Seared (Cooking up a Celebrity Book 2)

by Hadley Harlin

  It was simultaneously relieving and horrifying. Her win meant one less ticket to Vietnam.

  The judges squared with all of us again. Then, “Bethany, I love the cook on the lamb. However, when you boil coconut water, it gets sickeningly sweet. We couldn’t get over the overall sweetness. Sorry, but India is the last stamp on your passport.”

  Everyone but Bethany let out a tense breath, the tension coil slowly unwinding in my chest. I’d survived to the final three.

  See? By focusing on food and not each other, Clara and I were both better. If that wasn’t a big, fucking I told you so, I didn’t know what was.

  Three hundred and fifty-nine days.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Liam

  Hanoi, Vietnam

  Standing on a fishing dock in the humid sunshine, my throat tasted as if dread had crawled into it and died. I knew absolutely nothing about Asian flavors, something I’d been aware of for months. I should’ve been studying and practicing this whole time, but unfortunately my dick got in the way. As a result, I’d barely sneaked by India. Vietnam would truly test me.

  The judge finished saying something about having to hunter-gather our protein to cook in the elimination. No shit. I kind of figured that out when they handed us these fishing poles and shrimp baskets.

  With only three of us left, nobody could afford to make a mistake. Today would decide whether Clara, Emma, or I would go on to the finale in Japan. There was only space for two.

  As soon as the judge yelled “Go,” I grabbed a shrimp basket and waded out into the lake. I had a grand plan, but it all depended on catching a couple of the little suckers. Emma and Clara, on the other hand, took the poles and began fishing like they’d both been born on a boat.

  Within minutes, they each had a collection of red snapper, white fish, and monkfish. Once they had enough, they ran back to the outdoor kitchen where an open fire roared in the crisp fall air.

  I stayed behind, struggling waist deep in the lake. All morning long, I had studied the shrimpers and their technique. I thought I’d had it down, but my basket kept getting stuck in the muck. A feeling of panic overcame me and the doubts began to creep in. I should have gone with fish. If I lost because I couldn’t catch a few goddamn shrimp, I was never going to forgive myself. Or eat shrimp again.

  Clara left her station and yelled at me from the shore. “I got enough fish if you want some,” she offered.

  “Go back and cook,” I growled, plunging the basket into the water again and again. “I don’t need your pity fish.”

  She stood, arms folded, looking like a warrior princess fisherwoman or something ridiculous like that. “It would be a shame to lose another life-changing opportunity over your stupid pride.”

  That got my attention. It was an oddly specific turn of phrase, and I could tell from the self-satisfied smirk on her face that it wasn’t an accident.

  “Stop being stupid,” she said, exasperated. She waded out into the lake to help me throw my basket farther.

  “Wait.” I stopped her hand.

  Something was splashing inside my basket, and when I looked down, I saw eight perfectly plump shrimp staring back at me. I whooped and ran for the banks. “I got my shrimp, so stop worrying, sweetheart.”

  Clara followed me, but she got stuck trying to climb the muddy banks of the lake. I looked at the fire. I was at least twenty minutes behind the girls. Clara’s fish were already roasting over the coals. But I threw my basket down and ran back to help her up the bank.

  The mud sucked us both ankle, then shin deep.

  “Grab onto my hand,” I yelled, slowly inching backward.

  She reached out and our fingers touched. A hot electric current shot down to my groin. I grunted, trying my best to ignore the want and need that touching her slippery, muddy fingers elicited, and yanked her next to me.

  I barely had time to gasp before she blasted past me, screeching about her fish. Shit, the competition. I followed in her wake, trying to shake myself back into the game.

  When I reached my basket, all of the little shrimp were trying to escape. I ran around, picking each one up by the tail and throwing them back in their wicker prison.

  “Twenty minutes to go!” the new judge shouted.

  Great. Twenty minutes to pull the best Vietnamese dish I’d ever made out of my ass. The only thing I really knew was fish sauce, lime, ginger, garlic. I grabbed some fresh turmeric from the spice rack as well as handfuls of mint, scallions, and cilantro from the produce basket.

  I quickly marinated the shrimp while I worked on a spicy garlic and chili oil to glaze them with. Then I roasted them over the flames. They plumped and glistened while the glaze made the skin crackle to a lacquered polish. I wished I had time to do a side dish or fry some crepes or boil rice, but I didn’t. I mounded a pile of fresh herbs and slices of fried ginger, before drizzling some more chili oil over the top, just as they called time.

  I held my hands up, briefly wiping the sweat off my forehead. My chest was heaving, but I didn’t think I did as poorly as the pasta round in Italy.

  Emma had done the crepes I wished I’d had time for—banh xeo. Unfortunately, they looked golden, crisp, and delicious. And as Clara described her whole roasted snapper with lemongrass, ginger, and coconut milk, I got a sinking feeling in my stomach. The feeling when you know your best isn’t good enough. The feeling of defeat.

  Three hundred and sixty-three days.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Clara

  Hanoi, Vietnam

  I could taste victory on my lips, and it was sweet. Sure, the money would be nice, but it was the title of winner that would change the course of my career. It was everything, and in comparison, Liam was nothing but a distraction. One that didn’t even want me.

  The dark, sadistic part of me wondered whether Liam didn’t want me anymore now that the novelty of my virginity was gone. Without it, I wasn’t interesting or skilled enough in bed to keep him around. I told that dark bitch to shut up regularly, but she liked to pop up at the most inopportune moments.

  We were in the middle of describing our dishes to the new judges, but I couldn’t help stealing glances at him. He was covered in mud from the lake and looking surly, as always. His turmeric-infused shrimp sounded delicious, but it was missing a component that would put it over the top. It also sounded a lot like the grilled prawns he’d done in India. Luckily for him, the new judges didn’t know that.

  I was a little worried for him, but at this point, it was him or me. Emma was obviously getting through with her banh xeo, that overachiever. Don’t ever choose someone perfect to be your best friend. It’s hard on your self-esteem.

  The judges made their rounds, tasting everything and groaning with pleasure at each of our dishes. As expected, they fawned over Emma’s dish and then huddled to confer. I felt my knees start to buckle. They were taking their time and being thoughtful. Too thoughtful. Where would my dish fall? Was it me, or was it Liam? What would happen next? Were we really… done?

  Sure, we’d both said things in the heat of the moment, but I didn’t want to be done. I wanted him, warts and all. God knew I wasn’t perfect. Pretty damn close, but not perfect. Just kidding. I was a mess.

  Even if I didn’t make it to Japan, I wanted him. That moment of perfect clarity smacked me in the face right as the judges finished their deliberations.

  Emma squeezed my hand. “Good luck!” she whispered.

  Somehow, I managed to squeeze her hand back. Words were stuck in my throat. Liam’s heavy presence next to me wasn’t helping. I could smell his mahogany scent and feel his energy pulsing through me, savoring the heat rising from below.

  We watched the judges take the slowest steps known to man, their poker faces giving away nothing. They stood a few feet from us, not smiling as the cameras panned to include the whole setting. A boom mike accidentally dropped, the camera operator trying to wipe his perspiration off his forehead in the hot, Vietnam sun.

 
“Thank you for your offerings, Chefs. It was a difficult task today, and you all performed admirably. We did have one favorite, however.”

  They clasped their hands and pointed. “Emma. Your white fish was delicately seasoned, and the banh xeo were perfectly crisp. Well done.”

  Emma’s hand twitched in mine. She bowed her head and walked to the side, leaving Liam and me to our fate. The judges waited as the cameras did a few obligatory close-ups of our terrified faces. It felt overly dramatic and a perfect representation of my swirling, chaotic feelings. Was it better to prove I could beat Liam and have a chance to win? Would Liam hate me or would he respect me?

  At this point, I couldn’t bear it any longer. I just needed to know.

  Here it came. My entire body tensed up, and my extremities went numb.

  “While both dishes had high points, there were obvious flaws. At the end of the day, the more complete dish with a nuance of Vietnamese flavors came from Clara. Congratulations, Chef, you’ll be moving on.”

  My body jolted, and I clasped a hand to my chest. “Oh my God.”

  Emma screeched and the judges smiled at me. Everything around me went blurry. I could barely make out the world, but I knew Liam was no longer next to me. He was moving away, leaving, walking out of my life.

  “Liam!” I called, wanting to touch him, comfort him, run after him. But he didn’t even turn around. He stalked off with only a polite nod in the direction of the judges. He didn’t make eye contact. He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t even pretend to care.

  I had no idea what expression I wore, but I was sure the cameras captured it perfectly and that, now, the whole world would know exactly what it looked like to win the battle but lose the war.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Liam

  Hanoi, Vietnam

  I packed up quickly and said goodbye to no one. Production had me sign some paperwork, including a standard NDA, and gave me a voucher for my airplane ticket home, but when I got to the airport, I stared at the departure board without a fucking clue. The blue digital screen ticking off cities, time zones, and departure gates looked overwhelming and ominous..

  New York wasn’t an option. Even if I wanted my old job, there was no way Marco would take me back at the diner. I’d broken the lease on my shitty apartment and had nothing left in my savings for a new one. I could stay with Mom in Michigan, but a root canal with no Novocain sounded better. Nothing against my mom, but returning home to lick my wounds was more than she or I could mentally handle.

  I’d let a woman get in my head and disrupt my cooking. No, that wasn’t accurate. I had let a woman take up permanent residence in my brain, fogging up my ability to think about anything else. This was my fault. This loss was on me.

  So I found a bench and sat down, prepared to spend the night at the airport, wake up at the airport, lose my mind at the airport. I’d never get her sweet smell out of my memory, so there was no other choice.

  Three hundred and sixty-four days.

  I watched a couple of young backpackers take up the entire airport bar with their shit. How dare they. As if nobody else in the world needed to sit at the bar and drown their misery in cheap vodka at 9:00 a.m. No wonder foreigners hated Americans. We were annoying fucks.

  I pulled out a stool next to them, watching their hoity-toity backpacks slump to the ground. They opened their mouth to protest, but when they saw my face, and probably my size, they decided to apologize instead. I won’t lie. It gave me some satisfaction, but it was nothing like the pleasure I was about to get.

  With a finger in the air, I called the bartender over. I could practically taste the fire burning in my mouth, and I salivated at the thought. “Double whiskey. Neat.”

  He raised an eyebrow. That was it. One little eyebrow was all that stood before me and whiskey. That and three hundred and sixty-four days of sobriety.

  He shook his head, like this sort of shit was miles above his pay grade and poured me a glass. And, like a true fucking connoisseur, I swirled and sniffed, keeping the rim two inches from my nose. I didn’t need to get face drunk. I needed to shit-faced drunk the proper way.

  Pro tip. If you want to avoid the burn down your esophagus and into your stomach, chew your damn whiskey. The burn is inevitable. The burn is what makes it whiskey. Let it burn.

  Swirl, sniff, sip, swish.

  Let it burn. Chew your whiskey.

  Swallow.

  Repeat.

  It won’t burn the second time, I promise. If you fuck up like a pussy and take a drink of water between your glasses of whiskey, you’ll have to start chewing your whiskey all over again. But you wouldn’t need water between whiskies, would you?

  Three doubles later, and I was nowhere near dulling the feeling of Clara’s head on my shoulder in the morning. Or the smell of her neck before I kissed it.

  The fucking backpackers were still there. Those fuckers. I banged my glass down, spilling the amber liquid, and jerked my head at them. All it took was eight shots for me to get chatty.

  “This little escapism you’re indulging in,” I said, pointing to all their crap, “will end the moment you get home. So, get your fucks out now, friends, before you learn how much you actually hate the way he snores in his sleep or the way she doesn’t roll the goddamn toothpaste up from the bottom. Is that so hard? What is so hard about rolling toothpaste?”

  The couple had the good sense to say nothing. They quietly paid their bill and left, taking their annoying-ass backpacks with them.

  Good riddance.

  Three hundred and sixty-four days between lapses.

  While I waited for inspiration to strike, the local news blared from the televisions over the bar. I wondered if I should switch from whiskey to something else? Maybe stumble into the streets of Vietnam and find some bootleg Xanax or, even better, a finger of coke to powder my nose with. Wouldn’t that be the burn I was looking for?

  The television switched to a press conference with Food & Dine’s logo papering the wall. One chair was placed at a long table with a bottle of water and a small microphone. Two seconds later, Hawthorne West walked up to the table and stood behind the microphone, not bothering to sit.

  I watched dumbly, wondering if I was at the hallucination drunk stage yet or if that was seriously Hawthorne West. What the hell was about to go down?

  And then he said the craziest shit. It was all about the rigged contest and gender equality and on and on and on, divebombing his career into fiery shreds for Chef Sato. For his grand finale, Hawthorne looked directly into the cameras. “I stand with Sophia Sato and all of the female contestants demanding fair contracts and equal pay. I am officially nullifying my contract to finish hosting this show. Thank you.”

  Hawthorne stalked off the stage and the television screens faded to black. Somewhere in the lizard part of my brain, I recognized the enormity of what Hawthorne had done. He was admitting the show was rigged. On international television. Standing in front of Food & Dine’s logo. His balls must barely fit in his jeans. He had to know that Food & Dine was going to crucify him. He had torpedoed his career for a woman.

  And what had I just done? Stalked off like a child without even saying goodbye because she’d beaten me in the game, then broken my sobriety in an epic tantrum any toddler would be jealous of.

  Although, if I was being honest—which I tried not to do too often—the problem wasn’t professional jealousy about getting out-cooked. The real reason was that I was in too deep. I didn’t believe this, whatever this was, could survive the transition home. It was all a fairy tale, and I’d never believed in those. So why waste our time? Or put my heart at risk? I was a walking disaster while the world was at Clara’s feet.

  I stumbled out of the airport, into the sun of Hanoi.

  Zero days.

  Chapter Thirty

  Clara

  Tokyo, Japan

  Emma held my hair back while I alternated between vomiting champagne and sobbing my brains out. Production had given us
a bottle of pink bubbly to celebrate being the final two. Neither of us guessed we’d get this far, but here we were: the last two standing after beating out tough, experienced chefs.

  I was so close to making a name for myself, and so close to not caring. Even the crew got a little unnerved by my meltdown. They stopped filming after the third flute, and Emma made them swear to delete the footage of my puking adventures in a Japanese toilet. That girl could sweet talk a lion into becoming a vegetarian.

  Not only had I lost Liam, I’d lost my good luck bandana. It was in Vietnam one day and not in Tokyo the next. I must have left it behind, but I could only muster enough grief to be sad about one thing. Liam took top billing.

  To be honest, part of me was starting to doubt this whole industry. I hated to admit it, but maybe Jackson was right. Maybe I didn’t belong here. If everyone was an asshole and got burnt out and never had time for a personal life or family, did I really want it? I’d always believe that I wanted to make a name for myself as a chef, but I guess if I’m being honest, I always pictured a husband and kids in the back of my mind too.

  Why was I even thinking about this? I didn’t have to decide my whole life right now! I just wanted to win this competition and start my life.

  Stupid Liam! It was my fault for letting him stalk into the picture. I didn’t know where he fit, but I sort of thought it’d be somewhere. Even after all of this bullshit. It was a competition. We’d been thrown in a pressure cooker and told to dance like little monkeys. Okay, so I was mixing metaphors, but I blamed that on the bubbly.

  I’d compromised by drinking myself senseless, half in celebration, half in despair. It had been fun at first, but Emma and I were quickly descending into the despair portion of the evening.