Some Like It Hot

by Louisa Edwards

  He didn’t like it, but what could he do? He kept his distance, not wanting to give that asswipe Ryan Larousse any more ammunition than he already had, after that stupid blowup over him calling Eva a party girl.

  Which maybe she was, or had been, but you couldn’t prove it by her behavior during the past week. In fact, tonight was the first time anyone had been able to entice her out to the current favorite drinking spot, a refurbished speakeasy in Wicker Park, Chicago’s young, artsy neighborhood.

  Danny liked The Blind Tiger because it was unpretentious, serving solid drinks made with high-quality liquor to an eclectic mix of patrons, from off-duty firemen still smoky and soot-stained to older couples sipping from their own beer steins to scarf-and-skinny-jean-clad hipsters out on the town.

  It reminded him of Chapel, their favorite after-hours bar in New York, and Danny wondered if this was what it was like to travel the world—no matter where you went, you found something to make you feel at home.

  Of course, back home, no one would’ve hooted and catcalled when Eva ordered a Manhattan. But here in Chicago, even though Danny could see a perfectly good bottle of American rye whiskey behind the scarred oak bar, the bartender shrugged and told her to pick something else.

  The Chicago versus New York rivalry ran deeper than Danny had ever realized.

  Eva looked the bartender in the eye and said, “I’ll have a double shot of rye, a shot of sweet vermouth, and a glass with ice. Oh, and toss in a maraschino cherry. Thanks.” Then she turned back to Cheney, the camera guy she’d invited along—without his camera, thank Christ—and said, “What’ll you have? I’m buying.”

  God. Was it any wonder Danny was head over heels for this woman?

  Eva accepted her shots and mixed up her own Manhattan right under the bartender’s nose, then led Cheney to a couple of stools at the corner of the bar where she casually reached across the dull gleam of wood polished by generations of elbows to snag a couple more cherries from the canister behind the counter.

  And … it was time for Danny to stop watching her now. He took a pull from his bottle, a local craft beer the bartender had recommended, and checked around the bar to see how his guys were doing. Winslow and Drew were off in a corner, heads bent together, giggling over their drinks like a couple of kids too young to be tossing back tequila.

  Max was shooting pool in the back with Beck, while Jules kept Danny company, her knowing stare reminding him of just how long they’d been best friends. And how hard it was to keep a secret from her, when she wasn’t distracted by songbirds and pink-winged cupids flying around her head.

  “You like her,” Jules said, tipping her beer bottle in Eva’s direction. “Don’t you?”

  Danny planted his arms on the bar to steady himself. “Doesn’t matter,” he grunted.

  “You always do that,” Jules accused, shaking her head so hard, her messy blond ponytail lashed at Danny’s shoulder. “What you want matters, Danny. Your happiness matters, just as much as anyone else’s.”

  Rolling his eyes, Danny slouched down on his barstool. “Spare me the psychoanalysis, Jules. Just because you’ve been clocked upside the head by Cupid doesn’t mean the rest of us are panting for the chance to get all googly-eyed.”

  “That’s not the point,” she argued. “I’m not saying you’re stoked about it, or that you wanted it to go down like this, but that’s not how it works. Maybe you didn’t mean for it to happen, but you like her, a lot, or you wouldn’t be picking a fight with me about it.”

  “Fine,” Danny conceded. It loosened something in his chest just to admit it out loud to one of his oldest friends, but it didn’t change anything. “So what? Maybe I like her, but there’s nothing I can do about it. So why torture myself thinking about it?”

  “Because you can’t stop yourself.”

  “Can too.”

  Now it was Jules’s turn to roll her eyes. “Danny. You haven’t been able to keep your eyes off her since she came in.”

  Realizing his attention had drifted to the corner of the bar where Eva sat making an impassioned speech to the cameraman, looking more animated and energized than he’d seen her in days, emphatic hand gestures and decisive nods and all, Danny whipped his head around. He took too big a gulp of his beer to cover it, and ended up in a coughing fit with Jules whacking him on the back.

  And she was a chef, a damn good one, which meant she had some serious upper-body strength for a girl.

  “Ow, damn it, quit that,” he gasped as one particularly hard smack nearly toppled him off his bar stool.

  Okay, make that serious upper-body strength, period, the end. Girl, nothing. Geez.

  “So, you gonna be okay?” she asked.

  “Aside from my cracked rib?” he groused, clearing his burning throat.

  Giving him her patented Boys Are Dumb look, Jules said, “Not about that. About her.”

  Danny told himself the ache in his throat was left over from inhaling that mouthful of micro brew. “I’ll have to be, won’t I? I can’t do anything about the fact that she’s decided it’s too risky for us to be together while the competition is going on.”

  “And after?”

  Danny tensed so hard, when he shrugged his shoulders it felt like he was breaking his own spine. “Who knows? We don’t exactly travel in the same circles.”

  “You come from such different worlds. How could it ever work?” Jules said, sighing in an exaggeratedly romantic way that didn’t suit her at all. “Yeah, it’s pretty Romeo and Juliet. Star-crossed lovers, and all that. Not that you’ve slept with her or anything … Danny!”

  “What?” Danny ducked his head, intensely aware of the heat scorching his cheeks and neck. “Don’t make a thing out of it, we stopped a while ago.”

  “I can’t believe I missed it,” Jules moaned. “I mean, not that I wanted to watch, or anything.”

  “Okay, now you’re creeping me out.” Danny shuddered.

  “Oh, shut up. I just mean, God, Danny. All this big life stuff was going on with you, and you never said a word. Never let on for a second.”

  “You didn’t notice because you and Max were off in the Honeymoon Suite, doing whatever it is you do that I absolutely do not ever, ever want to know or hear anything about, or, oh sweet Jesus, you’re paying for my lobotomy.”

  Jules made an unhappy noise. “I’m sorry, Danny. I know we’ve both been preoccupied, not really pulling our weight…”

  “It’s okay,” he said automatically, then blinked. “It really is. I mean, yeah, it was problematic, but I get it. You and Max fought hard to get where you are, and you deserved some time to enjoy it. But no, we had to get on a plane and fly out here and cook our butts off. Whatever bonding and togetherness you managed to sneak in, I’m glad about it.”

  And he was, he realized as Jules thanked him with a quick hug, her familiar cinnamon and salt smell tickling his nose. He’d never understood it before, but now, with this insane addiction to watching Eva Jansen tugging at the back of his brain, trying to make him turn his head to catch a glimpse of her waving her hands in the air and making her point, Danny really did get it.

  “I’m just so happy,” Jules sniffed, sounding alarmingly waterlogged. “I want you to be happy, too.”

  “Hey, no.” He patted her shoulder. Tears killed him, just slayed him dead. “Jules, come on. I’m happy. I’ve got you and Max settled, Winslow’s got a maybe-boyfriend, and Beck hasn’t punched anyone in a few days. Mom and Dad are healthy, and I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re doing pretty good so far in this Rising Star Chef deal. What else do I need?”

  Don’t look at Eva, don’t look at Eva, don’t look at Eva…

  “Love,” Jules snapped, sitting up and scrubbing at her eyes with a huff of annoyance. She hated crying.

  “Look, someone on this team has to keep his head,” Danny said, pulling his mouth into a teasing smile. “Between you and Max coming down with chronic lurve, Winslow flirting nonstop with that assistant kid, and Beck perf
orming the strangest mating dance known to man with that West Coast chef, we’re full up on interpersonal drama over here.”

  “Fine, fine.” Jules laughed. “I’ll back off. For now. But Danny, think about this—we’re not going to be in the RSC forever. And when the competition is over, you’ll be free to pursue … whoever catches your fancy. This isn’t Regency England or something—where you come from doesn’t have to define who you are. Or her, either, for that matter. So just … don’t give up hope.”

  Danny gave her the smile she wanted, but as she squeezed his shoulder one last time and hopped down from her barstool to go check out Max and Beck’s pool game, he wondered if that was true.

  If they lost, would he ever see Eva again? Jules could joke all she wanted, but he and Eva didn’t move in the same circles. The restaurant world was small, but it wasn’t that small, and Danny didn’t go to a lot of star-studded openings and gala parties. He probably wouldn’t go even if he was invited.

  But if they won, would it be any better?

  He’d have more time with her, sure, doing post-competition interviews and whatnot. But would either of them want to risk a relationship that could look, to the outside world, like a reason for favoritism?

  While he nursed his beer and thought dark thoughts, his eyes were drawn back to Eva. There was a complicated expression on her face as she said good-bye to Cheney, who got up and left after handing her a thick sheaf of official-looking documents. Obviously, whatever she’d been trying to convince the Cooking Channel rep to do, he’d agreed. So why didn’t she look happier about it?

  Before he could talk himself out of it, Danny was off his stool and making his way down the bar to Eva’s side.

  “Buy you another round of Manhattan ingredients?” he said.

  She straightened her shoulders immediately, as if alarmed that she’d let herself slump over the bar like a broken-down drunk. Or a broken-down, exhausted heap of culinary competition coordinator, Danny thought, watching the way she could only keep herself perfectly upright for a few seconds before wilting like butter lettuce left out overnight.

  Come to think of it, that dress she was wearing was sort of greenish, and wrapped around her body with a lettuce-like ruffle down the V-shaped neckline in front, where it tied at her waist.

  Danny stared at the bow. Was this seriously one of those dresses where all he’d have to do would be to pull that string, right there, and the whole thing would fall apart, leaving her naked?

  “I don’t think so,” she said, dragging his attention back to her strained expression. “But thanks. If I have another drink, I’m going to keel over right here and fall off this stool. And I don’t have time to go to the emergency room for a broken ankle.”

  “What if I promise to catch you?” Danny squeezed his eyes shut. “Sorry. Forget I said that. I just … wanted to see how you’re doing. You look tired.”

  Eva pouted at him, which was at least as unfair as Danny flirting about catching her. Touché, Ms. Jansen.

  “Never tell a woman she looks tired,” she advised. “We cracked your super secret code a long time ago; we know you mean we look old.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean.” Danny slid onto the stool next to her, careful to keep his legs and arms from brushing against hers. He wasn’t sure what would happen if they touched, but he was pretty sure it could get them thrown out of this bar and arrested for public indecency. “I’m worried about you. You’ve been going nonstop since that camera crew got here.”

  “There’s a lot to do.” Her eyes went unfocused as if she’d zoomed in on some long, scary to-do list in her head. She sighed. “In fact, I should probably get back to it, now that Cheney’s all squared away.”

  “What about Cheney?” Danny asked quickly, mostly to keep her sitting still for another few minutes. She needed the break, he told himself. It had nothing to do with the electric charge he got out of being this close to her.

  Satisfaction crept into her tone. “He’s finally convinced he did the right thing, sending for more cameras. We’re going to turn this competition into the next big Cooking Channel sensation!” She waved the documents in her hand like a celebratory flag.

  “Yeah,” Danny said. “I’ve noticed that the camera crew seems to have expanded. I thought Cheney was balking on that, though. How did you get him to agree that the RSC should be filmed?”

  He was just making conversation, trying to spin out the moments when he got to stand close to her and breathe in the light, floral scent of her perfume, but Eva went weirdly shifty and evasive, her eyes darting away from his while she tapped out a rapid-fire rhythm on the bar with the edge of the stacked legal-size papers.

  “I just finally figured out what he was looking for, and how to give it to him. Everybody wins.”

  Danny couldn’t help his grimace. “Yeah. Sure.”

  Her eyes shifted back to him. “You don’t like the idea of being on TV? Most chefs would flip at the chance.”

  Danny shrugged and knocked back the rest of his bottle, the beer hoppy and bitter as it went down. “It’s never been a priority for me. Honestly, I think most of those TV chefs are total sell-outs, corporate shills who’ve lost everything that’s great about being a chef.”

  “But…” Eva really seemed to be struggling with that idea. “But you’re in this competition for the exposure for your restaurant! What could be better exposure than appearing on TV? I thought you’d be thrilled about this.”

  “Who, me? I mean, yeah, the publicity will be awesome. Remind people of what Lunden’s Tavern used to be, back in the day, and make it clear we’re still there, still in it. Still putting out great food. Just … if it were me, you know. Just me. I’d never agree to be filmed.”

  “Well, luckily for me, you signed a contract when you entered the competition that gives me the right to film whatever I damn well please, for the length of your stay as an RSC competitor.” Eva pushed away from the bar and grabbed her briefcase, movements stiff and jerky.

  Danny wasn’t sure what was going on here, but he didn’t want her stalking out, completely pissed at him.

  “Eva, wait. Whatever I said, I’m sorry.”

  Breath coming in harsh little puffs that lifted her rib cage and strained the precarious strings tying her dress together, Eva made a visible attempt to control herself. “It’s fine. You’re entitled to your opinion.” Forcing out a laugh, she slung her purse onto her shoulder. “And it’s not like you’re the first person to have that opinion. I’ve heard it all before. TV is evil, it pollutes the culinary arts, la la la.”

  Now Danny was the one getting pissed. “Oh come on. You’re mad that I don’t agree with you about the Cooking Channel being the saving grace of this competition?”

  “No,” she said, slowing her breathing. “I’m not mad.”

  Except she so clearly was.

  Eva’s eyes were shadowed in the dim flickering of The Blind Tiger’s Prohibition-era lighting. She turned to leave, and Danny’s instinctive move to follow her and finish this was stopped in its tracks by the parting shot Eva tossed over her shoulder.

  “I’m not mad—but maybe I’m disappointed. I don’t expect everyone to agree with me. But I guess I would’ve hoped that you, of all people, would give me the benefit of the doubt. That you’d believe I’m trying my hardest to do the best I know how, for the good of the competition.”

  “Eva—”

  She paused by the door, her face turned away so all he could see was the pure, pale curve of her jaw. “It’s not your fault. It’s mine. I should never have expected anything from you. I broke my own rules, and now I’m paying the price.”

  Chapter 25

  Who the fuck does he think he is? Eva fumed, the anger simmering under her skin keeping her warm on the two-block hike over to the Five Points intersection, where she’d said she’d meet Claire.

  She stuffed the revised Cooking Channel contracts into her briefcase haphazardly, hands shaking, lost in her furious contemplation of Da
nny’s ungrateful, shortsighted, old-fashioned, hidebound idiocy.

  In fact, she was concentrating so hard on suppressing the voice whispering that Danny had only echoed exactly what she herself had always believed, that when a hand landed on her shoulder, she shrieked and nearly pepper-sprayed her poor assistant, Drew.

  “It’s only me,” he cried, hopping back a step, hands raised as if she’d pulled a gun on him. “Can I catch a ride back to the hotel?”

  As the sharp shock of fear at being touched on the street, at night, without warning drained from her system, so did the jolt of energy she’d gotten from sparring with Danny. Suddenly remembering that she hadn’t had more than four hours of sleep a night for the last week made Eva’s bones hurt.

  “Sure, hop in,” she said, waving a hand at the black chauffeured car waiting patiently at the curb. “As long as you don’t mind sharing with Claire and me.”

  Drew had a long-standing, somewhat debilitating fear of Claire Durand, so Eva felt she ought to warn him. “You might have to make conversation with Claire, since there’s a good chance I’ll fall asleep as soon as my head hits the leather headrest.”

  Drew blanched, his white cheeks going even paler until he looked like a ghost by the light of the streetlamp. “Oh, uh, in that case. Can I just talk to you for a quick sec?”

  Trying not to sigh audibly, Eva pulled the flaps of her cashmere coat closer to her chin and buttoned the top button.

  “Shoot,” she said.

  “It’s just … my assignment. With the chefs? I’m not feeling too great about it.”

  A headache threatened with a lance of pain behind Eva’s right eye. “No?”

  He shook his head, the porcupine quills of his coal-black hair quivering into spikes. “Winslow Jones and I … he’s my friend. Maybe more than a friend, and I don’t like using him for inside information.”

  “It’s only gossip,” Eva pointed out. “Stuff he’d be telling you anyway, probably. And you pass it on to me, same as always. I don’t see how this is different from the way we’ve done things in the past. You keep your ear to the ground; it’s part of what I pay you for.”