Page 115 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)
If I weren’t dating Asher, I probably would’ve succumbed at the sight of his forearms alone.
“Seb! I didn’t know you were in London.” Asher sounded surprised. “I thought Gerard was going to be our instructor.”
“He was, but ironically, he got food poisoning yesterday. Not from one of our restaurants, of course,” the man added. He clapped a hand on Asher’s shoulder in greeting before he turned to me. His smile dazzled as he held out his hand. “Sebastian Laurent.” His voice contained a smooth, light trace of France,evoking images of sun-dappled vineyards and walks along the Seine.
“Scarlett. DuBois,” I added as an afterthought. Were we introducing ourselves by our full names now?
“DuBois.” His brows rose an inch. “Any relation to Yves DuBois?”
I smiled. “He’s my great-uncle.”
My grandfather’s brother was a famous couturier. We didn’t talk much, but he occasionally sent me a dress sample out of the blue, which was enough to earn him a spot in my good graces forever. Yves DuBois gowns weren’t cheap.
“Sebastian is the chief marketing officer of the Laurent Restaurant Group,” Asher said. “This is his house.”
“Part-time house. I’m based in New York,” Sebastian explained. “When I’m not here, I change the residence to a venue for VIP brand events and activities such as what we’re doing today.”
I had an inkling, but I asked anyway. “Which is…?”
“A cooking class.” Asher’s eyes sparkled. “You love structure, and there’s nothing more structured than cooking. Look at any recipe. It’s literally a step-by-step guide.”
His reasoning was so unexpected yet so perfect that I couldn’t help but burst into laughter.
“Step by step with room for interpretation.” Sebastian smiled. “However, we’ll stick to the rules today since it’s your first time.”
He handed us aprons and gave us a brief spiel about the guidelines and agenda. We were learning how to cook a three-course meal consisting of a salad, main course, and dessert.
“Like Asher mentioned earlier, Gerard Brazier was supposed to be your instructor today, but alas.” Sebastian gave a quintessentially French shrug. “I hope you don’t mind if I take over. I’m not a Michelin-starred chef, but I did attend culinaryschool before business school. Family tradition,” he said when my eyebrows shot up. “Our business is food. If we want to sell it, we should know everything that goes into making it.”
“I don’t mind at all.” I tied the apron behind me. “Though this seems like something a CMO shouldn’t have to do on a Saturday afternoon.”
Sebastian’s mouth tilted into a smile. “I’ve followed Asher’s career since he was with Man U, so I’ve known him for a while. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to make him suffer a little.”
I laughed while Asher rolled his eyes.
“Don’t listen to him,” he said. “I may not have attended culinary school, but I know my way around the kitchen.”
He was right. He did—much more than me. As the class got underway, it became painfully clear that my talents didnotinclude tossing salads or searing filet mignon.
Nevertheless, I had a blast. Sebastian kept us entertained with stories about previous events while Asher tried to convince me my filet mignon wasn’tthatovercooked (it was) and I tried to steal one of the raspberries for his cheesecake without him noticing (he did, but he let me have it anyway).
It was different and interactive andfun. I didn’t feel any pressure to be “witty enough” or “charming enough”—not that I ever felt that pressure with Asher, but it was nice to spend time with him in an intimate yet casual environment.
Physical attraction and romantic feelings aside, I just liked hanging out with him. Some people drained my energy if I was around them too long, but he lit me up.
After our class, we brought our food into the dining room, which looked way too fancy for my blackened steak.
“This is where I leave you. Scarlett, it was a pleasure.” Sebastian gave me a cordial cheek kiss. “Asher, I’m looking forward to next season. Here’s hoping Blackcastle wins the league.” He clapped Asher on the back again and flicked a glanceat my plate. He barely suppressed a wince. “Please, ah, enjoy your meal. Mr. Harris will bring out the wine.”
You’ll need it.He was too polite to say it, but I knew what he meant. My food was a disaster.
“Here,” Asher said when Sebastian left. He gestured for me to swap seats with him. “You take my meal, I’ll take yours.”
“No way.” I didn’t budge. “I’m not making you eat this.”
“So you’re going to eat it instead?”
“It’s not that bad. The salad is edible…I think.”