Seared (Cooking up a Celebrity Book 2)

by Hadley Harlin

  Needless to say, I was regretting almost every life choice I’d made since the wheels went up on the plane. As subtly as possible, I lifted an arm and smelled. The situation wasn’t completely desperate, but I really should’ve showered the stink of booze and stress sweat off my body. Instead, I chose to collapse into bed for the few hours before our first meeting with production.

  Even though I was bone-tired from the trip, my sleep was anxious even in my dreams. I woke up no less than four times in two hours. It almost felt worse getting bad sleep than no sleep, and I needed to be at the top of my game.

  This was my chance to prove myself to my peers and the world, and I planned to kick ass and take names. Once the world saw my talent firsthand, offers with all the best chefs and top restaurants would roll in. I’d have my pick of the culinary world.

  Next, I’d use my connections to land business partners to front my restaurant, which would amass three Michelin stars in only its second year. That, of course, would allow me to do what I really wanted: buy a Harley and a food truck and travel wherever the road led.

  Mostly, though, I just didn’t want to go home on the first challenge.

  I looked around the hotel lobby. I hadn’t seen Emma yet, but the rest I knew by reputation. Really big ones. The egos in this competition were barely going to fit in the kitchen, let alone work together there. I knew I could run with the big dogs. The CIA’s prestigious and world-renowned program had prepared me for the worst, and I was hot off the grill. I may have been the youngest, but I knew my way around the pointy end of a knife.

  Being young meant I had more to prove.

  When the elevator dinged open again, a man swaggered out. By his overconfidence alone, I would have dismissed him—if it wasn’t for the fact that I recognized him immediately.

  Jackson Pell!

  He wore his chef’s jacket a size too small to make his muscles bulge and a grin to wet panties.

  He’d recently won this year’s Best New Chef in New York—a highly coveted award. I’d watched him on the live stream, vowing next year it would be me.

  Jackson’s voice pulled me out of the daydream. “Take a picture, princess. It’ll last longer.” He chuckled, and I wanted to melt into the ground. Or punch his fucking lights out. How dare he try to embarrasses me in front of all of my peers? One award didn’t give him the right to be a dick.

  Jackson’s eyes dropped from my face to my tits. “For you, though, I’ll sign whatever body part you offer.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling self-conscious heat in every beat of my body. “I’m here for the competition.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yeah, no shit.”

  Jackson’s eyes ran the length of my body. “Well, things just got more interesting.”

  Instead of feeling pleased that Jackson Pell was impressed, all I felt was ick. He was a total bro. The douchy kind.

  Jackson roved his eyes across my chest once more, letting them linger. He didn’t even try to hide it. He was hot shit in the culinary world right now, and he knew it. Confidence was sexy, but there was something about that leer.

  Next to us, the elevator dinged again, and my heart jumped. Unfortunately, it wasn’t Emma, and the man who walked out didn’t help my heart calm down, either. If there was a better interpretation of tall, dark, and broody, I hadn’t seen it.

  This guy took tortured artist to a new level with his permanent scowl and an intricate set of black and white tatts running down his arms. He was built like a professional athlete, perhaps an NFL quarterback. He looked too muscled and dense to be a chef. Maybe he’d been a butcher in a previous life.

  He stepped into the lobby and stared everyone down with his startlingly clear green eyes. Even with his floppy hair, he looked like a stereotypical bad boy chef with his broody disposition and his strong jaw covered in stubble. It took one look at him to know he carried a huge chip on his shoulder, angry at the world for his woes. That made him a dangerous opponent, like a starving and desperate predator in the wild.

  For a moment, he caught my stare and gave me one back. It sent shivers rippling down my body, and for some inexplicable reason—okay, yes, I knew why—the lady in charge downstairs heated up. I may have been a virgin in sex, but I wasn’t a virgin in masturbation.

  Finally, Emma walked into the lobby, and everyone’s eyes followed her. Except for tall, dark, and broody, like he wasn’t worried about the competition and didn’t feel the need to size every contestant up to his standards. Or maybe, knowing my luck, he wasn’t into girls.

  The second Emma found me, she rushed over and held my hands.

  “Be cool,” I said under my breath.

  She winked in return, but inside we were both jumping up and down and squealing. “Consummate professional,” she assured me.

  Now that everyone was assembled, two camera operators came over and began getting first introductions. We had to introduce ourselves to each other with cameras rolling. A drizzle of sweat rolled down my arm as I waited for my turn. Nobody misspoke or acted nervous—until they got to me. I stumbled over my own name.

  My own freaking name.

  I didn’t have a restaurant, an award, or an accolade to proudly announce, either. One of the dudes was actually the official executive chef to the state of Mississippi. I mean, what? Was that even a real thing?

  “Why don’t we try that again,” production said.

  I cleared my throat. “Clara Romero, Staten Island. I just graduated from the CIA, so this will be my first time cooking outside of the school environment.”

  Most nodded politely, but I saw Jackson roll his eyes. I wondered if the cameras caught it, too.

  Talk, dark, and broody introduced himself as Liam Long. Nothing more, nothing less. We weren’t sure whether to take that as intimidating or laughable. Emma gave me a raised eyebrow, and I tried not to snort since the cameras were rolling.

  My heart wouldn’t stop banging against my rib cage as the rest of the cast introduced themselves, briefly stating their hometowns and where they were currently employed. Everyone had so much street cred in real, live, humming restaurants. Except for me.

  I was clearly the youngest and most inexperienced. Even Emma had at least worked in a professional restaurant. I was so green I could be Kermit the Frog. It had literally been three months since I’d graduated.

  That overwhelming reality sank in, and I clammed up, barely nodding as the cast chatted about, well, all sorts of stuff I didn’t listen to because my courage had vacated and left me a shivering shell. My limbs were rapidly liquefying. At this point, I just wanted to make it to the bistro, throw up in the bathroom, wipe my mouth, and call my mom.

  Was that too much to ask?

  The moment the huge sixteen-seater van pulled up to ferry us over to Le Chat Rose for our first challenge, all talking ceased. Nerves flitted through the bus like a plague of butterflies, and no one was immune. I wondered if it would get better or worse as the competition went on. Some of the unknown would be taken out of the equation, but the stakes would get higher.

  Visualize yourself as a winner. See yourself at the end, holding that check, I told myself, but instead, I conjured up an image of myself serving an empty plate to the judges.

  So much for that technique.

  We filed into the bistro, blinking away bright dots of light as we entered the dark, smoky interior. A man and woman welcomed us inside, but I didn’t recognize them right away. Until Emma grabbed my hand again, and I heard her sharp intake of pain.

  “Oh shit,” I said, looking anxiously at my friend. It was Hawthorne West. While I felt bad immediately for my friend, there was a little disloyal part of me that couldn’t help but think hot damn. That man was even sexier in person. And if Emma’s descriptions were even half accurate, she really missed out on the guy. My stomach was already dipping down into my nether regions at the deep resonance in his voice.

  I didn’t recognize the woman, but Hawthorne made her sound like a c
ooking goddess, and I didn’t doubt him. She oozed confidence and coolness. I did not want to let her down.

  But Hawthorne was the yummiest human being I’d ever had the immense pleasure to lay eyes on. He had some serious Fuck Me Vibes. Not that I knew what that would be like, but I would not mind learning from him.

  To be honest, it looked like that was what he wanted to do to Chef Sophia Sato. They had some capital C Chemistry. Either that, or he was considering murdering her. Hard to tell.

  My heart went out to Emma. She still had feelings for Hawthorne, and we had no idea the size or scope of the challenges yet. Only that our competition was tough. If she didn’t get it under control, the added complexity of her broken emotions would hamstring her. She’d lose before she’d even begun.

  We fidgeted nervously as the crew finished sound tests and had us do introductions a second time. I adjusted my bandana one more time for luck and sharpened my knives. I couldn’t stop fidgeting during Chef Sato’s instructions. She held cards with classic French bistro dishes on them and we had to pick two. Then, she revealed we’d not only have to make one, cohesive dish from the two cards, but modernize and update the classics as well, and I wanted to puke. Seriously. Thank God I hadn’t been able to eat anything since landing.

  “And your time starts now,” Chef Sato announced.

  Emma kissed me on the cheek before racing off to find her ingredients and muscle her way through the kitchen. I waited another second, taking it all in, before realizing I wasn’t here as a spectator.

  “Shit!” I yelled, grabbing my basket and following Emma into the fully stocked pantry where somebody promptly hip checked me into a bowl of onions. I went down hard, rolling across the floor. I popped up ready to cuss someone’s shit out, rolling cameras be damned, but whoever had assailed me had disappeared into the chaos.

  All I could say about the challenge was that sometimes blackouts could be a blessing. After the onions, the whole thing passed in a complete blur. I vaguely remembered trying to confit duck in a ridiculous amount of time. I made fresh pasta—it’s the Italian in me—and tried not to pass out.

  The only thing I remembered clearly was Liam stalking around the kitchen like a predator. It wasn’t as if he were stalking me like Jackson was. That fucker bumped into me on purpose so he could feel me up at least twice. Liam, on the other hand, ignored everyone around him, but he moved with brute force, as if the kitchen was his prisoner. He chopped and sliced and growled, mixing his heat and intensity with those of the kitchen.

  “Three, two, one,” Hawthorne counted down. “Hands up!”

  I looked down at my plate. I felt I did okay. Not the best, but not the worst. As the judges went around and examined each dish, I could tell they already had frontrunners.

  Not only had Jackson done the best, but he’d blown us all out of the kitchen. To me, tartare was a cop-out, but whatever. Part of me wondered who he’d fucked to win Best New Chef. A really cynical part of me.

  It didn’t help my mood when Chef Sato criticized my sauce, but at least Hawthorne liked it. At least, he said he did, and he even took seconds, staring deeply into my eyes as he savored it. I hoped he meant it, but my confidence was too shaken to be sure. It was possible he only said that to piss Chef Sato off.

  Afterwards, the judges dropped the real bomb on us. The three worst chefs would face another challenge tomorrow. It must have been adrenaline or my naiveté, but I raised my hand. “Wait, who are the three chefs cooking?”

  Chef Sato smiled. “You’ll know tomorrow. Everyone but Jackson should come prepared to cook.”

  The tension ratcheted up a thousand degrees. We tried not to look around or make eye contact, but I knew tonight was not going to be fun. We walked out of the kitchen and rode the bus to the hotel in near silence.

  Chapter Four

  Liam

  Paris, France

  Fuck that guy. I knew a tool when I saw one, and Jackson Pell should have his own aisle at Home Depot. Frankly, it was shocking his enormous ego could fit through the door. He’d worked for some top chefs in both the U.S. and Europe, but that didn’t mean shit. So had I. Once upon a time.

  The young one, Clara, scooted around uncomfortably. The women were clearly chosen for their tits and not their talent. She oozed hot, virginal innocence, but I wasn’t impressed with her skill set. Not yet. It used to be part of my job to size up and train prospective chefs, and she was too green.

  Her handmade pasta was fairly impressive, but she shouldn’t have tried to confit duck in ninety minutes. No one could. It was the trick embedded in the challenge.

  Despite that, I couldn’t stop looking. She didn’t quite seem real with her olive skin, glossy black hair, and Tinker Bell body. How did she even reach the top shelf in a kitchen?

  “Who do you think has to cook tomorrow?” she asked the group timidly, clearly wanting to hear that it wouldn’t be her.

  Jackson laughed. “Listen, princess. This show is going to eat you alive. Go open a little bakery and save yourself the embarrassment. Your sauce was heavy as fuck and everyone knew it.”

  There were guffaws and snickers as Clara flared bright red. For once, I found myself feeling slightly bad about the words coming out of someone else’s mouth.

  “Hawthorne liked it,” she said, her voice even softer than usual.

  Jackson snorted. “What Hawthorne likes is to flirt with anything that has holes. He was clearly doing it to piss off Sato.”

  Clara bowed her head and fiddled with her thumbs. She didn’t say another word, and it made my chest twist. Jackson might be right, but what the fuck? Who goes around saying that sort of shit?

  Clara was young. She was going to realize how shitty this industry was sooner or later. The rat race for coveted awards and Michelin stars wasn’t for the faint of heart. That didn’t mean assholes like Jackson needed to make her feel like shit about herself. Even if it was true. That sauce did look heavy as fuck. Who puts foie gras in pasta sauce?

  I was right. Clara was on the bottom. We watched in pure, dead relief as she, Ava, and Ben scrambled to make macarons, thanking our lucky asses that it wasn’t us. No self-respecting savory chef enjoyed doing pastry.

  Maybe it was the fact I knew I could beat her in the end. But I found myself rooting for Clara. She at least threw her heart into her cooking. She was too young to know any better.

  She didn’t understand yet how jading and demoralizing this business could be. How the vast majority of chefs would end up alcoholics and druggies, not the celebrity chef with endorsements and shiny cookware etched with their names. She didn’t know it yet, but she would.

  From my vantage point, her macarons looked technically perfect. They had raised feet and were uniform in size. My eyes wandered from her plate down to her perfectly round little ass. From this vantage point, her body looked technically perfect, too. Those tits were so plump and her nipples poked so hard out of her tight T-shirt that it wasn’t hard to imagine muzzling her mouth while I fucked her. I wasn’t positive that she was a virgin, but you could smell inexperience from across the room. In all matters.

  Too bad I didn’t fuck virgins.

  Jackson leaned over and whispered, “How tight do you think that pussy is?”

  I cringed. Sure, I’d been thinking it, too, but hearing it out loud from somebody I barely knew felt disgusting. I didn’t even offer him a pity laugh. I glared.

  Jackson scoffed at my icy look. “Like everyone isn’t thinking it. Clara’s such a fucking joke, but I guess even production knew we needed some eye candy.”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  Jackson’s temper burned. “Okay, dickface.”

  “Real creative,” I replied, turning back to watch the judges take a bite of Clara’s cookies and nod their heads.

  “Softie survives,” he commented.

  My temper pulsed in my neck, rising to a boiling point. To calm it down, I watched Clara’s adorable smile and the way she looked down and fidgeted, knowing cameras
and eyes were all on her. It was so goddamn innocent and pure. She was a breath of fresh air in an industry that ate your soul and shit out your pride.

  I could feel myself flipping my views in the space of 0-to-Macaron, but I was helpless to stop it. Clara was disarming me in ways I couldn’t comprehend. Her dark, liquid brown eyes were like a baby calf’s, beguiling me into wanting to protect her. Or maybe I was sick of hearing tools like Jackson say and do whatever they wanted without consequences.

  After tasting the other two contestants’ cookies, the judges gathered everyone in front of them.

  “Ben, I’m sorry, but Paris is the last stamp on your passport,” Chef Sato said, wincing. At least she realized how cheesy that sounded.

  Ben gave everyone a handshake and gamely smiled his way off camera.

  “Our next stop around the world is known for their many wursts, schnitzel, and sauerkraut, so keep that in mind on your travels,” Hawthorne told us. “Auf wiedersehen!”

  Perfect. I’d grown up cooking classic German food. This round was mine. I couldn’t help but sneak another peek as Clara ripped off her bright yellow bandana. Her fingers shook as she packed up her knives, her large brown eyes filling with tears. Jackson was right about one thing. That girl was going to get eaten alive.

  I should be happy. It was one less contestant to worry about on my way to the finale. Typically, it annoyed me when someone got emotional in the kitchen. It was fucking food, not brain surgery. But Clara was pure in a way I hadn’t been for years. I didn’t want someone like Jackson fucking that up and stealing her innocence.

  Guys like that took advantage of the testosterone-fueled cooking environment, constantly harassing any women who tried to make a decent career on the line. Like they were so threatened by female excellence that they lashed out in sexually aggressive ways. When I worked in executive kitchens, I’d seen enough bullshit to make my stomach turn.