Her Perfect Man- The Complete Series Box Set

by Z. L. Arkadie

  In the containment room with white walls and benches for the contestants to sit and wait for decisions to be made, the cooks are giving Deanna a hard time for requiring help. One of them lays into Randy for making a mockery of the competition. Randy just crosses his legs, sits back calmly, and says, “What are you afraid of? Do you need her to be weak so you can be strong? Oysters or no oysters, outcook her and win on your own merit, bro.”

  The guy is fuming, but Randy is still as cool as a cucumber. All the things I used to hate about Randy I love at this very moment until he winks at Deanna, and then they cut to next shot.

  “Yeah, she’s cute,” Randy says in his talking-head interview. “That definitely helped me make my decision to help, but hell, I’d do the same for Igor. All I—beep—did was shell some—beep—clams.” Then he smiles. “But yeah, okay, she’s cute.”

  Suddenly, my heart takes a nosedive. I guess last Sunday night didn’t mean a damn thing to him. One week later, and he’s winking at “cute” chefs.

  “Jackass,” I shout at the TV and turn it off.

  I don’t need to know who wins. I hope he loses and not Chef Deanna.

  I turn off the lights, take my cup to the kitchen, and then walk to my room. My feet are heavy, and after I climb into bed and pull the blankets over me, my body feels weighted down by grief. I was wrong about Randy. He seems to be enjoying his blossoming romance with Deanna Blume. He probably respects her more than me. They’re both chefs. I would say that they’re both good enough to land a spot on the show, but it’s clear that Deanna’s strong point isn’t her cooking. She’s pretty. She probably made her way through life batting her eyelashes at men. I shake my head. I can’t stand her.

  I flip over onto my side and let my mind find ways to forget about Randy. I have to focus on cooking. I want to be a better chef than Randy can ever be. After a short battle to keep my thoughts off that guy, my eyelids get heavy. I slowly let my consciousness drift. Tomorrow, I have to do something I love. That’s what I’ll do.

  6

  My internal alarm clock wakes me up at a few minutes after seven in the morning. I went to bed with one thing in mind: shopping for fresh fruits and vegetables this morning. It snowed last night while I was sleeping. Since it’s extra cold out, I put on a pair of stretch pants under my jeans. I also wear my knee-high snow boots with woolen socks and a T-shirt under my light-blue turtleneck sweater. I finish off my outfit with a black wool bomber jacket. It’s probably not cold enough for my skullcap, so I save that for another day.

  On days like this, I credit myself for the decision to add a two-car garage. It’s the smartest choice I ever made, one that competes with enrolling in culinary school. I would be brushing snow and chipping ice off my cars right now if they weren’t safe and dry in my garage.

  For dinner, I want to cook an Italian vegetable hash and buy a good bottle of Italian wine to go with it. I run down the list of ingredients. I think about the spices and seasoning. After I park and make it inside, thoughts of Randy and Deanna haunt me once again. What if they get closer and then are married? It would be the story of the series—two popular chefs meet and end up as husband and wife then open a successful restaurant in LA.

  I keep turning this same narrative over in my mind after I grab a cart and push it to produce. I go straight to my favorite vegetable—eggplant. I feel each one. For some reason, none of them are good enough. Nothing is good enough right now. There’s something I want, but I feel as if it’s way on the other side of the world. I see my hands moving through the eggplants like racehorses. My heart is beating a mile a minute. Randy and Deanna… I shake my head, wondering what I can do to break them up from here.

  My phone rings loudly in my purse, and I jump out of my manic state to answer the call.

  “Hello?” I say, half hoping that it’s Randy even though he’s never called me before. Heck, I don’t even think he has my phone number.

  “How are you, Gina?”

  I roll my eyes. It’s Jeremy. I take a deep breath to relax myself, remembering I have two more dates before my debt is paid. I estimate that the repair will cost at least a thousand dollars, maybe more. I should’ve paid him, but now I’m one date down and only two more to go. I can push through. He’s not a bad guy.

  “I’m fine,” I say. Jeez, that sounded sharp.

  “Good,” he says as if he didn’t notice my tone. “I know this is last minute, but I’m free tonight and wonder if you would like to do something.”

  I throw the eggplant I’m squeezing back onto the pile. I really need to clear my brain and get a grip. No more thoughts of Randy. “Tonight?”

  “Unless you have other plans.”

  Visions of my recipe come to mind. “I plan on making a killer vegetable hash tonight.”

  “That’s right. You’re a chef.”

  I smile. “Yeah,” I say.

  “Well, I would love to taste your food.”

  “Really? You’ll count dinner at my place toward my debt?”

  He chuckles. For some reason, he laughs at a lot of what I say. I didn’t know I was such a comedian. Randy never laughs at anything I say.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Well, okay.” I give him my address and tell him to be at my place at six. I ask if he has any dessert preferences, and he chuckles again as if I said something funny.

  “Whatever you like,” he finally says.

  “Okay,” I sing, sort of put off by the laughing. I’ll make cannolis, but I’ll only bring them out if I feel like prolonging our time together.

  We end the call, and I think about Jeremy. Now I have someone else to help me keep my mind off Randy and his new love interest. It sure does sound as if Jeremy is interested in me. It would be easier if I could reciprocate. Tonight I’ll try. Yes. If Randy can flirt and be open to Little Miss Cute Chef, then I can be open to Hot Prince Harry Lookalike.

  7

  Two and a half hours later, I’m home with my groceries. As usual, I spent a long time selecting my vegetables, fruits, and meats, but it took an extra half hour to select a good bottle of Italian wine. It didn’t used to always be this way. Once I made a commitment to cooking, I started to spend more time doing it. That’s how I am. As soon as I make a commitment, I’m all in.

  I take my vegetables out of the bags, wash them, and then prep them for dinner. I feel so relaxed as I slice and chop. Finally, I have my zucchini, eggplant, artichokes, carrots, cauliflower, red and orange bell peppers, yellow squash, onion, and Italian tomatoes in plastic containers. I glance at the clock and then do a double take. I lost track of time. I’ve been playing with my vegetables for three hours. The good news is that I didn’t think about Randy once while doing it. The bad news is that Jeremy is to show up three hours from now. I’m not excited about the date. He’s not a bad guy, but I don’t think he’s the most truthful person I ever met. All I can remember is the waitress at that restaurant he took me to. He definitely has something going on with her. Whatever… he is only a hot distraction.

  I look outside. It’s still snowing, so Jeremy might cancel our date. I decide to do a quick workout on my treadmill, hop in the shower, and clean up before I cook. While jogging, I quickly lose steam. The harder I breathe, the more my thoughts veer toward the night Randy and I had sex. This is hurting too much. I stop running, turn my treadmill off, and hold onto the rail as I catch my breath. I’m so out of shape. I’m going to have to regain some of my stamina before I go running with Naomi again.

  I regretfully end my shower and put on a comfortable pair of jeans and a red T-shirt. It’s time to cook. I nearly dance all the way to the kitchen to commence making dinner. I’m in the zone, making hash out of the vegetables I prepared earlier. The scents are coming together as I mix in the herbs, spices, and salt. I poach four eggs and put fresh pepper in the grinder. As soon as the table is set, the doorbell rings. I twist my wrist to check the time on my watch. Damn it—he’s on time.

  After a quick inspection of myself, I
conclude that my jeans fit nicely and my T-shirt is cute and still clean. I pull the band that’s holding my ponytail and shake out my tresses.

  I take a breath and pull my shoulders back, saying, “Showtime,” and walking over to answer the door.

  Jeremy smells good and looks even better.

  “Can I take your coat?” I ask.

  “Sure.” He takes off his expensive black cashmere coat. Underneath, he’s wearing a silk blue button-front shirt. “Thanks.”

  I take his coat and hang it on the coat tree near the door. “You’re welcome.”

  Jeremy and I are grinning at each other. The tingling sensation on the inside makes me think that my eyes are flirting with him. He’s hot. And for a moment, I imagine him in my bed on top of me.

  He has that flirty look in his eyes. “You look beautiful.”

  “Um, thanks,” I say, knowing I could’ve done a better job in the dressing-up department. “So did you bring your appetite?”

  He shrugs his eyebrows twice. “I definitely brought an appetite,” he says, speaking to my tits again.

  I follow his eyes to my chest. Shit! I forgot to put on a bra, and my nipples are poking my T-shirt. “So how was your day?” I ask to keep him talking, hoping he’ll focus on something else other than my tits.

  “It was good. I was supposed to go to a football game today, but it was cancelled because of the snow.”

  “I don’t see you as someone who plays football, especially in the cold.”

  He grunts and then looks off. “I wasn’t going there to play.”

  I wait for him to finish telling me what he was going there to do, but he doesn't say anything else. So I ask, “Then why were you going there?”

  His gaze meets my face again. “To meet someone.”

  “Who?”

  He clears his throat and rolls his shoulders. “Just a colleague.”

  I tilt my head and frown curiously. “A work colleague?”

  “No,” he says as if that’s the end of it.

  I could keep pushing for a satisfying answer because it’s pretty apparent that Jeremy isn’t being forthright. He was cryptic on our date last week too. But I figure I’ll just let it go, or maybe if I get him to the table, he’ll open up there.

  I sigh and rub my hands together. “Okay, then. Let’s eat.”

  “Sure.”

  Jeremy follows me to the dining room. I have a dark snake-wood banquet table for six. It’s nice. My cousin Bobby made it. I paired the table with comfortable high-back scarlet suede chairs.

  I turn to see Jeremy’s response. Most people are impressed, and he doesn’t disappoint. “Wow. This is a really nice setup,” he says.

  I grin because his wide eyes reflect the authenticity of his comment. “Thanks.”

  Jeremy takes a seat in front of a place setting, and I go into the kitchen to plate our dinner. The food is still warm, and the aroma rising from the hash is delectable.

  “Wow, that looks and smells good,” Jeremy says as I put his plate in front of him.

  I’m grinning from ear to ear. There’s something satisfying about a virtual stranger enjoying the look of my food. “Thanks. Would you like a glass of wine?”

  He seems to be searching the plate for more. “Sure, but is there any meat in this?”

  I fill his glass with red wine and then fill mine. “It’s an Italian vegetable hash.”

  He jerks his head back. “Then there’s no meat?”

  I take my seat. “Have you ever had a meatless meal a day in your life?”

  “Actually, no, I haven’t.” All of a sudden, he seems disgusted by what’s in front of him.

  I lift my glass to him. “Well, you’re having one tonight.” What a tool.

  “All right, then,” he says as if I asked him to drink a glass of bathtub water.

  “Just taste it.”

  Jeremy takes a deep breath and then scoops a serving onto his fork and quickly puts it in his mouth. I tilt my head and watch him cautiously chew. Suddenly, he raises his eyebrows and begins nodding. He gives himself another serving and chews.

  “All good?” I ask, smiling.

  He raises a finger and swallows. “Yeah… actually, it’s delicious.”

  I raise my glass. “To trying new things.”

  Jeremy has this sultry look in his eyes again. He raises his glass. “Absolutely.”

  I smirk and shake my head. “I meant the food.”

  He smirks. “So did I.

  “The hell you did.”

  He raises his glass. “Touché.”

  There he goes with that cunning chuckle again. I dig into my hash, breaking the egg, and take a bite. I tasted it after I finished cooking it, but now that the vegetables have cooled and the flavors have expanded, it rocks.

  “Um,” I say. My eyes practically roll into the back of my head.

  “So, Gina, you live here alone?”

  I snap from my bliss and narrow an eye. “What if I said no?”

  “Then I would want to know if you live here with your boyfriend.”

  “I already told you that I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Is that a rule?” I ask.

  “Is what a rule?”

  “Every girl mustn’t live alone, and she must have a boyfriend?”

  He throws his hands up. “Who’s saying that? I’m not saying that.”

  I’m fucking with him, and now his face is red, and he looks as though I just embarrassed him.

  “It’s okay, Randy. Let’s just drop it.”

  “Randy?”

  My eyes expand. Did I just say Randy? Gosh, I did. I shake my head. “Listen, I’m sorry if I’m being intense. I’m that way sometimes.” I make myself smile graciously.

  He waves a hand dismissively. “No problem.”

  Jeremy and I eat silently. The air between us is thick. I’m pretty sure I laid into him just to create distance. I don’t want him to think that I’m an option. He’s cute but not my type. I wonder what my type is. Peering at him inconspicuously, I know I appreciate his gorgeous eyes. He smells fantastic, and his pale freckled face and fiery red hair do make for something to look at. On top of that, he’s got quite the figure. The DNA must run in the family—Randy’s physique is just as heavenly.

  “So are you a cook or something?” he asks.

  My thoughts snap back to the moment and my eyes to my plate. “Yeah, I am. Well… I’m in school to be a chef.”

  “Humph.”

  I grimace. “Why humph?”

  “Well, you got me to eat vegetables, so you probably are already a chef.”

  I laugh out loud, wondering if he knows I love being called a chef. “Are you still trying to get in my pants?”

  He has a tentative smile on his face, which means the answer is yes. However, I’m pretty sure his compliment was independent of his end-of-the-night goals.

  I press my hand over my heart. “Sorry about that. What I should’ve said was thank you. That was a sweet thing to say.”

  “It’s true,” he says with an earnest expression.

  I smile warmly. “I believe you.”

  Jeremy puts another serving in his mouth.

  “So you never told me exactly what you do for a living,” I say.

  He clears his throat and adjusts in his seat. “I told you, I’m in finance.”

  “Finance is a broad field.”

  I wait for him to say something else, but he keeps his eyes focused on his plate as he shoves another serving into his mouth.

  “There’s banking, accounting, the stock market, financial advising, and so forth.”

  He clears his throat again. “I work with loans.”

  “Oh,” I say, intrigued.

  “It’s no big deal.”

  Why is he so damn uncomfortable? “Do you work for the mob or something?”

  He blurts out a laugh. “No…”

  That wasn’t convincing. “You do?”

  “No wa
y.” Now he sounds more credible.

  I sigh in relief. “Oh, good. I wouldn’t want to owe the mob guy a third date.”

  We laugh.

  From this point on, we talk more about me. He wants to know about my parents.

  “They’re about as quirky as Minnesotan parents can let themselves be, you know?”

  He chuckles. “I know exactly what you mean. There are rules to life that are hard to break.”

  I grin thoughtfully. “My parents are an interesting pair to say the least. They put all these rules on themselves, but me? They’ve always let me be whatever.”

  “Do you have any brothers and sisters?”

  I press my lips together as I shake my head. The subject of siblings is a sad one. My mother had three miscarriages after I was born. The doctor said she was lucky once, but her genetic abnormalities made her uterus too weak to grow another baby. My mom never cried about it, but with each loss, she would sit on the porch and gaze out over the street as if she were in a trance, sipping chamomile tea all day. She lost my second baby brother during the dead of winter. It was fifteen below outside, and she still sat drinking tea on the porch, covered in a blanket. Hours later, when she came back inside, she was okay. That was her grieving process.

  “You’re the only child, then?”

  I nod. “Yep,” I say, trying not to sound sad. I cough to clear my throat. “What about you.”

  “I have six brothers.” He goes on to tell me the standard stories one hears about a family full of boys—fighting, jockeying for power, tough dad, always getting each other in trouble, breaking shit, and so on. It sounds like a miserable existence if you ask me.

  “So how long have you worked at Calypso?” he asks.