by Chant, Zoe
Bearly There
By Zoe Chant
Copyright Zoe Chant 2015
All Rights Reserved
“No!” cried Esmeralda López, staring at the letter. It couldn’t say what she thought it did. It just couldn’t. But there it was, in uncaring black type: Dear Ms. López, thank you for applying to San Mateo’s Leap at the Stars cooking school scholarship. Unfortunately, we’ve received an overwhelming number of submissions from qualified applicants, and we can only accept a small fraction of them. We wish you the best in your future endeavors.
The paper crumped in Esme’s sweaty fist. It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t. She’d done everything right, she knew it! She’d filled out the application way in advance of the deadline, she’d included three of her absolute best recipes, she’d even gotten her boss to write a recommendation letter.
Who didn’t love her creamy leek-and-potato soup improved by shallots and a dash of saffron? Or her filet mignon with blueberry port reduction—so tender and juicy? For that matter, who didn’t love four-cheese macaroni and cheese with bacon crumbles? No one she’d ever met.
Until now.
Even her boss at the fine-dining restaurant where she worked as a dishwasher, Mr. Lambert, who was seriously the snottiest guy on earth, said he would die for her ginger-rubbed lamb chops with lime-yogurt sauce. He’d caught her messing around in the kitchen after closing, when she’d just pulled her latest experiment out of the oven and plated it, and he’d been totally ready to fire her until he sniffed the air. “What’s that delicious smell?” he’d asked.
Her whole body shaking, Esme had nervously offered him a cut of the lamb chop. Her boss frowned and took a tiny bite. His eyes grew as big as the plates they used to serve the main courses before closing in bliss. He chewed and chewed, then grabbed the rest of the dish from her.
When he’d finished devouring it, even licking the last drops of sauce off the plate, he glanced up at her with new wonder. “Where in the world did you learn to cook like that?”
Esme hoped it was safe to tell him the truth, but she didn’t know what else to say, so the truth it would have to be. “I’ve always loved to cook, and when I’m not washing dishes, I watch the chefs at work. I’ve learned so much just doing that.”
She didn’t mention that after her fiancé left her, saying she’d stopped being hot the way she’d been when they met, all she’d done was retreat into food. It loved her back and never wanted anything but for her to enjoy it. It never told her how unattractive she was. It only ever tasted good, and then as she learned to try new things, spectacular.
Of course she didn’t mention any of that.
She braced herself, fully expecting Mr. Lambert to fire her then, seeing as she was cooking using restaurant ingredients for her own benefit, but he didn’t. Instead, he told her that he wanted her to try making a couple more things that week.
Esme figured she had no choice, so she stayed late and came up with more dishes: a sweet potato pot roast and a golden biryani brimming with chicken and cashews. Both times, Mr. Lambert took one bite and looked like he was about to swoon.
“Listen, Esme,” he announced on that third night, “I’ve never done this before, but I think you’ve got some real talent. You just need proper training. Tell you what: if you apply for culinary school and get in, I will personally hire you here at the end of your studies.”
Esme’s mouth had literally fallen open. She couldn’t believe she’d heard right. “What?”
She’d never even dreamed she’d get past this dishwasher position, except if she took a job as a short-order cook in a fast food joint. Or maybe Denny’s, if she was really daydreaming. A plump woman with lots of curves that showed she liked to eat, who made food everyone else liked to eat, too. Never any more than that.
But Mr. Lambert had insisted, and so Esme had found the form online and gotten to work filling it out.
That was how she’d gotten to this point, where she was holding a letter telling her she’d been rejected. They didn’t even want to call her in for the second portion of the application process, where she went in to show them what she could do.
Tears rolled down her face, but she tugged off her never trust a skinny cook apron and flung it down. She’d been getting ready to bake a pan of double-fudge swirl brownies, because brownies fresh from the oven with a big scoop of vanilla bean ice cream sounded like the perfect Saturday afternoon treat. But now she just wanted to throw up.
The phone rang, and she made herself answer. “Hello?”
“Esme,” Janice, one of the sous chefs, said breathlessly, “we need you to come in tonight.”
“But I’m not on the schedule—” Esme began.
“No, not for dishwashing. To help in the food prep. I know, I can’t believe it, either, but three of the chefs came down with some kind of nasty virus, and Mr. Lambert said to call you.” Janice snorted. “Sounds like it’s a private affair, some sort of rich business party, and they’re expecting amazing food, so we’re going to need all the help we can get. Are you coming or not?”
Esme didn’t know what to say. Was she ready for the intensity of a dinner rush? She knew firsthand what went into that, and that was without having actually done it. She’d only ever fooled around with ingredients to see what tasted good.
“Mr. Lambert said he knew we could count on you, whatever that means,” Janice added. “So? What’s it going to be? I have to get back to the kitchen.”
“Yes,” said Esme before she realized what she was going to say. “Yes,” she said again, more firmly.
“Good,” said Janice. “See you at five.”
She slammed the phone down before Esme could answer.
Esme stared at the brownie pan and the ingredients to make them. Then she quickly started baking. She would need all the fuel she could get to survive tonight!
* * *
Zachary Cunningham stared at his watch. He really, really didn’t want to go to this dinner. Why couldn’t he just grab a burger at In-N-Out?
His bear wanted to be for the executives’ dinner here even less than he did. It had been clamoring for a while now that he find himself the perfect mate, the one woman meant only for him, for their entire life. Just like he’d always been taught.
When he was younger, Zachary had hated his bear. He’d hated the idea that this creature lived inside him, was even part of him. None of the people on TV and in books had bears. But mostly he was terrified it would get out and hurt people. His uncle had gone feral when he hadn’t found a mate after thirty years, running away into the forest and getting shot by a hunter. For a long time, Zachary even hated his clan for not saving Uncle Jack. He determined he himself would never shift into a bear. But no matter what he said, his bear came out anyway once puberty hit, and Zachary had to accept the fact of him.
Zachary did everything he could to distance himself from his bear and his commands, but it didn’t work. No matter how many hot girls he hooked up with, no matter how he threw himself into building his pharmaceutical empire, none of it mattered at the end of the day. His bear would not be silenced. He knew Zachary. He knew Zachary’s thoughts. And worst of all, he knew that deep inside, Zachary did want to live in the woods, at least some of the time. Zachary did want to find a mate.
His bear reminded him daily that he needed a mate. That Zachary needed his mate, the one for him out of all the people in the world.
But how could Zachary find her? There were at least seven billion people covering the globe, and the number was going up every day. What if his mate was in some remote village in Nepal?
His bear growled and made Zach
ary ball his hands into fists. Wherever she was, he’d have to find her—and soon. He couldn’t risk his bear going feral from loneliness.
First, though, he needed to make it through this annoying dinner with the other higher-ups in his company. Whose birthday was it this time? He’d find out.
* * *
The kitchen was a shambles when Esme arrived at Le Grand Jardin du Plaisir. The sous chefs had already started on the food prep, but there was still so much to do. Esme scanned the whiteboard with the menu. The first course: a crab-and-corn chowder. Second course: Atlantic salmon en croute with lobster mousse, asparagus, and sauce Newburg. Third course: profiterole with chocolate sauce and toasted almonds.
She tied on her apron, donned her puffy white chef’s toque, and mentally rolled up her sleeves. She could do this.
The other sous chefs ignored her except to grumble orders to do this or that. Esme didn’t care. All that mattered was this incredible opportunity, and she fully intended to make the most of it.
By the time the first course was ready to be served, Esme was sweaty, covered in sauce stains, and smelled like the kitchen. It was the best day of her life.
She’d prepped and cooked and sniffed and tested and burned herself along the way. But that was as it should be. Everything, every single item on the menu, had turned out off-the-charts fantastic. She was so close to bouncing with glee, except she wasn’t willing to risk ruining any of the meticulously prepared food by bumping into or tripping any of the other chefs. They ran to and fro, frantic to get everything just right.
Esme and the sous chefs finished plating the chowder into sparkling white china bowls and topped it with butter-and-garlic croutons straight out of the pan. The arrangement looked mouthwateringly scrumptious, if she did say so herself. She watched with eagerness as the snappily dressed waiter and waitress delivered it out the kitchen door and into the dining room.
This was her big moment, her debut onto the culinary scene.
* * *
Zachary patted his lips with the napkin and sat back in his chair, trying not to sigh. That was the most amazing meal he’d ever had! And he’d had spent his entire adulthood dining in the hoity-toity, crème de la crème of restaurants the world had to offer rich people. This food was hands down the best—so delicate yet flavorful, rich without being overwhelming, and the sheer palette of aromas was immense, even as all the courses went together in harmony of tastes. It made him think of a symphony, with all the component parts working together to create an overarching whole that left your heart singing.
He hadn’t even minded the horribly boring conversation around him, because every bite he took made it recede a little more. Almost like magic. Or maybe it was magic.
Even his bear had gone to sleep for the moment. Zachary’s ears practically rang with the silence, blessed, blessed silence. Some days he was sure this was all a lost cause, and it was just a matter of time before his bear took over for good.
When the waiters brought out the dessert course and a sweet port to accompany it, he nearly swooned. His business partners even stopped chattering inanely about stock prices and whether they should look for cheaper ways to manufacture their latest drug or just lobby harder to ban generics. Instead, they all followed the plates of pastry with their hungry eyes.
Were those . . . profiteroles? Zachary loved profiteroles. He wanted to lunge at the waiter and snatch the plate from the man, but he restrained himself and waited until everyone had been served. What a beautiful presentation: the cloudlike profiteroles came two to a plate and were artfully drizzled with a dark chocolate sauce. Slices of fresh strawberry ringed the dessert, adding a gorgeous touch of bright red.
It was all Zachary could do not to moan when he bit through the flaky pastry and into homemade vanilla bean ice cream. His favorite! So redolent of vanilla and so, so sweet, it dissolved on his tongue like cotton candy.
He absently glanced up and caught sight of a pretty, dark-eyed woman peeking out shyly from the kitchen. She wore a chef’s hat.
Immediately Zachary forgot to continue chewing. How could he think of anything else, when his bear roared to life?
That woman, he growled. She’s the one. Go get her now!
Zachary tried to scoff at his bear without letting anyone else know what was wrong. All these years, his colleagues had had no idea he was a shifter, and he wasn’t about to let on now. What the hell are you talking about? he demanded. That’s just someone who works in the kitchen.
No! growled his bear. She’s the one. Get her now. Now, now, NOW! He raised a paw in threat, and Zachary stiffened in horror as his own right hand began to rise.
Okay, okay, he told his bear. Just stop! He prayed it would listen. Let me do this my way.
To his enormous relief, his bear stopped and waited. He could sense his bear ready to resume his attack, though, so wasted no time flagging down the waiter.
“Are you all right, Zachary?” his colleague Mallory asked doubtfully. She was beautiful, with pearl-clear skin and sleek black hair, but despite her obvious interest in him, his bear had never responded. Which meant Zachary had never responded.
And of course it was her birthday dinner, meaning she expected to get all his attention.
“Yeah,” he said as casually as he could, flashing a smile he didn’t feel.
“Sir?” asked the waiter. “Is something the matter with your dessert course?”
“Not at all,” said Zachary, and this he meant. “I’d just like to speak to the chef to extend my compliments.” Only after he spoke did he realize the woman he’d seen could have been anyone. But there was no real way to say he’d meant the one peeking out of the kitchen without spooking everyone around him—and maybe even getting her in trouble.
His bear remained watchful.
The waiter smiled and promised to bring the chef right out.
All Zachary’s business partners had finished their profiteroles and were staring at him now. This was anything but typical behavior for him; he usually tried to avoid anyone he didn’t absolutely have to talk to.
“You must have really liked that ice cream thing,” Caleb said, trying not to laugh.
“I guess,” said Mallory, frowning.
Zachary couldn’t care less what either of them thought. They worked for him, and they’d do well to remember that. “It’s called a profiterole,” he said.
In the next second, even that thought flew out of his head. The waiter returned, leading the woman from the kitchen in tow. Zachary drank in the sight of her. She was like water to a parched field, champagne to a newlywed, the way he couldn’t stop staring at her deliciously curvy body, her long legs, her mouth like a red bow an Amazon might have wielded, her eyes so dark and full of secrets. He felt as fizzy as if he’d just downed an entire bottle of fifty-year-old Dom Pérignon.
His bear leapt up on his hindquarters in excitement, and so did Zachary. He couldn’t tear his gaze from the heavy, gorgeous breasts that pressed tight against her white uniform, and he was willing to bet that if she turned around, her ass would be equally lush and round. The fact that she was splattered with food stains seemed irrelevant; she was the one who had made that amazing dessert, and she was the one his bear wanted.
Which meant she was the one Zachary wanted, too. A rush of desire went straight to his groin, making him hard as a rock. To keep anyone from noticing, he stuck out his hand. “Mr. Zachary Cunningham, CEO of BNS Biopharmaceuticals. I just had to pay my compliments to the chef for this world-class meal.”
The woman stared at him with wide eyes every bit as luscious as the dark chocolate sauce had been, then shook his hand. At the contact of flesh on flesh, every cell in Zachary’s body sang out. She was the one! She was his mate, his life partner, his everything. So sexy, so beautiful, he couldn’t fight the attraction drawing him to her even if he wanted to.
And he really, really didn’t.
“I’m . . . I’m Esme,” she whispered at last, looking at him like they were alon
e. It was the most intimate, the sexiest thing Zachary had ever seen.
In earlier years, he’d slept with many women in the hopes of discovering his mate, but none of them had ever made him feel the way Esme did, like his blood was on fire, and like if he didn’t sweep her to a bed right this second, he’d explode and take the entire universe with him. Never mind that they’d barely exchanged two words.
His bear rumbled in distinct pleasure.
Yes, he said. Ours.
Zachary opened his mouth to speak.
“Zachary?” called Mallory. “Don’t you want to come back and have your coffee before it gets cold?” She sounded both amused and bitter.
Zachary didn’t care so much about that, but the reminder that Esme and he weren’t alone, that they in fact had a curious audience, was a hard slap to the face. He swore under his breath and dropped her hand. “Don’t go anywhere,” he whispered, then sat back down.
Esme looked trapped, then hurried back to the kitchen. Zachary hoped she understood he meant not to go anywhere until he’d had a chance to talk to her again.
His bear bared his teeth.
You let her get away, he growled threateningly. The one we’ve been waiting for!
Zachary sighed inwardly. No, I told her to wait until we can actually talk. Do you think I can really talk to her in front of my company? This needs delicacy. Be patient.
His bear growled but seemed to accept that. For the moment, anyway. Zachary knew he didn’t have much time.
And now his whole company was staring at him.
Counting the seconds until he could get the hell out of this party and go find Esme, he ordered a round of drinks for the table.
* * *
Shaking, Esme drifted back into the kitchen. What had that been about? Why would a gorgeous billionaire care about complimenting a sous chef he’d never see again—and even shake her hand?
Her memory kept replaying that moment when she’d seen him looking at her, how her eyes had devoured his huge, muscular physique—visible even through his suit—his gleaming yellow hair slicked back in a ponytail, his eyes bright as the sky. He looked strong. He looked confident. Esme blushed all over, remembering his big, powerful hands and thinking of what else they might be able to do.