by penny watson
The man standing next to her was the worst of the bunch.
Mr. Smith beamed at the finalists. “What an exciting show this will be! For the duration of the competition, you will be living in the Vermont Culinary Institute dormitories. Each day for the remaining week we’ll be introducing a new challenge. Some will be held here at the new facility. And some will take place during ‘field trips’ at different locations in Vermont. Our first paired challenge is tomorrow morning. So rest up and get ready. The judges and I can’t wait to taste your next heavenly creations.”
Champagne was poured for the remaining contestants, and they all raised their glasses to toast the commencement of A Taste of Heaven.
❦
The second she placed her glass on the table, a massive paw snagged her hand and dragged her away from the set. Out of the kitchen. Down the hallway. Outside the building. And Chef Elliott Adamson didn’t stop hauling her until they reached the parking lot.
“What are you doing?” Sophia made sure her voice was calm and detached, but inside her emotions were in turmoil.
“I’m getting to know my new partner.” He spat out the word. “Who knew all I had to do was throw a bunch of flowers on a plate and I could win this illustrious competition?”
“Who knew?”
Elliott’s eye twitched at her sarcastic response. “Let’s get something straight, Mrs. Brown. I’m a graduate of Le Cordon Bleu London. I’ve been a professional chef for twenty-seven years. I’ve owned three restaurants in the UK, and I won the Best New Chef UK award in 1988.” He leaned down until his face was just inches from hers.
She noticed the mole near the edge of his lip, and the salt-and-pepper in his thick red beard.
“I might not know a goddamned thing about flowers, but I know how to cook. You just stay the hell out of my way, and we’ll be fine.”
She stood silently for a few minutes to give him time to regain his composure. His chest was heaving.
“Why do you think I picked you?”
He scowled. “I have no bloomin’ idea. You like lobster? You bloody Americans think lobster is the height of luxury, correct? But when you live in a fishing village, it’s just part of the regular seafood offerings. A local bite.”
“That’s not why.”
He clutched her upper arms. Afraid she would run away? Hardly.
“Why don’t you tell me? Hmm?”
She stepped closer to him instead of backing off. He wasn’t expecting that. His eyes grew wide, and he actually leaned back. There was no way in hell she would tell him the truth. About her husband dying and how the world had dimmed after that. The colors muted and the sounds muffled and the food lost its flavor. How everything turned gray, and even the sunshine failed, even on the sunniest day.
She would never confide these things to Elliott Adamson.
He would never trust her after that. Never listen to her ideas, never respect her opinion. He could never know that she’d lost her sense of taste.
Sophia knew exactly how to get this man’s goat and make him listen.
“I loved your dish. It was nothing to look at. In fact, it was probably the ugliest one there.”
He tightened his grip.
“But that sauce . . . It was complex and satisfying and decadent. I loved the layers of flavor—how it started out buttery and rich, and then finished with the whisky and herbs.”
His loosened his grip.
“I wanted to lick your plate. That sauce was glorious.”
He raised an imperious eyebrow.
“Which you already know. But that’s not why I picked you.”
Finally he released her, stepped back, and folded his thick arms across his chest. “For God’s sake, why?”
“Because we have to cook together. And your prawns need me. That dish needed the texture of a prickly herb salad. It needed some brightness and crunch, some contrast.”
“I’m Scottish, Mrs. Brown. We’ve been cooking these traditional dishes for centuries, and they taste just fine. They don’t need a fucking salad!”
“Maybe they don’t. But I think it would make your dish even better. And more importantly, it would appeal to the judges. They told us what they’re looking for. They loved your sauce, but they’re looking for more.”
The Scot rubbed his face. “Oh, aye, I’m well aware of that. I expected a panel of professionals who are well-versed in all sorts of cuisine. Judges who don’t make a gagging noise when someone mentions haggis. But nooooooo . . . .instead I get two Americans, one who has absolutely no goddamned clue what she’s talking about. I don’t think she has the slightest idea about international cuisine.” He closed his eyes. “I’m fuckin’ screwed.”
“Do you want to win?”
He opened his eyes and glared at her. “More than you could ever imagine. I don’t want to win. I have to win.”
“Then you have to decide if you can play by the rules, Mr. Adamson.”
“Call me Elliott, little garden sprite. Partner.”
“And you can call me Sprite.”
Elliott barked with laughter. Some crew members in the parking lot looked up and stared at them. It was hard to ignore this man. He was huge. He was loud. He was infuriating. And strangely enough, Sophia had to admit that something about him was also appealing.
In an overbearing Scottish sort of way.
“All right, Sprite. How are you interpreting the rules of this game?”
Sophia frowned. “Interpreting? The rules are clear. Each of us must prepare part of our dish. Cooking independently. And all of the components must work together as a cohesive meal.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What?”
“I’m not even a tiny bit convinced you know what you’re doing. For Christ’s sake, you made dessert for our first course! Dessert!”
She crossed her arms. “It won, didn’t it?”
“Give me a break. It won because you used local products—which I’m sure makes the sponsors happy—and tossed a bunch of pretty flowers on a plate. Which doesn’t indicate to me you have any clue about cooking.”
“I beat fifteen other contestants today. That doesn’t seem like a fluke to me.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Fine. Let’s see how tasty that amuse-bouche really is. I’m feeling peckish. You know what I’m in the mood for?”
Sophia shook her head.
“Lemon custard. Almond tart. Boysenberry sauce.”
“I thought you didn’t like dessert,” she said.
“Nah. I like dessert. And you’re about to make me some. One. Perfect. Bite.” He captured her hand and tugged. “Let’s go. Back to the kitchen. I wanna see what you’re really made of, Mrs. Sophia Brown.”
Sophia ripped her hand from his grasp. “I don’t have to prove anything to you.”
“Yes, you do. You got to taste my food and judge me. I haven’t tasted your food yet. You’ve already made some rather large assumptions about how this partnership is going to work.” He paused. “Time for me to see what I have to work with for the next week. You’re going to make me that amuse-bouche, and you’re going to do it now.”
The Scot had a point. Fair enough.
She nodded. “All right. Get ready for dessert.”
The giant grinned.
Chapter Six
Elliott barged back onto the set as the cleaning crew worked. He ignored them. He ignored the interns and production assistants and gathered the ingredients Sophia listed.
“Obviously we don’t need the flowers,” she said.
“Obviously.”
“Do you ever use vegetables in Scotland? Fresh greens?”
“Garlic is a vegetable.”
Sophia laughed.
Elliott pursed his lips. She could tell he wanted to laugh too, but was holding himself back. This was not an auspicious start to their partnership.
He dumped the food onto a worktable. “Get cracking, lassie.”
“I have to collect some herbs from the garden. I’l
l just be a minute.”
When she returned to the workroom, she noticed the cleaners and interns sitting on the tables. Watching the show. Watching the giant Scot bully the little American Sprite.
Fabulous.
She pulled a stainless steel bowl close to her. Elliott hovered over her shoulder. She could feel his hot breath on her neck.
She peered over her shoulder. “Do you mind? Backing up a bit?”
“Am I making you nervous?”
“Back. Up. Do you want me to do this or not?’
“Aye.”
“Then pull up a stool and sit over there.”
“With our makeshift audience? Just so you know, I think their money is on you. You’re prettier than I am.”
She measured flour and salt and began to assemble her tart. The crispy almond cookie was drizzled with a hint of bittersweet chocolate, mounded with lemon custard, and sprinkled with fresh berries and the rich boysenberry syrup that pulled all of the flavors together. Now that she wasn’t in a rush against the clock, she took her time, blocking out the onlookers and the Scot and her anxiety. This was the way she truly enjoyed cooking. When you lost yourself in the process, and could savor each step of the journey.
“What are you humming?” The Scot’s expression was mildly amused.
“Am I humming?” Sophia gently stirred the syrup on the gas stovetop.
“Aye. You’re in the zone now. I’m curious about what music inspires garden sprites.”
She stopped for a moment and thought. “I’m singing ‘Breathe’ by Anna Nalick. My daughters like it.”
Elliott shook his head. “I don’t know this song.”
“It’s bittersweet, I guess. I’ve been singing it a lot lately.”
“The garden sprite is melancholy? What could possibly make you sad? You seem like you live a charmed life.”
Her hand barely trembled as she continued to stir the mixture. “You know nothing about me, Mr. Adamson.”
“Why don’t you humor me, then?”
“No, thank you.”
One of the interns yelled out an encouragement. “Go, Sophia! We want to taste your amuse-bouche.”
Elliott glared at him. “It’s for me. Only me. The minions don’t get a tasting.”
She lifted the pot off the stove and set it aside to cool. If it was too hot, it would melt the lemon custard.
“Almost done. We just have to wait for the syrup to cool.”
He nodded. “Why don’t you sing for me while we’re waiting?”
She had no doubt this was all part of some psychological plot to unnerve her. He had an arsenal at his disposal. Physical intimidation. Picking at her melancholy scabs. Questioning her culinary ability.
But she wasn’t one of those young, inexperienced kids, looking for validation from the master chef like a puppy dog so eager to please. She was older and wiser and had been around the block a few times. And was quite familiar with the games people play.
And so she sang.
The room got quiet as she sang the lyrics to “Breathe” strong and clear and without hesitation. She sang right to Elliott Adamson, looking into his indigo eyes. Making sure he knew that she would not be swept under the rug or intimidated by his overbearing presence. His eyes widened a fraction as she started, and then she saw a grudging respect creep into his expression. And when she finished the song, she lifted the pot of syrup and poured it over her plate. She watched the dark purple sauce slip over the lemon and pool in the bottom of the saucer.
And because she just couldn’t help herself, because she was adept at playing games too, she pulled out the Johnny Jump-Up flowers she’d hidden in her apron pocket and sprinkled them over the plate. Velvet purple petals with golden yellow faces.
She turned to Elliott and handed him the plate. The plate that represented her life. Sometimes too tart. Moments of sweetness. Bittersweet memories, hidden but still there, always there.
He took the dish from her hand, brushing his callused fingers against her, and whispered, “Well played, Sophia. Well played.”
❦
“Go, Sophia!”
“It looks delicious!”
“I want a bite.”
The younger crew shouted at Elliott as he examined the dish like a forensic pathologist. He lowered his face to within centimeters of the plate and deeply inhaled. He picked at it with his fork. Picked again.
“Don’t play with your food, Elliott.”
He smiled without lifting his head. “If you ignore the ridiculous flowers”—he flicked them off the plate—“the custard and sauce smell quite nice.”
“Did Mr. Award Winner just give me a compliment? I do believe I’m blushing.”
“Don’t get cocky. I haven’t tasted anything yet.”
He took his fork and cut through the whole creation. Balanced a piece of cookie with custard and sauce piled on top of the tines.
“One bite. Here we go.” The fork disappeared into his mouth.
Sophia found herself studying his lips. She wondered what it would be like to be kissed by Elliott Adamson. His lips looked firm and decisive. Nestled within a luxurious beard. Would it tickle? Would he be selfish and rushed? Would he be lazy and seductive? She looked down at her feet and tried to concentrate on something else.
“Hmm.”
“How’d she do, Elliott?” One of the cleaning crew came over and peeked at the plate. “Anything left? It sure smells good.”
“Hmm.”
Sophia lifted a brow.
Elliott lifted one back.
She knew the dessert was good. She’d tasted as she cooked. And now her taste buds were just fine, thank you very much. It was all perfectly balanced. The sweet, the tart, the hint of chocolate, the fruity syrup with herbs and honey.
He took the dish and placed it in the sink, and then gestured to the cleaning crew. “We’re done now. You can finish up here.” He turned to Sophia and grunted. “I need a drink. Let’s go back to the dorm, and we can finish our conversation there. Discuss the rules of the game.”
And he walked away.
Was she supposed to follow him? Was she supposed to beg for his approval?
Hell would freeze over before that happened.
He turned and shot her an exasperated look. “For Christ’s sake, Sprite. Let’s go. We need to have a council of war. Figure out our strategy for this competition. There’s a lot at stake. And tomorrow’s our first big challenge. What the hell are you waiting for?”
“Your assessment of the amuse-bouche? The one you just insisted I prepare for you?” She refused to budge until he said something.
He nodded. “You’ll do.”
He continued walking towards the dorms.
What would it take to get a real compliment from Chef Adamson? She had no idea. But evidently this was as good as it would get today.
She picked up the forgotten flowers. They would make a sweet bouquet.
Chapter Seven
The dorms at the Vermont Culinary Institute were nothing special—not like the luxurious accommodations on some of the other reality cooking shows. Which explained why the cameras were missing in action. No sponsors to please, no appliances to showcase. Stilted laughter floated down the hallway, where the motley crew of cooks huddled around a keg. They were drinking beer and still sizing each other up. Elliott and Sophia arrived to a noisy round of applause.
“Look who showed. Grumpy Scottish Bastard and The Big Winner.” A skinny young chef took a swig of his beer and smirked. “The pair to beat.”
The French woman held out a hand to Elliott. “Bon jour, Monsieur Adamson. Nice to see you again.”
Elliott nodded briskly. “Helene. I hear congratulations are in order. You’ve graduated from being Monage’s sous-chef.”
She shrugged. “At last. The master is finally slowing down.”
“Elliott Adamson. It’s been a long time.” A tall man approached the two of them. He was fit and fair, very handsome in a classic American way.
>
Sophia stepped back. It was obvious many of the pros were already acquainted. And the tension levels seemed to rise as Elliott jumped into the fray.
“Baldwin.”
The chef laughed. “Still a man of few words, I see. How’s your latest project coming along?”
Elliott crossed his arms. “Fine.”
“But you’re here, aren’t you? Must be a reason for that.”
The man was goading Elliott, and it was working. His jaw clenched.
“I could ask you the same thing. What are you doing here?”
“I’m opening up a third restaurant in Chicago, and I wanted some exposure. There’s no better publicity than a reality TV show. Works like a charm.” Baldwin took a drag from his beer and adopted a blasé attitude, but Sophia wasn’t buying it for a minute.
“Are you still flipping burgers?” Elliott asked.
“Are you still putting haggis on the menu? I wonder what the perky blogger will think about that.”
Elliott drew in a long breath and released it. Sophia had the feeling he wanted to clock the chef from Chicago.
“Too bad the international contest they lured us with turned out to have an amateur judge, an American who hasn’t been current in decades, and Tarquin. Christ.” Elliott closed his eyes.
“I know what you mean. I’m not much into molecular gastronomy. They could have done better with the judges.” Chef Baldwin glanced at Sophia. “You lucked out. A sweet little partner who can actually cook.”
Sophia was instantly uncomfortable. Baldwin inspected her with undisguised interest, and it had nothing to do with her cooking ability. Elliott took a step to the right and blocked the man’s view.
“Aye. Be grateful for small mercies. Who’s your partner?”
“Kevin Holt from North Carolina. Amateur, but he knows his barbecue. That could come in handy.”
Elliott scoffed. “Barbecue? We’re in the middle of Vermont. I don’t think barbecue is on the goddamned menu.”
“We’ll see.”
“Hey, Short Chubby Guy! Come ’ere!” The young chef at the end of the hallway tossed beers to several contestants.
Elliott scrubbed a hand over his face. “Who the hell is that? Do we all have nicknames?”