Hungry for More

CHAPTER 17



James paced the sidewalk across the street from Troy’s apartment. It was the middle of the night, he was freezing, and he could tell from Troy’s unmoving lone form in front of the blue flickering light of the TV that if Amy was even there, she was long asleep.

If she was even there . Knowing Amy, she was long gone.

Which was good because this was crazy. He had meant everything he had said in the walk-in. He had no idea what he was doing here.

Or rather, maybe he knew all too well what he was doing here.

I want Amy Burns.

He was sure of it in a way he was sure of only one other thing: I want that third star.

This was bad. It was all getting mixed up, Amy and Les Fleurs, Les Fleurs and Amy. His head hurt just thinking about his two desires: did they conflict, or were they one?

The idea of asking her to be his muse to create a whole new menu had been circling in the back of his mind since the day he met her. She inspired him beyond any previous inspiration, and not just for food. At first, he had thought that she was completely alone in the world and didn’t give a shit. She just kept fighting, holding on to her pride even though she had nothing—no home, no job, no skills, no family as far as he could tell. She was the loneliest person he’d ever met—and the fiercest. Nothing tied her down; she was completely independent.

Which was why he hadn’t asked her to be his muse. She was just like his father—no loyalty, always ready to split. He had spent his life insulating himself from the whims of people like Amy. Did he want that third star badly enough to risk falling for a woman who had no loyalty, no sense of place, no problem with leaving people behind at the drop of a hat, as if they had never existed?

Then, tonight in the walk-in, his opinion of her changed. He had seen it in her eyes. He was glad he had wounded her with his idiotic, panicked tirade, because he had blundered into penetrating somewhere deep and protected inside her. He had seen that she had the capacity to care about him, that she didn’t want to be completely alone. By shattering the facade that all she wanted from him was sex, he had exposed that she yearned for more.

If only he could coax her back to him. She was like the alley cats he fed every morning behind Les Fleurs. Those cats still don’t trust me, and it’s been years. They’re wild. Like Amy. Completely focused on survival above all else.

But what if he could build her facade back up by asking her to be his muse? She might be tempted closer. He could keep her from fleeing. He’d let her believe it was only sex and food if that’s what she needed to believe to stay. If he showed her anything deeper, he was sure she would bolt.

And then together, slowly, they could see if there was anything more or if he was being a total moron, mistaking his lust and ambition for something deeper.

For love.

He kicked a snowbank, sending the dirty snow flying to expose the pure snow underneath. Had he completely lost his mind? Confusion swirled around him as he paced. This might be the dumbest thing he’d ever done.

And yet, he had to give her a reason to stay. He had to see if she was for real. I want her more than anything I’ve ever wanted.

More than the third star from Scottie Jones.

And she was as good as gone if he didn’t figure out a way to step in and stop her from leaving.



Amy spotted a man hovering in the shadows of the sycamore tree by the front door of Troy’s building. James’s knife was in her boot, and she reached down and palmed it. C’mon, buddy, make my day. She was so in the mood for a fight.


The man stepped out of the shadows.

James .

“Too bad I recognized you before I slit your throat,” she said, still palming the knife. Her body had gone electric under his gaze, but she scolded it harshly. This man is the bait for my destruction. Amy’s head was still swimming from the channeling. Maddie speaking in full sentences out of the mouth of that ancient Gypsy was ghoulish. Even though part of her was glad that everything was unfolding as she had expected—she had called every shot—it was still too much to take in.

James was watching her. “You okay?”

“Fine.” Except that in the lamplight, James looked good enough to eat, his black wool peacoat unbuttoned casually, as if it weren’t twenty degrees below Antarctica. It was only the second time she’d seen him without an apron, in his street clothes. His blue jeans hung perfectly to his scuffed black boots. A few strands escaped from his tied-back gleaming hair.

“So,” James said. His breath condensed in the cold air. He rubbed his bare hands together.

She held out the knife, handle first, for him to take. “So, I quit.”

He didn’t take the knife. “I came to apologize.”

Amy felt like stabbing him with the knife. This would be so much easier if he’d just be a jerk. “Didn’t you get the script? You blame me for not noticing your scumbag food critic. Then you fire me, because you’re too embarrassed at your enormous gaffe to ever look me in the eyes again.”

He looked her in the eyes. “I’m sorry I freaked out on you. I was an ass. You can’t quit. I won’t let you.”

“Let me?” Why did he have to be so smolderingly hot just below the surface? No wonder kitchen boy didn’t have to button his coat. He was a walking furnace.

To hell with Maddie, I want this man. Hope that maybe they had something real together flooded through her, and she tried to damn the bubbling tide with reason. This man is a trap set by Maddie, and I am not falling into it.

Into him.

Oh, to fall into him .

“Are you gonna put the knife away?” he asked.

“How sorry are you really?” she asked. “Ever hear of hara-kiri?”

“I’m not that sorry,” he said.

“Too bad. I would have enjoyed a little ritual disembowelment.” She slipped the knife into her boot and tried not to notice the way the wind whipped a single escaped strand of hair over his face. Tried not to notice the way he had stepped between the wind and her, sheltering her, without even thinking about it. Tried not to climb a little closer into the warmth of him.

“It’s my job to handle Scottie, and it’s Joey’s job to spot him,” James said. “We f*cked up and I freaked on you. I’m sorry. It wasn’t your fault. I was a first-class a*shole.”

“You were.” Okay, let’s go to bed. Now. She exhaled, trying to banish her idiotic thoughts. Don’t nibble the man bait.

“So?” he asked. “Am I forgiven?”

Well, her body had certainly forgiven him. His face was ruddy with the cold. He looked at her with his earnest eyes, and her mind caved, too. No, not all of her mind. Just the stupid-ass part. The other part would never forgive him. She had to guard her anger at him like a jewel. It was what would keep them apart. Keep her from loving—

Loving?

Good God, that wasn’t what she meant. She could still smell the permeating scent of Madame Prizzo’s cigarettes on her coat, wafting up to her like a warning.

Trusting. That was it. She would keep her anger at him like a prize, keep her defenses up and not trust him. Ever. He had shown with his Scottie Jones freak-out that he didn’t deserve to be trusted. “Don’t worry about being forgiven, James. I’m not coming back to Les Fleurs. Roni will be back tomorrow.”

And then what? What if everything goes wrong?

His eyes went dark, the green disappearing, the brown intensifying to black, chameleon eyes changing to his mood. At least his lips were constant. Constantly tempting. “Is that how you operate?” he asked, his voice gruff. “Get what you want and then scram?”

“I’m a Gypsy, James. It’s what we do. Wander. Sticking around is not my style.” A blast of cold wind blew off her hat, and he snatched it out of the air without seeming to even look. He handed it to her, and she shoved it back on her muddled head. Why did this feel so lousy when it was so obviously for the best? Why did she feel like grabbing him and never letting go? Like kissing those insanely gorgeous lips—

“Nothing here worth sticking around for, huh?”

She could feel her body pull toward him. She could hear her cells shouting, You. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I was flattering Troy.”

The cold wind whipped around them. Troy. He’s worth something. Something good out of all this mess.

James went on. “Anyway, I don’t believe you. I think you want to stick around. I think you want me, even if you won’t admit it to yourself.”

His words hung between them in the frozen air.

“That’s because you’re a fool, conned by a Gypsy,” she lied.

He watched her closely. Finally, he said, “Okay. Two can play at this game. I need a favor, Gypsy. Pure business transaction.”

Amy felt oddly defeated. As if she cared. Which she didn’t. “No. I told you. I’m not coming back to Les Fleurs.”

“Hear me out.”

“No. Forget it, James. You had your chance, and you let it slip away. Get Scottie Jones to do your favor.”

He grasped her arm. “I don’t believe you want to say no.”

“James. I’m done with you—”

His mouth met hers, and his rough kiss lit her on fire as surely as if his lips were match tips. His hands were running through her hair, and it felt like destiny, and their bodies crashed together, and she cursed her stupid coat for getting in the way, but he had her face in his hands, and the look in his eyes betrayed everything they had just said to each other as nothing but nonsense, because they obviously needed each other NOW. She pulled him closer and breathed him in. This man was everything she ever wanted.

A light went on upstairs, and she jumped away from James, fanning the invisible flames.

Just as quickly as the embrace had started, it was over. Had it even happened? Or had she imagined it?

BZZZZZZZ. Someone buzzed the intercom; then Troy appeared at the window, waving like a beauty queen. Thank you, Troy . At least one of them still had a brain.

“I better go. I’ve gotta tell him his mom’s coming back.” I better go and take a cold shower and think long and hard about how stupid this man makes me.

“Come to Les Fleurs tomorrow. One last time. I need to ask you something.”

“No.” She yanked open the door and bolted inside before either of them could say another word.

She needed to stay very, very far away from that man.



Troy watched Amy let herself in without really watching her. He didn’t want her to know he was glad she was back, that he hated being alone in the apartment. Stupid TV blocked most of the creepiest noises, but the gaping silence from his mother’s room was still a roar inside his skull no matter how high he turned up South Park .

He nodded at Amy when she sat down across from him. He didn’t have a choice. She blocked the TV.

“Your mom’ll be back tomorrow,” she said. “I arranged the whole thing.”

He stopped trying to lean around her and stared, open-mouthed. She looked smug, like she had booked his mom’s flight. Hot anger rose in his gut. First, she lied about knowing his mom. Then, she got cozy with James, two seconds after saying they couldn’t trust him. “How’s our dear friend James?” he asked. “The one we can’t trust?”


“Forget James. He’s nothing. Your mom is coming back. Now, I know you’re mad at her, but she’s been having a hard time. You’ve gotta be nice to her. In fact, we ought to clean up this joint.” She stood and started picking up laundry. “C’mon. It’ll be fun.”

He sucked in his bottom lip and chewed on it. “Fun like face-sucking with James even though you think he’s a jerk?”

“James is none of your business. I’m an adult. You’re a kid. It’s different. I can control my feelings.”

“Yeah, right. Was that what you were doing down there? Controlling?”

She seemed determined to ignore him. She busied herself with gathering a pile of laundry, which she shoved into the liquor cabinet, mashing shut the door. She wiped her hands together as if she’d just finished building the Brooklyn Bridge instead of hiding the dirty laundry. “Your mother’s going to need both our help when she gets back.”

Troy’s stomach doubled over. “She’s not pregnant, is she?” He remembered the last time she disappeared. The abortion. They all thought he was an idiot and didn’t know.

“Of course not.” Now she was gathering empty Coke cans. She looked at the cans in her hands, looked at the already-full trashcan, shrugged, then began building an empty Coke can pyramid on the coffee table.

“So why’s she need our help? Your help?” He knew how belligerent he sounded, but it pissed him off that Amy, a stranger, knew something he didn’t about his own mom. She was such a know-it-all. And telling him he couldn’t handle James and she could was such bull. He knew James was just a means to get an education in the kitchen. He wasn’t, like, emotionally involved or anything. Like she obviously was.

She balanced a can and stood back to admire her sculpture in progress. “She’s hearing voices, Troy. One voice, actually. And I used to hear that voice. So I know all about the spirit that wants your mother to serve her. I can help her break free. I convinced Madame Prizzo to call her back. That’s where I was tonight.” She adjusted another can.

His body deflated, the resentment inside him escaping like air. He tried to keep the gratefulness out of his voice. She did bring my mom back. He should have known that it was that awful Madame Prizzo who had sent her away. He’d have hugged her if he wasn’t so pissed at her. “What’s the spirit want my mom to do?” He picked up a can and added it reluctantly to Amy’s tower.

“It’s complicated. It’s nothing bad. It’s a well-meaning spirit. She’ll tell you everything when she gets here.” Amy finished another row of cans; the pyramid was five rows high and three rows deep and getting shaky.

Troy added a can. Then Amy. Then Troy. With each can, they held their breath, then exhaled in relief when the whole thing didn’t topple over. If James forgave her for messing up the restaurant, then I can forgive her, too.

There was just one can left to center on the top.

“You do it,” Amy said.

Troy nodded. I’ll see my mom tomorrow , he thought as he placed the last can. Maybe, just maybe, the three of us can figure this out. The last can wobbled but held.

They both stepped back to admire their sculpture.

“Nice.” Amy punched his shoulder.

“Yeah. Not bad.” He hadn’t felt this relaxed since his mom had left.

He looked around the cruddy room, shrugged, then picked up a pair of discarded jeans and began to fold.





The best kitchen, the best ingredients, and the best recipes are nothing without inspiration.

—JAMES LACHANCE, The Meal of a Lifetime