hand out for a shake.
"Hey. Charlotte," I respond as he grips my hand tightly, pulling to his lips.
My skin crawls as he kisses the back of my hand.
"A beautiful name for a beautiful lady." He smirks.
Someone claps at the front of the room, getting our attention.
"Good morning, everyone. My name is Giselle, Chef Thomas's publicist." She smiles brightly at us before motioning toward the man beside her. "And this is my husband, Gabriel, Chef Thomas's attorney."
My nerves shoot through the roof, wondering what exactly I signed up for if he needs to have his attorney present.
"On the table in front of each of you is a standard non-disclosure agreement. However, there is one addition." Giselle flips to the last page and points out the last paragraph above the signature line. "By participating in this class, you're agreeing that techniques and recipes you learn are the sole property of Chef Thomas."
She flips the stack closed and places it down on the station before stepping from behind it and walking down the center of the room between each cooking station.
"Gabriel is here to answer questions you might have about the agreement. If you choose not to sign it, we will ask you to leave."
I grab the papers and begin looking through them, wondering why a chef of such renown would need to have students sign NDAs. I understand he might not do classes that often, but we should share the craft of making pastries with the world.
"If he wasn't a thief, we wouldn't need to sign these," Beckett whispers to me with a smirk. "Supposedly, he stole all his ideas from his ex-wife and business partner, but convinced everyone she was just jealous of his success."
"Get out." Giselle's voice causes me to jump as she snatches the papers from his hands before ripping them in half.
"But I was only saying what everyone else was thinking,” he snaps back, crossing his arms over his chest. "We all know this is just a publicity stunt, so he can prove he still has it."
A few of my classmates murmur around me and nod in agreement.
"Yeah. If he had nothing to hide, why is he asking us to sign these?" another of my classmates says from the other side of the room.
"If you don't want to sign it, leave," she says with a fake smile plastered on her face. "But the reason Chef Thomas is having you sign this is for the very reason you think. He's tired of having his character called into question. He's no thief."
Beckett and a few other students step from behind their stations and head toward the door. I watch them leave, wondering if I should follow them.
"What about you?" Giselle steps in front of me, cutting off my retreat. "Don't you have any snide comments or false accusations to throw around about the chef?"
I shake my head, holding my hands up in surrender. "My professor signed me up for this event. I don’t even know what Chef Thomas looks like.”
I hang my head in embarrassment, waiting for her to kick me out of the class. You should at least know something about the person you're taking a class from.
"Have you been living under a rock?" she giggles, causing my cheeks to heat further.
"I don't get out much," I whisper before lifting my head. "I was planning on heading home to work in my parents’ restaurant when I graduated a few weeks ago, but this fell into my lap. I figured I could learn something new."
She stares at me for a few moments before a blinding smile spreads across her face. "You can stay." She pats me softly on the cheek. "But don't forget to sign that."
She slides the pen sitting on the station toward me, and I grab it, scrawling my name along the bottom.
