by penny watson
Elliott tensed next to Sophia, and she didn’t have the heart to look at him. Damn. Damn. Damn.
Not again.
“Our winners today really showcased the beef. It was grilled to perfection, and so tender and delicious. Paired with that delectable grilled lobster, it was a winner for sure. Congratulations to Brian and Herman!”
The two men shouted and ran to Mr. Smith. The producer looked concerned for a moment—probably worried that the hipsters were about to tackle him for that bottle of wine. But they just stood there with their goofy grins as he handed them their prize. Mr. Smith wished them the best of luck for the duration of the contest, and then the camera man yelled, “Cut!”
Sophia was afraid to peek at Elliott. He stood completely still and quiet at her side. That worried her. Where was the angry bear?
Chef Baldwin stomped off the set, clearly miffed he hadn’t finaled for this challenge. He paused in front of Elliott. “Tough luck, Adamson. Beat by surf-n-turf.”
Elliott was powerless to ignore the ribbing. “At least my meat pie bested your idiotic American burgers. You’re gonna have to step up your game, Baldwin.”
Michael shook his head. “At least I have a game. You just keep cooking the same damned things over and over again. When are you going to figure out you need to try something different?”
Elliott had no answer. Sophia waited until everyone else had left and then she gently nudged his arm. “Hey, how about we get—”
“I need some time alone, Sprite.” He still refused to make eye contact with her.
She frowned. “Okay, I understand. Maybe later—”
“Time to reflect.” His voice was strained, but steady.
“I’ll be waiting when you’re ready to talk,” she said.
Sophia walked away from the wounded bear, hoping his injury wasn’t lethal.
Chapter Twelve
The contestants had the rest of the evening free. A make-shift party cropped up in the dormitory quad, complete with strands of Christmas lights sagging in the weeping willows and folding tables bearing tapas. Free to cook without judgment, all of the chefs had pitched in and prepared delicious mini bites. Sophia grabbed a beer from an ice-packed bucket.
“Hey, Big Winner!” Nathan from Oregon raised his glass to her. “You deserve a medal for sure. What’s Adamson got planned for the next meal? Haggis?” He snickered.
Sophia frowned. “Elliott Adamson is a brilliant chef. If you lived in Scotland, you’d be eating haggis, too.”
“If I lived in Scotland, but I was competing in the United States, I’d trade the haggis for something with less intestine,” he said.
Sophia sighed and walked away. She was not in the mood to defend Elliott. Or discuss haggis. She found Helene seated beneath a willow tree with a few other contestants. They had dragged some chairs under the branches.
“Join us, Sophia. Have you tried Baldwin’s sliders? They are quite good.”
Sophia raised her beer bottle. “Not yet. I’m starting with the alcoholic portion of the evening.”
Helene clucked. “I don’t blame you. Today’s loss was tough. But I think good for Elliott.”
“He did not look too happy,” Tammy added as she picked at some food on her plate.
“No. He’s trying to jam a square peg into a round hole. And no matter how hard he tries, Jenny the Blogger is not going to champion his cause.” Sophia sighed again.
“Jenny the Blogger is an idiot,” Nathan said.
“Jenny the Blogger is also a judge. We cannot forget that.” Helene took a bite of her burger. “This contest is about strategy.”
“I think this contest is about the food,” Lin Lin argued. “Not strategy.”
“I’m afraid you are wrong, Miss Chin. Take Elliott for example. His cooking is flawless. I’m sure that black pudding he made was a perfect preparation. But if you don’t think about your audience, you don’t stand a chance here,” Helene said.
Michael Baldwin crawled into the clearing with a platter of sliders. “Who’s ready for more? Ah, Sophia. You’ve joined us. Excellent.”
He offered her a burger. She felt disloyal eating Chef Baldwin’s tapas, but she was starving.
“Thank you. I’ll try one.” It was stacked high with pickled cucumbers and tomatoes, and delicious with the beer.
Michael sat down next to her and immediately pressed his thigh against her leg.
“So tell us the truth, lovely garden fairy. Are you regretting your choice of partner? Everyone wants to know.” Michael leaned close enough for Sophia to smell his cologne. There was something incongruous about cologne in the woods of Vermont. It was a city smell, a city behavior. She leaned back in her chair.
“Not at all. Elliott is an extremely talented chef.”
“And also an extreme pain-in-the-ass. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
“Everyone has their own way of doing things. It will take some time for us to figure out to work together.”
“So very diplomatic.” Michael looked unconvinced.
Sophia attempted to change the subject. “Why don’t you and Helene and Lin Lin tell us about your restaurants? I would love to hear about that.”
The professional chefs dived right into that topic. Sophia was relieved, although Michael was touching her quite a bit as he spoke. Squeezing her knee. Brushing against her arm. And she hadn’t failed to notice him staring at her breasts. Dear Lord. It had been a while since she’d flirted with anyone, but this was awkward.
She leaned farther back in her chair, until the rustling branches of the willow draped along her shoulders. Her arms dangled behind her, out of Michael’s reach.
And then she felt the brush of fingers on her hand. But not from Michael.
And a gentle squeeze.
And then broad fingers linked with hers, tightening in her grasp.
“Mind if I join you?” That delicious Scottish burr raised up all the hairs on the back of her neck.
Elliott placed a seat behind the group, so that he was still somewhat sheltered by the weeping branches.
Helene laughed. “You Scots are so sneaky, n’est-ce pas? How long have you been hiding there, Elliott?”
“Long enough to see Sophia eating a burger. Was it good, Sprite? Should I try one?”
His eyes sparkled. And she realized that not all flirting was clumsy and suggestive.
She held the burger for Elliott to try, and he leaned forward and took a bite. His eyes watched hers, unblinking, as he slowly chewed the tapas. When he finished, he gave her a half-smile. Teasing.
“Hmm. Not half bad. I might have to stop giving Baldwin so much shit.”
Michael didn’t look pleased to have Elliott join them. “I won’t hold my breath.”
Helene laughed. “Sophia, I was wondering about the salad you made today. It looked so beautiful with all the bright greens. Tell me about it.”
“I call that one ‘hide-the-peas.’ My daughters are college-age now, but when they were little, they hated to eat their green vegetables. I tried every possible way to entice them. One day we started a game. I hid all sorts of vegetables in the salad, and the girls got points when they ‘discovered’ the different greens and ate them. Asparagus, peas, zucchini. It worked like a charm.”
“That was your family recipe?” Elliott asked, looking thoughtful.
“Yes. More like the act of a desperate mother.”
“You don’t look old enough to have college-age kids, S-Sophia.” Tammy shot her a shy smile.
“Oh, but I am. I can count my white hairs to prove it.”
Michael reached out and wrapped a piece of her hair around his fist. “Your hair is lovely. And the bits of silver are part of the appeal.”
Elliott tensed and didn’t relax until Chef Baldwin released the strand of hair. Her partner leaned closer, so close the heat of his body warmed her back. He found her hand again and snagged it, tethering her to him in the safety of the shadows. Elliott hid his need for her, but was
adamant about his possession. He tugged her away from Baldwin, angling her body towards his own.
Elliott was confusing the hell out of her.
Someone shouted for Michael, and he reluctantly stood to leave. He glanced at Sophia, who was now semi-hidden in a snarl of branches with Elliott practically draped around her. Chef Baldwin shook his head and left.
Elliott finally relaxed. He finished off Sophia’s sliders and happily accepted a beer from Nathan. The group continued to chat until the fireflies darted under the canopy.
“Come with me,” Elliott whispered in Sophia’s ear.
She turned her head slightly and could barely make out the outline of his face.
“What?”
“Come with me. We need to talk.” Elliott squeezed her hand again, this time with less desperation. “Come with me, Sophia.”
She nodded, not quite sure if he could see the gesture in the darkness.
Was this how he had seduced his wives? The brush of hand? A whisper in the shadows? Because it was working like a charm with her.
The good little widow slipped away with Elliott into the night.
❦
Elliott took her to a pond on the outskirts of the campus. Sophia wondered if he’d spent the afternoon exploring Vermont, searching for something along dirt trails and rocky outcrops. The night was black and quiet, the sort of quiet that shocked city folk and comforted those who lived here. He continued over a footbridge and stopped at the apex. Dots of light from the lampposts rippled on the surface of the water. Frogs croaked from somewhere inside the tall grass.
“Good thing Helene isn’t here. She’d gather up those frogs and serve cuisses de grenouille for the next challenge.” Elliott skipped a stone on the pond, and several frogs voiced their displeasure.
“Hmm. I’m not sure Vermont frogs are plump enough for that. I’ll leave that dish in Helene’s capable hands.”
Elliott turned to her and smiled. “I’ve made cuisses de grenouille many times. It’s expected when you study French cuisine.”
“Do you like it?” Sophia was still not sure why she was here. Or what Elliott hoped to accomplish.
“Yes, quite a lot actually. I used to include specialties from different European regions on my menu. That was before I decided to focus solely on traditional Scottish fare.” He leaned against the railing on the bridge. “I liked your story about hiding the peas. It’s obvious your culinary inspiration is your family.”
“Of course. I cook for them.”
Elliott nodded, his forehead creased. “I have never had a partner, Sophia. I cook alone. I work alone. I create alone. This whole thing is way out of my comfort zone.”
“What about your wives?”
He blanched. “Not partners. Maybe . . . assistants. They helped with the prep work, cleaning, that sort of thing. Everything on my menu is my own creation. Mine alone.”
“Your wives . . . were sous-chefs. Dear Lord, Elliott. Didn’t it ever occur to you—?”
“No,” he answered irritably. “Let’s get back to the matter at hand. A Taste of Heaven. As much as it pains me to admit I need some help, I need some help. With Jenny the Blogger on the judging panel, I need some connection to the American palate.” He tapped his fingers on the wooden rail. “I need your help.”
“You have it. You always have.” She took a step closer to him.
“I don’t like to lose. I’m . . . tired of it. I’m tired.”
And that, thought Sophia, must be the understatement of the year. After losing three restaurants and three marriages and then watching his contemporaries rise to the top as he struggled for respect within the culinary world.
He must be bone-tired. And she knew the feeling.
Elliott blew out a long breath. “God must have been looking out for me, since I got paired with you instead of the others. You’re smart and thoughtful. It could be a lot worse.”
Sophia laughed softly. “I’m bowled over by that effusive praise.”
Elliott stroked his beard. “You’ll get my praise when you knock my socks off. That hasn’t happened yet.”
“So what do you need, Chef Adamson?”
“I need to know what makes you tick. Who you are. What will be your strongest contribution to our combined effort? Tell me, Sophia. Who are you?”
She wanted to burst out laughing. Who was she? What a ridiculous question.
“I don’t have any idea how to answer that. What are you really asking me?”
Elliott leaned down to her eye level. The heavy fragrance of wild Rosa and honeysuckle mixed with the scent of Elliott. So close to her. Too close. She had to watch herself around this man. And not get dragged into his drama. She had to remember that he left women behind like shriveled-up carcasses in the road.
Sous-chef indeed.
“If you had to make your perfect meal, what would it be? For you and your family. The perfect evening. Tell me. This is how we’re going to win. I need to get into your head, figure out how to weave the two of us together.”
“Weave us together like a blanket?” She cocked her head, amused by the intensity in his gaze.
“Yes. Like a blanket. A gourmet blanket that appeals to Tarquin’s quirky taste, Jonathan’s need for balance, Jenny’s love of decoration. Tell me about your perfect evening.”
She smiled. “That’s an easy question. Any night with my daughters, especially in the summer. We eat outside next to the garden. There are mason jars strung up in the tree branches, filled with beeswax candles. We stay out until it’s pitch black and starry. The girls always help with dinner. It . . .” She felt herself tearing up. “They are so sweet. Cady, my youngest, is the adventurous one. And artistic. Her food is very visual and bright. Em is more straight-forward. She likes to follow a recipe. To a T. More like her father.”
Elliott took Sophia’s face in his hands, and she forgot to breathe.
“Close your eyes, Sophia. Look at the table in your mind. What does it look like? What’s on the menu? Taste it. Tell me.”
She closed her eyes. Enveloped by all that was Elliott. She tried to concentrate and ignore those rough fingers on her cheek.
“Shrimp wrapped in Thai basil and prosciutto, crisped on the grill, drizzled with olive oil and fresh lime juice. It’s Emilia’s favorite.”
“Mmm. Keep going. Don’t stop.”
His lips were almost touching her forehead. His breath on her skin.
“Grilled filet mignon with my peppercorn sauce. White, red, pink peppercorns. The girls get them for me when they travel. That’s our special dinner. Our decadent meal.”
“More.” His lips grazed her ear.
Sophia’s eyes were still tightly shut, but she had to suppress a shudder.
“Vegetable salad on baby greens from my garden. Yellow peppers, green zucchini, purple eggplant, lightly grilled. With a sherry vinaigrette and fresh herbs. All the colors of the rainbow.”
“Lovely. Keep going.”
She could no longer hear the buzz of crickets or throaty calls of the frogs. Just Elliott’s breathing. Steady. Intense.
“Wine, lots of wine,” she said huskily.
She felt his chuckle against her cheek.
“Well, this is my fantasy, right? It must have wine.”
“Of course it does. Keep going.”
“Home-made gelato. Lemon. With lemon zest and lemon basil and lemon verbena. And crunchy toasted macadamia nuts on top. Cady just got back from service camp in Hawaii. I have a lot of macadamia nuts in my pantry right now.”
He laughed. A full-blown laugh against the side of her face.
“And my table is set with things that remind me of people I love and places I’ve visited. Places I care about. My Depression Era goblets are from the antique fair I attend every year with Emilia. The pottery plates Cady made in art class. David bought me the miniature flower vases at a local glass-blowing shop. My sister wove our place mats.”
Sophia opened her eyes. Elliott was staring at her inten
tly.
“What? Too hodge-podge and mismatched?”
“No. It sounds perfectly wonderful.” Those intense indigo eyes captured her gaze and refused to let go.
Instantly she felt stripped, naked. Was he judging her? Her pathetic best night. Simple and lacking in excitement? Did he see the comfort in that? Why it touched her so much?
Sophia cleared her throat. “So did you figure out what you needed to know?”
“Yes. Your flavors are clean, seasonal, bright. You like lemon.”
They both laughed.
“You cook to please the ones you love. You surround yourself with good memories.” He paused. “Does it work? The memories? Does it make you happy?”
She sighed. “The jury’s still out on that one. It used to. It’s been more difficult recently. I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”
He nodded and kissed her cheek. A brush of his beard, the warmth of his mouth, over and gone before she had a chance to savor it.
“Tomorrow is a new day. And Sophia...”
“Yes, Elliott?”
“Tomorrow we win.”
Chapter Thirteen
Elliott was in high spirits the next morning. He actually sat next to Sophia on the van ride to their undisclosed location. He was quiet, but alert and absorbed enough to ignore the usual taunts from Baldwin and the others. She took this as a good sign. When she reached over to squeeze his hand, he grabbed it and refused to relinquish it until they arrived at their destination. As they exited the van, he whispered in her ear, “Winning Day.”
And now Mr. Smith had herded them like a bunch of cattle inside a fence at Rigley’s Creamery. She had an uneasy feeling about today’s challenge. The interns were whispering and scurrying about.
“Welcome to Rigley’s Creamery, home of Vermont’s most delectable cheese!” Mr. Smith boomed his introduction in front of the factory.
The contestants looked wary. Mr. Smith had a suspicious gleam in his eye.
“Today we will be focusing on cheese, one of the premiere products of Vermont. And what a selection we have at Rigley’s . . . chevre, blue, cheddar. Anything your heart desires.”