Emilie knows she must look crazed. She steps forward just as the heel of Max’s hand smashes against the kitchen door, shoving it inward. She reaches Xaver in three bold steps and throws her arms around his neck. His eyes are wide and alarmed but he hesitates for only a second when she leans in for a kiss. She hears a metal bowl clatter to the floor, dropped by one of the assistant chefs. They have an audience. Good. She can put an end to this situation with Max once and for all.
Xaver is nothing if not opportunistic. His arms are around her waist in a moment. Tight. Greedy. But this kiss is nothing like the one she shared with Max the night before. There is no passion. No warmth. Xaver tastes of yeast and cold water and a hint of parsley. Her skin tingles with nothing but shame, and her ears are tuned to the deep, furious hum emanating from Max’s chest behind her. And Xaver, being the bastard that he is, slides his hand down several inches from her waist, threatening to cup her backside. She stiffens beneath him and feels his taunting smile against her lips.
This is the worst kiss of her life. Worse even than the one she had shared with Frank Becker in the back room of her father’s shop before she dropped him to the floor. She hadn’t told Max that part last night, of course. Emilie wasn’t entirely innocent in the whole affair. But Xaver is smart enough to know what’s happening. He doesn’t take this farce too far. If nothing else he possesses a healthy amount of self-preservation. Max is watching after all. No doubt confounded. Bristling.
Each second is interminable. She wants nothing more than to pull away and wipe her mouth. But she cannot do so until Max leaves. It’s one thing to do this out of spite; it’s another thing to own up to her treachery while he’s standing there.
And yet he must know. Because he waits. Silent. Furious. Seeing how long she will pretend.
So Emilie goes for cruelty. She lays her palm flat against Xaver’s face and lightly plays with his earlobe. He is a man, after all, and she feels him soften beneath her. His kiss takes on a note of sincerity, and he moves one hand up to cradle her skull. She tries to pull away on reflex, but his grip tightens as his fingers wind through her hair.
Only when she hears the door swoosh shut does she pull away. But she can’t look at Xaver right away. She’s too ashamed.
“I don’t know what is happening between you and Zabel, but don’t ever do that to me again.”
She’s insulted. Angry. Irrational. “You didn’t like it?”
“I didn’t say that. Clearly. Where the hell did you learn to kiss like that anyway? But still. Shit. I thought he’d kill me by the look on his face.”
“You kept your eyes open?” Emilie hears her words slip out in a horrified hiss. She flinches at the sound.
“That was rather the point, right? Piss off the navigator? Taunt him? It’s not like you’ve ever kissed me before.” He peers at her, curious. “So?”
“I was making a point.”
“Well done.”
“Would you be serious? Please?”
“That’s what you were just now? Serious? I’d hate to see you act flippant.”
In truth, Emilie is serious. Seriously angry. Seriously ashamed. Seriously confused. Yes. All these things.
“Just”—she holds her palm out, silencing him—“I need to think.”
“A bit late for that, I’d say. You’ve just broken Zabel’s heart and confused the hell out of me. He’ll probably kill me in my sleep.” Xaver’s toque was knocked askew during her little display, and he sets it back into place. “Listen. Do what you like with your navigator, but leave me out of it, okay? I actually value my life.”
THE NAVIGATOR
If Max could breathe he would call out to Emilie. He would tell her to stop kissing the chef. If he could move he would reach out and break Xaver Maier’s skinny neck.
Kiss who you like, he had told Emilie yesterday, as long as I’m the one you like the most. But he hadn’t meant it. Not really. It was a rash comment, an ineffective parry in their ongoing battle. The truth is Max doesn’t want to share this woman with anyone else. The heat behind his eyes builds and then explodes into a dozen tiny sparks when Maier slides his hand down Emilie’s waist. He would sooner cut that hand off than see it groping her. But the chef is less of a fool than he seems, for he stops a fraction of an inch before violating what scant, undeserved trust Emilie has placed in him.
Maier has the eyes of a bear—small and dark and vengeful. He narrows them as he kisses Emilie, taunting Max. He is uncertain whether Maier enjoys the kiss, but Max is certain the chef enjoys the victory. His lungs burn with the agony of expansion. He has yet to release the breath he drew on entering the kitchen. His nostrils sting. His hands begin to shake with the effort of not reaching out to pull Emilie out of Maier’s arms. In some far-off part of his mind a single thought registers: jealousy isn’t just something you feel; it can be tasted as well. Sharp. Metallic. Like blood drawn from the inside of a cheek. He lets the breath out with a whoosh.