“At least I won’t have memories screaming at me from everywhere,” I slurred. “Like those people who can’t hear a song without sobbing or look at their bedroom rug or go back to a favorite restaurant. We never made those memories.”
“That’s right. Good thinking,” Emma agreed.
Okay, sure. I couldn’t go back to Paris. Or that little hotel in the Swiss Alps. Or San Gimignano. Or the Maramara in Istanbul. Shit, that was a lot of cool places. The memory of us behaving like bunnies around the world invaded my drunken mind. The feel of his hands over my breasts. His stubble rubbing against my lips—yes, all of them. His lusty green eyes. The way his bulge sprang from his pants the minute I tugged them down.
It was too much to take.
“I should call him, shouldn’t I?”
All three of the Emmas sitting in front of me frantically shook their heads in unison. Clearly, none of them were in a state of mind to think clearly.
“Wait, I don’t even have his phone number!” I moaned. “God, I’m such an idiot.”
Each of the Emmas soothed me at once. “You’re not an idiot. And you don’t owe him anything. He left without a goodbye. He owes you first contact. Take it from me.”
“I’m never drinking again,” I groaned, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
Emma snorted.
“Okay, fine. I’m never drinking pink champagne again.”
“That’s more like it. See, you already sound more reasonable.” She helped lift me off the ground and started running a warm shower. “Let’s get you cleaned up and put you to bed. We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”
I couldn’t help but start giggling uncontrollably as she undressed me. “We’re competing against each other tomorrow for a million billion gazillion dollars. And you’re taking my bra off.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“You could totally sabotage me. Or seduce me. I miss being seduced.”
“Your sex life is not over. Right now, you need to focus on food.”
Emma adjusted the water temperature, and I sighed as the water cleansed my soul. Then, Emma wrapped me in a fluffy towel that smelled like cherry blossoms. It was impossibly soft. Like Liam’s hair. And his ass.
“Why is his ass so soft?” I begged Emma. “That’s weird, right? Do you think he moisturizes? That’s not normal dude behavior, right?”
Emma shushed me, curling my hair into a wet ponytail. “Just focus on food,” she repeated. “I’m this close to offing you to put us both out of our misery.”
“Yeah,” I mumbled. “Food. Concentrate.”
I needed to kill it tomorrow. Although me killing it meant killing Emma’s dream. There was no reason she shouldn’t win. Maybe I should bow out. I felt like it. I felt drained.
And then I felt nothing as I passed the fuck out.
The glare of the cameras’ lights beamed hotly, reflecting off of the aluminum countertops and into my hungover eyes. We were in the last restaurant for the finale, and they had followed my every move, whether it was the sweat dripping down my chin, or almost shaving an inch off my knuckle, or the way I scorched a pot of water. Who burns water? More importantly, who deserves to win a cooking competition who can’t even boil water?
This was all my bandana’s fault. Which, I guess, made it mine. People probably wouldn’t even recognize me. They’d see the final two and ask, who? I’d swiped the red lipstick on extra dark to compensate.
There wasn’t any time to comb the streets of Tokyo, thanks to my late night with the pink bubbly. It took the thirty minutes I had before call time on our sheets to try to resurrect myself from the nearly-dead. Mostly, it took coffee, aspirin and concealer. An egregious amount of all three.
I’d barely managed to make it to the arena before cameras rolled. I had no idea we’d have a full, studio audience for our finale. They were seated stadium-style around the kitchen, and I spent a good ten minutes trying to ignore them during sound checks.
Now it was time for the last challenge. We’d already completed the first round, which Emma took, of course.
The judges had asked us to make a dish with miso that had nothing to do with soup. I’d done fresh pasta with a miso-cilantro pesto. They appreciated how I brought my Italian roots to the dish, but Emma had done a lightly dressed faux-Caesar salad with miso dressing and miso-glazed salmon with toasted black sesame seeds that made their eyes roll in the back of their heads.
Now, my head was pounding, and I couldn’t stop shaking. I couldn’t tell if it was the hangover or the moment. It didn’t help that Japan was totally intimidating. They had the most Michelin stars in the world since beating out France in 2010, and they showed no signs of stopping.
“For your final challenge, you will have sixty minutes to create a beautiful four-course tasting menu in the tradition of a Kaiseki meal. All of our modern tastings menu started with Kaiseki. People pay upwards of a thousand dollars for one Kaiseki meal. While there can be many courses, elements, history, and choices, we will leave it up to you and your interpretations. There are no restrictions. But just like the masters of Kaiseki, your four courses must balance all of your elements into a harmonious whole by the end.”
I searched for my steel nerves, but all I found was my stomach somewhere around my toes. One hour and four dishes. That was all that stood between me and victory. Or me and defeat.
The judge addressed Emma. “For your advantage, you will have an extra five minutes in the kitchen. Use your time wisely. On your mark, get set, go!”
My fingers twitched around my knife bag as I was forced to watch Emma and her red hair stream into the kitchen and gather her ingredients. In seconds, she had already begun to whip up a tempura batter for a traditional fried course. I forced myself to stop watching and use my time wisely. Even if I couldn’t cook, I could think. I began laying out the courses in my head. Kaiseki masters spent a lifetime perfecting their art. I had five minutes.
This was about impressing the judges and showing how far I’d come on this journey. I may have been the youngest, but that meant I had more room to grow. I could do this.
First, a fried tempura batter for crispy prawns, lightly salted.
Next, my signature move with a Japanese twist: freshly made uni pasta. It would be like a Japanese carbonara with sea urchin. I would put uni in both the cream sauce and lay out two bright orange pieces of the sea urchin fresh from their prickly black shells. Maybe I’d even serve a mound of the pasta right in the shell for a deep contrast of colors.
Like in Italy, I’d do meat for the third course. Maybe tataki. I could quickly sear a nice cut of Japanese Wagyu beef, leaving the inside rare, then marinate it. At the thought of Wagyu, an image of Liam seared into my mind. Brooding, dark, in pain.
No. I could not think of him. I needed to focus. He left me. He left me without saying a fucking word.
Marinade. What about the marinade? After I seared it, I’d let it sit in a ginger and soy marinade. Classic. With a blistered scallion and ponzu dipping sauce.
I drummed my fingers on the table next to me. I’d need a big finish. Something sweet to show my range. I wanted them to know I could do more than cook; I could bake, too. Maybe some type of egg custard. Maybe yuzu. The fruit was very similar to a lemon.
The Japanese liked to steam their savory egg custards in cups, but I could steam my version in the eggshell and top each with a Matcha green tea truffle.
By the time the judges allowed me to race into the kitchen, I had already formulated my list of ingredients and what order I would need to begin everything. Custards first. They’d need time to set up.
The sixty minutes passed in a blur of fried oil, kitchen shears, and pasta dough, but I felt completely at peace. I knew my choice in courses was inspired. It boasted a natural progression of flavors and textures.
“Three, two, one,” the judges announced.
I sprinkled a last flurry of salt over my tempura prawns and put my hands in the air.
“
Time is up, Chefs! Please put down your utensils and step away.”
Emma came over and gave me a bear hug as the adrenaline whooshed through me. It was over, and I hadn’t made a fool of myself.
I glanced at Emma’s Kaiseki courses. For once, it looked like she’d made a mistake. Her plating had been rushed, and she had fried two things instead of preparing a dessert course. Maybe her advantage had actually been her downfall. She had raced in guns blazing without having those five extra Zen minutes of menu planning. I squeezed her hand again. No matter what, we needed to come out of this together.
Emma gave me a small smile and squeezed back.
We waited expectantly, but the judges didn’t move closer to try our food. Instead, they smiled and gestured toward the door. Uh-oh. This didn’t feel right. Something was coming. Something bad.
The cameras panned over to simultaneously catch who walked in and our reactions. It did not disappoint.
My mouth legitimately dropped open as all of the terminated contestants filed into the restaurant. Then my stomach bottomed out as Liam kept perfect eye contact, watching only me as he took his place in a line in front of us. His face betrayed nothing. The only one not present was Jackson.
I’d berated myself, dressing this morning as if Liam might actually watch the finale on television in a few months. I knew he probably wouldn’t. It would have been painful for so many reasons. But maybe he could have. Now, I thanked all the fashion gods that I’d chosen a chic skirt that showed off my legs and went perfectly with my sensible flats. I had on a sexy low-cut shirt, too, but that was covered by my chef’s coat.
Liam wore a fitted shirt that bulged at his biceps and shoulders, and while most of that moment was hazy, the one thing that stuck out was his scruff. He’d shaved. It was like he was so desperate to forget every single moment I’d run my fingers through his stubble that he changed his entire face.
The only blessing was that they waited until we were done cooking to throw this twist at us. If Liam had watched me cook, I might have cut my thumb off. My hands shook, and I fumbled the plates knowing he was there watching me.
The Japanese judge cleared her throat.
“Since your original judges are no longer available, the finale will be tasted and critiqued by your peers. They know your work best and are in a better position to judge the winner of such a momentous competition. Please, begin by telling them what you’ve created and the order they should eat it.”
My tongue shriveled up in my suddenly dry mouth. Shit. All of these bitter, grudge-filled assholes were going to decide who won? Everyone knew I’d been in the bottom a billion times. And the fire in Liam’s eyes promised his vote was already going to Emma. I bet he’d vote Jackson over me, if it were a choice.
I was so screwed.
Chapter Thirty-One
Liam
Hanoi, Vietnam
Thirty-six hours ago, I woke up in the airport, my head on fire. It felt like the beginnings of some clichéd, emo boy band anthem. I woke up in an airport, fuzzy-mouthed, and full of regret. Bum, bum, bum. I woke up in an airport, thinking of you.
Zero days.
That evening, I’d been scouring Vietnam for the most illegal and banned substances I could find, when Food & Dine called with the bright idea to let the six eliminated contestants decide the winner, and since the original judges, Sophia Sato and Hawthorne West, were no longer available, they asked us to attend the finale. Instantly, I stopped my search and called my sponsor. He didn’t have to, but he hopped a flight to Hanoi immediately and cleaned me up the hard fucking way. At least it was only alcohol. At least I hadn’t had time to find anything else.
I scanned the screens for a flight to Japan. All I could picture was her long hair, barely covering her breasts as she stood naked, completely trusting and willing in front of me. She had given me her heart, and I had run away with it.
The specifics were admittedly foggy at the moment, as was most of the world, but I wouldn’t let her finish this competition without telling her it was my fault. Everything. I wouldn’t just walk away. Even if she didn’t want me back, at least I could apologize.
I hated to admit it, but hope also flared in my chest. A human could live on hope alone. It filled you up like a balloon until there was nothing black inside. So I let it stay.
Thirty-six hours ago, I woke up in the airport, and I left my self-pity behind for hope.
Tokyo, Japan
My body hummed as I waited with the rest of the cast to enter the kitchen arena. A large, digital clock ticked down the remaining sixty seconds.
Jackson was the only one not there. Apparently, he’d hastily declined after gossip, no doubt leaked by Hawthorne and Sato, painted him in the slimy stalker-light he deserved.
The moment I saw her, my breath hitched in my chest. With her white chef’s coat, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, and her hair tied in a messy bun, she looked like Edesia, the Roman goddess of feasts. A little golden horn necklace twinkled at the base of her neck, perfectly highlighting her olive skin. She looked way more delicious than any meal ever could, although I was impressed by her dish, too. Not one morsel was out of place.
We lined up in front of them, full of memories and regrets. We must have looked like avenging angels come to decide their fates. I picked up my chopsticks, ready to be open to either woman. No bias here.
Emma and Clara each explained their dishes while we politely tasted in front of them. A few of us asked questions about seasonings and cooking temperatures, but it was insanely awkward, and we all knew it. I slurped her noodles, as was Japanese custom, and crunched her tempura. Her last course was sweet, which Emma hadn’t even attempted.
Finally, the guest judges called us over to discuss. “We’d like each of you to cast your vote out loud in front of the contestants and tell us why you’re making your decision. Everything is transparent here.”
It took everything in me not to laugh in their faces. Transparent. Right. So this was about Hawthorne’s little stunt. Food & Dine didn’t appreciate being accused of rigging the winner. Fine. I’d play their little game, but only because Clara deserved the truth.
Ava and Bethany went first. They both cast their vote for Emma due to one element on the plate. What a fucking cop-out. Yes, Emma’s tempura was delicate and the dipping sauce complex, but she’d done it twice. Where was the creativity? She hadn’t pushed herself or the boundaries of Kaiseki.
Pierce was next, but as he opened his mouth, I stepped forward. “If I may interrupt for a second?”
Pierce gave me a funny look, but he stepped back into line.
“Thanks.” I nodded at him. Then I turned and stared into the lights like a man about to get run over by a train. I had made the decision to step forward without thinking, and I wasn’t quite sure yet what I was going to say. But I knew I couldn’t stand there and let this moment pass.
I cleared my throat. “What is this competition about?” I asked, looking at the other eliminated contestants. “Is it about flavor or popularity? Is it about growth or getting by? We watched day after day as Clara struggled—”
I heard an indignant squeak but didn’t want to risk looking in Clara’s direction. One glance in her fiery eyes, and I’d lose all ability to speak.
“But country after country, she found herself slowly rising to the top. At only twenty years old, she soaked up each cuisine we visited and it led her here: to this masterful take on Japanese cuisine with her own Italian spin. Which is exactly what the challenge was about. Her flavors spark on the plate, inviting you for more. It’s a perfect balance of salt, acid, and fat. The textures complement each other, and she did this all in one hour. This isn’t the Clara who served a heavy foie gras cream sauce in the first challenge. This is a Clara who has embraced the journey and has learned how to translate it into her own style.”
I stopped, waiting for one of the other contestants or production to challenge me, but no one did. They were captivated, hanging onto my every word. �
��I don’t know what any of you were doing at twenty, but I sure as shit wasn’t cooking like that.” I pointed to her Kaiseki. “This is your dark horse. This is your underdog. This is your champion. Take pride in having been beaten by her.”
I finally chanced a look at Clara. Her eyes were hard to read. She stood with her arms crossed, daring anyone to argue with me. No one moved a muscle.
“Thank you for your input,” the Japanese judge bowed, and I returned the gesture.
Instead of finishing the voting round, production told us to take a fifteen-minute break. There was only one thing I wanted to do.
I watched Clara sneak off set, and I quickly followed. She beelined for the door, probably to catch a fresh breath of air, but I caught her arm before she got outside.
“Clara,” I began.
“I didn’t need you to champion me,” she interrupted me stiffly. “If I win, Emma is going to think it’s only because we slept together. Yes, I told her. She’s my best friend, although probably not for long.”
I closed the door behind us and twirled Clara to face me. She resisted, and I let her arm go, watching intently for the truth behind her flashing eyes.
There was a slight flush under her olive skin. She wanted me. Despite the shitty way I acted at the end, she still couldn’t keep her eyes off me. I should have known how scared she was.
In one swift motion, I grabbed her waist and pulled her body to mine. She had to brace herself against my chest, gasping against my lips. “Liam!” She yanked away, scowling with her bruised and swollen lips. “You asshole. Did you hear a word I said?”
“I heard it. I just think it’s bullshit. No one is going to think that. We all tried the same dishes. I didn’t say anything they didn’t already know.”
“But—”
I shook my head. “I’m an idiot. I got fucking scared, and I ran away. You didn’t deserve that additional emotional strain and that’s on me. If you want me to leave and never speak to you again, I get it. But never doubt the words I said about your talent and your food. You deserved every win and you will deserve every accolade that will, very shortly, be coming your way.”
Seared (Cooking up a Celebrity Book 2) Page 14