by Maggie Gates
“So you’re a suit,” she teased. “I gotta say, I’m a little surprised, Luke.”
“What do you do? What brought you out here?”
She trailed the tip of her finger around the rim of the glass bottle, and for once, seemed a little nervous. “I’m representing the company I work for at an event tomorrow and Friday.”
“And then?”
She smiled, “And then I’m going to LAX and catching a flight back to North Carolina.”
“Reaaalllllyyy,” I drew out. “What if I said I’d be out your way for business soon. Any chance I’d get to see you again?”
Maddie shook her head and it gutted me. “Probably not. I live in a little town on the coast. When I get back it’ll be Memorial Day weekend and that kicks off my busy season. Lots of tourists and all that.”
I shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal and I understood. Truthfully, I didn’t want to give in that easily. Someone had turned up the salsa music and people began to pair off and dance. I reached across the picnic table and offered my hand, “Dance with me?”
Maddie knocked back the rest of her Corona and slid her palm into mine and I led her out onto the asphalt. She rested one delicate hand on my shoulder and I put mine on her waist, leading her as we matched our steps to the swift rhythm of the bongos. With her pelvis glued to mine, she rolled her hips like she’d been dancing all her life. With one hand, I spun her away from me before dropping her down into a low dip. She had an unparalleled smile when I brought her back to her feet and kept us moving to the beat.
I leaned down and captured her lips with mine. My hands skated up and down her sides and when she breathed a quiet moan, I slid my tongue up against hers. We stopped dancing and I sensed her grip tighten on my bicep. I thrust my hands into her thick waves of hair, wrapping the silver and gold threads around my fingers as I kissed her like I was starving.
I held on to her hips as I walked backward, guiding her to the picnic table. I pulled her onto my lap as I sat down. She straddled my hips and settled the thin strip of denim between her legs up against my cock. “You’re a fucking dream, Maddie,” I growled softly as I tucked my head beneath her chin and kissed the dip of her collarbone. I felt the vibration of her laugh against her skin, and it sent sparks skittering between us.
The market lights overhead began to dim and I knew that the clock was about to strike midnight. Fine, it was closer to one in the morning, but who was counting? I wasn’t ready for Cinderella to turn into a pumpkin.
“I have an early morning,” she said as she rested her forehead on mine. “And you have to work the rest of the time that I’m here.” She rested her forearms on my shoulders and ran her fingers over the buzzed hair at the back of my neck. “But you have my number.”
“I’ll call you,” I said as I pecked her lips one more time and slid her off my lap. I adjusted myself without shame and cleared our empty plates off the table. I looked back at Maddie and saw her pull up a rideshare app on her phone. I took it out of her hands and slid it into the back pocket of her shorts, stealing one more squeeze of her ass. “And I’ll walk you home.”
“I’m not letting you in my room, Luke,” she said as a coy smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. She leaned in a little closer and teased, “No matter how much I want to.”
I leaned down and brushed my lips against the curve of her ear. My beard tickled her cheek and it made her giggle. “I will walk you home and kiss you goodnight.”
And I did just that. We made our way back to her hotel and stalled just outside the door to her room. “I had a great time with you, Maddie.”
“I did too.” Her cheeks were rosy and she looked down at her painted toes that were the same light blue as the sky. “Do you wanna…”
I was a little disappointed when she didn’t offer to let me in, but the alternative was the most fun I’d had with a woman in a long time. Hours passed as we sat on the floor outside her hotel room door and played twenty questions. Another hour went by and she fell asleep, curled up in my arms, resting against my chest.
I knew her favorite color was black. I knew that her eyes were gray like her mom’s—and that gray eyes were a rare genetic trait. I knew that she liked to bake and that she enjoyed falling asleep to serial killer documentaries. Maddie told me that she was an only child and her dad left when she was young.
I told her about my two older sisters and their obnoxiously large broods of very loud children. I told her how my parents had been married for nearly sixty years and that it both intimidated and inspired me. I told her about my Nonna who I loved more than anything. And when we ran out of words to say, we just sat there.
And it was perfect.
She’d mentioned that she had an early morning, so somewhere around three in the morning, I found her room key in her bag. I scooped her up into my arms, and carried her inside. She barely stirred and I doubted that she would even remember me bringing her in. I found a pad of paper on the bedside table and scribbled down a note, plugged her phone into the charger, and kissed her on the forehead before letting myself out.
5
———
MADELINE
Even though I had participated in culinary competitions before, Pastry Throwdown was the first televised baking challenge that I had ever competed in. Still, I wasn’t a stranger to working under pressure—I lived for it. I loved the rush of a slammed dinner service at Revanche. I loved the pressure stress of the wedding season when we cranked out massive, tiered cakes that would be served to thousands over the course of a single weekend. Time management was my superpower. I would crush this.
I told myself that it didn’t matter that I was running on very little sleep and had a slight hangover. I’d grab a catnap on the sofa in the dressing room between rounds while the judges did their thing.
Round one was a piece of cake. Literally. The challenge was to create a plated dessert that incorporated savory spices from a table full of secret ingredients. The saffron and chili powder spoke to me. Maybe it was the memory of gorging myself on incredible food with Luke last night, but those were the first two things I snatched off the table. I took another look at the clock and went back to the dishes that I was wiping down before I plated my spread. I lined up my flawlessly clean plates and swapped out my dirty gloves for a clean pair.
The pistachio sponge was the first thing to go down on the white porcelain. I had cut the light green cake into a delicate rectangle before topping it with a ribbon of saffron-honey mousse. The dark chocolate petals that I jazzed up with cayenne and chili powder swooped over the cake like a wing. I picked up the feather-light strands of cotton candy that I’d made from chili-infused caramel and placed them around the cake like a nest. When the judges tasted the heat and the sweet, they wouldn’t know what hit them.
The clock counted down the last ten seconds of the first round of competition. The judges filed in and took their seats at the table across the set. I gave each plate a discerning assessment before tossing my gloves in the trash and stepping away from my work table at the exact moment the final buzzer blared. Production assistants dove in like madmen to tidy up each one of our kitchens so that they were neat and clean for the next round. I felt the crinkle of a slip of paper in my pocket and smiled.
I had read it at least forty times before finally rolling out of bed, savoring the memory of dancing with Luke under the string lights. Kissing Luke while his hands were tangled in my hair. Talking with Luke until the night turned into morning. The vague memory of being carried into my hotel room and tucked into bed.
Maddie,
I hope I get to see you again.
That was the best night I’ve had in a long time.
I’ll call you soon. Sleep well, Beautiful.
-L
Assistants grabbed two of the plates that I had prepared and took them for close up shots before delivering them to the judging panel. I grabbed the third plate and joined the other three contestants in the line-up. My eyes scanned across th
e room from the host to the judges.
And then I saw him.
Every girl dreams about meeting her celebrity crush—running into them on the street and snapping a selfie. Maybe even being saved like a gorgeous damsel and having said celebrity crush sweep her off of her feet. Me personally? Let’s just say that me and the Hemsworth boys have had our fair share of imaginary meet-cutes. I’m not picky. I’d take any of them.
The thing is—every girl dreams about what they would do if they got to meet their celebrity crush, but no one dreams about what they’d do if they met their celebrity nemesis. And let me tell you—I have a celebrity nemesis.
Luca DeRossi. Celebrity chef, restaurateur, and grade-A-asshole. And he was sitting in front of me wearing a scowl that could be seen from space.
And ten hours earlier I had been sitting on his lap, clinging to him like a koala while his tongue was down my throat.
The tic in his jaw was flexing like one of those blow up creatures that undulate outside of used car dealerships. If he was thinking anything other than hatred, he did a damn good job of not showing it. Our eyes met for the briefest of seconds and his lips pursed into a thin line.
Okay, to be fair, he didn’t look like Luca DeRossi when I met him yesterday, and he very clearly introduced himself as Luke. His dark hair that he covered with a snapback last night was now impeccably styled—gelled and moussed to perfection. Gone was the beard and covered were the tattoos. He had traded his casual ripped jeans and t-shirt for his signature tailored Italian suit that probably cost more than my house. The Rolex on his wrist hid the first pieces of the sleeve of tattoos that I now knew was there. Why didn’t he show off his tattoos more? They were hot. Dammit, Maddie–get your shit together. You do not like this man. He’s worse than a serial killer. He’s Luca DeRossi. I’d go on an axe throwing date with Jack the Ripper before I’d ever let myself be alone with Luca again.
He had shaved his beard, leaving only a thin shadow in its place. I could see the sharp edges of his jaw and the cheekbones that made models everywhere weep with jealousy. Worst of all, that smile that turned my insides to a puddle of goo was nowhere to be found, and in its place was a scowl that had the room on pins and needles.
From the end of the line, Charissa cut her eyes over at me and for the first time, I realized that Luca’s vicious gaze hadn’t left me.
The host sensed the awkwardness and cleared his throat to begin his recap of the challenge and introduce the judges. I stood in line with a deathgrip on my plate. Luca sat stoically with his hands clasped on the table. His momentary surprise and vile reaction to my presence was quickly replaced with a snooty air of indifference. One by one, each competitor presented their plates to the judges. Sweet Betty Crocker–okay, so her name was actually Patty–went first, followed by Jeff, the loudmouth, and then Charissa.
When the host called me forward, I walked to the judging table, set my plate in the middle, and stepped back to the patch of tape that marked where I was supposed to stand for the critique. “My name is Chef Madeline Dorsey. I’m the executive pastry chef at Revanche in Beaufort, North Carolina.”
Something akin to shock or horror flashed in Luca’s eyes, but no one noticed. To everyone else, He was the Luca DeRossi—judgemental asswipe and belligerently critical dickhead. To me, he was Jekyll and Hyde. I’d seen the good person underneath, but it was all an act. He fucking played me, and for what—just to see the embarrassment on my face the next day when he inevitably ripped me a new one? Not today, Satan. Two could play that game.
Jenna Lachlan, the editor in chief of Patisserie Magazine, smiled and motioned to the plate, “This looks divine. Tell us about what you’ve created, Madeline.”
I took a shallow breath and steeled my nerves. “For round one I was inspired by the bold flavors of the chilis on the secret ingredient table and the luxury of saffron. On your plate you have a pistachio génoise with honey-saffron mousse, a spiced dark chocolate wing, and chili-caramel fairy floss.” I plastered on a polite smile, “Enjoy.”
Jenna dug right in while food blogger, Winston Nacey, picked up his plate and examined the aesthetic design of the dish. I forced myself to look at Luca. I wasn’t going to be scared off by a grumpy asshole the size of Alaska. He had his fork in his hand and was poking at the dessert like the mere presence of it in front of him was a disappointment. After what seemed like an eternity, he cut the tiniest slice of cake and mousse, broke off a shard of the chili chocolate, and sprinkled on a few strands of the spicy caramel cotton candy. He gave the bite one more look before deeming it worthy of going in his mouth.
Jenna and Winston were making indecent moaning noises as they scraped their plates clean. Luca chewed his one bite slowly, his jaw flexing with each motion. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed it down and chased it with a sip of water. He pushed his plate away ever so slightly to signal that he would not be going back for seconds.
“Wow, Madeline–just wow,” Jenna beamed. “Do you have another plate hiding back there because I’d eat this for breakfast, lunch, and dinner! The sponge was the perfect texture to contrast against the creaminess of the mousse. The saffron balanced the sweetness of the honey, and the dark chocolate with the chili and cayenne was the perfect mix of sweet and spicy.”
Winston leaned over the table and looked down at Jenna, “You didn’t even mention the best part–that cotton candy! What a concept! How did you do it?”
I let out a nervous breath and smiled for the cameras. “I made the chili infused caramel, cooled it on a silicone sheet, and then ground the hardened caramel into a fine powder in a food processor before spinning it in the centrifuge to get the caramel grains to form cotton candy strands.”
“Ingenious and impressive that you were able to put together such a well formed dessert in just forty-five minutes. Phenomenal job, Madeline,” Winston said as he popped his fork in his mouth one more time to savor the last traces of the dish.
All eyes turned to Luca who was seated in the middle of the panel. He took one last look at the plate in front of him before turning his full focus to me. He cleared his throat and I felt my pulse beginning to race. I looked down to make sure my knees weren’t locked. The last thing I wanted to do was pass out in front of his nemesis-ness. My knees weren’t locked, but I shifted my weight from foot to foot just to make sure.
“Madeline,” he began, saying my name as if the concept of it was totally foreign to him. “Tell me, what inspired you to use the chilis?”
I knew what he was doing. He was trying to get in my head and make me lose focus all while pretending that he didn’t have a care in the world. Well, guess what, Buster—I’m not falling for it. “They’re a versatile ingredient. They pair well with a lot of different sweet components. If part of my dish didn’t work in production, I wanted to make sure I had chosen secret ingredients that would allow me to quickly reorient the direction of my dish to keep from losing any more time.”
“So what I’m hearing is that you couldn’t make up your mind and went with the easiest ingredient to work with,” he clipped.
I cracked a smile, “Work smarter, not harder. With the clock ticking, I didn’t want to back myself into a corner.”
There was a twitch at the corner of his mouth and for a fleeting second I thought that maybe he would smile. That hope was crushed because he stifled any show of emotion—positive or otherwise. Luca sat back in his seat and bore into me with his gaze. “It was nice, Madeline,” he said in the most patronizingly placid tone possible.
Yep. I was going home in round one because I just so happened to make out with the asshole judge.
✽✽✽
Charissa went home after the first round and to say I was shocked would be an understatement. Sweet Betty Crocker and Jeff with the big mouth survived to battle it out in round two. Patty was a surprisingly fierce competitor. She had the charm of a grandma mixed with the venom of a copperhead. Out of the three of us, she was the one cussing up a storm and it made me lau
gh.
Round two was much of the same. Jenna Lachlan and Winston Nacey sang my praises and Luca looked at me like I was a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of his very fancy shoes. At least Jeff got eliminated after his macarons came out cracked. What that moron was thinking, trying to make macarons in thirty minutes, was beyond me. I barely beat the clock in round two, but my hazelnut gelato with a crispy tuile cookie and warm pear compote won the judges over. Well, at least the two that weren’t evil in the flesh.
“Man, that Chef DeRossi sure has it out for you, cupcake,” Patty said as we walked back to the dressing room for a short break before the last round.
I ripped the ponytail out of my hair and scratched the sore spots on my head. I unbuttoned the first two buttons on my chef whites to give me a little more breathing room. Two rounds of competition, forty-five and thirty minutes each, was actually hours of filming. The constant resetting of the kitchens, having us say the same damn thing over and over, listening to the host practice his stupid zingers—it was enough to drive a sane woman mad.
“Don’t I know it,” I groaned as I sunk down into the couch and put my feet up on the coffee table. “He’s an asshole.”
Patty snorted, “A good looking asshole if there ever was one.”
That made me giggle a little, “I guess you’re right.”
“So what fresh hell do you think they’re gonna spring on us for the last round?” She asked as she grabbed a bottle of water out of the mini fridge and guzzled it down. “Bake a cake in a coffee pot? Cut all the cords to the stand mixers and force us to make buttercream with a hand whisk?”