Bliss

by Hilary Fields

  Yet, outlandish as the Back Room Babes’ plan to take Blake down was, Sera had to agree it was her last, best hope to keep her ex at bay. She had to fight back, fight hard, and fight publicly, or he’d continue to whittle away her reputation for as long as he cared to carry on his crazed vendetta. And as far as Sera could tell, that would be all the way to the grave. She would never have a better opportunity to stop him in his tracks than today’s bake-off.

  I feel like a gladiator facing my fate in the coliseum, she fretted. Wonder what’s the Latin for “We who are about to bake salute you”?

  Sera told herself it was a good thing that he’d taken up her challenge. Of course he’d done so only on his terms—and his terms, as it turned out, were many.

  With Blake’s fuck-you fish thawing on the counter and the BRBs gathered in the “war room” (Bliss’s comfy armchairs) for support, they’d dialed up the chef’s hotel to hash out the details of the duel. Sera had stayed out of it, feeling a bit like a boxer when her “trainers” started massaging her shoulders and pressing little sips of water on her (Aruni even offered to rub aromatherapy oil on her temples). Pauline had done the honors, punching the buttons on the store’s phone hard enough to make Sera wince. However, when she started rummaging in the prep area’s drawers for “the scratchy twine” after about a half second of conversation with Sera’s ex, Hortencia had snatched the phone away. Then the real haggling had begun.

  Despite Sera’s admiration for her aunt’s life partner, she had to admit Blake had gotten the better of the old gal. The “quaint contest,” as he put it, had to take place in his restaurant (conveniently providing free publicity for the newly opened eatery). He required an assistant to help prep his creations (Sera could have one, too, he ever-so-generously allowed). And it would all be filmed by a crew of his cronies from the Food Channel. It didn’t surprise Sera. When his ego was at stake, Blake Austin played to win. No doubt, he expected to crush her in spectacular fashion, show off his new restaurant, and dazzle his loyal fans with his overhyped culinary skills, all while turning a tidy profit by televising the event for the content-craving cable network.

  The only concession Sera’s team managed to wrangle was that the competition would focus solely on dessert. In no uncertain terms, Hortencia had told “he who shall go straight to hell” that, since it was Sera’s baking credentials he’d so classily called into question, it was baked goods they would battle over. He wasn’t lacking the talent to whip up a few measly tarts, was he?

  Sera could hear Blake’s response from halfway across the shop.

  And so it came to be that Santa Fe’s weeklong Winter Fiesta added a last-minute event.

  Bake-Off at the Blue Coyote! ran the headline on the Winter Fiesta’s website.

  Famous chef takes on former protégée, and Santa Fe decides the winner!

  Pastry chef and proprietor of Santa Fe’s newest sensual sensation “Bliss” invites visiting celebrity chef Blake Austin to show who’s really got the spice with a bake-off at Austin’s newest venture, the Blue Coyote. Come by Canyon Road Friday starting at noon to witness these two highly skilled chefs showing off their sweetest creations. Then judge for yourself who makes you moan most with delight!

  Bobbie had really done an amazing job of pulling the event together and publicizing it to the hilt. From what she’d told Sera, the cooking contest was the talk of the town, sure to be packed with locals and tourists seeking sugar rushes and a glimpse of the world-famous chef facing off against the City Different’s newest bakery owner.

  Whom they’d be rooting for was another matter.

  Oh God oh God oh God… this is really happening. Today!

  Sera pulled the covers over her head, resisting Silver’s attempts at playing sheet-peekaboo by yanking at the fabric with his teeth. She wasn’t worried about being outbaked by her former boyfriend—not in a fair fight anyway. She knew she was the better chef—hell, the last time that bastard had actually sweated it out on the line, his customers had been wearing Members Only jackets and neon Scrunchies. But really, what was the likelihood Blake would play fair?

  Her stomach roiled.

  The acrid aroma of burnt toast heralded Asher’s arrival. Sera let Silver tug the sheet off her face, hoping her hair looked more “JBF” than “just been mangled.” She blinked up at him. In his low-slung jeans, barefoot and bare-chested, hair adorably mussed, the tall Israeli was a powerful incentive to call off the contest and spend the day in bed.

  “Good morning, lovely man,” she said, submerging her fears in favor of savoring a few more minutes of pleasure.

  “Good morning, lovely woman.” Asher proffered a plate of what was ostensibly breakfast. His eyes lit with appreciation as she threw back the covers, revealing that the T-shirt she’d borrowed from him as a makeshift nightie had ridden up to the tops of her thighs.

  Tugging the tee down out of a vestige of modesty, Sera swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She accepted the plate, which appeared to be the backdrop for a new work of black-and-yellow abstract art, and casually laid it on the nightstand where Silver could get at it. Nervous as she was about today, just seeing Asher lifted her spirits. No matter what happens this afternoon, she marveled, this guy’s got my back. I won’t lose everything if I lose to Blake today.

  But Sera didn’t want to lose anything.

  I’ve earned this, damn it. My shop. My place in this town. My bliss. And I’m gonna fight to keep them.

  “Thanks, Ash. Breakfast looks yummy. I think I’ll wait until after my shower to eat, though. I’ve got a nervous stomach this morning.”

  He grimaced sympathetically. “I’m not surprised, given what you’re facing today,” he said, tracing the line of her cheek with a comforting finger. “By the way, did I hear a shout a minute ago?” He eyed Sera with mild concern.

  She felt a pang, not wanting Asher to worry for her. Blake was her demon to slay. “Would you like to?” Mustering up a lascivious leer, she moseyed up to him and wove her arms around his waist. “I do seem to get pretty ‘shouty’ when you’re around.”

  “Mm, yes, that you do.” His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes appealingly. “I think my eardrums could do with another assault. But do we have time?” Asher was already nibbling her neck.

  “Probably not.” Sera sighed. She pulled away reluctantly to study the man she was growing to love more each day. Though they’d only been together a short time, she felt strangely secure in their fledgling relationship—serene, even—and excited to see where it would go. Artist to artist and healing heart to healing heart, they simply got each other. His support had given her so much strength, his faith in her had bolstered her confidence and made her future seem so much brighter. She would never be readier to face down her past. Sera’s hand rose to cup his cheek, and she stretched up to give his chin a grateful kiss. “Much as I’d rather let you rock my world all day, I’ve got someone else’s world to rock first. But trust me,” she vowed, “he’s not going to enjoy the experience.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  What a circus.

  Sera stopped stock-still a few feet inside the restaurant, letting her rucksack of culinary tools slip through nerveless fingers and clunk to the floor. Behind her, Malcolm, carrying the rest of their gear, harrumphed as he nearly plowed into her.

  “Mind where yer gawkin’, girlie,” he growled.

  Though he’d agreed to be her second in this duel, Malcolm was not best pleased to be spending his Friday subjecting himself to scrutiny by the “idjit unwashed.” Once he’d heard a bit of Sera’s history with Chef Austin, Malcolm had been more than ready to release his inner Highland warrior on her behalf, but he hadn’t dropped his dislike of the general public or his disdain for their “criminally ignorant palates.” Being judged by a bunch of “gastronomic ignoramuses” in this contest was the ultimate affront for the prickly Scotsman. Sera couldn’t blame him; she was feeling unnerved herself at the prospect of letting the city of Santa Fe decide her f
ate. Fleetingly, she wished she’d taken Asher up on his offer to accompany her, but she’d wanted no distractions while she was getting her head in the game. She’d asked that he, Pauline, Hortencia, and the BRBs not show up until the contest was under way, so she could focus solely on the task at hand.

  Focusing in this environment, however, would be anything but easy.

  The Blue Coyote had been transformed from posh restaurant to public tribunal, with tables cleared away to leave a wide semicircle of space for the audience. The open-plan kitchen had a long, quarter-moon-shaped bar that allowed patrons to ogle the chefs across the pass while they worked (a fad the rather introverted Serafina had always loathed). The bar’s countertop was set up with two sets of mixers; copious trays, tins, and molds; and matching mise en place containing ingredients from shaved Belgian chocolate to unsalted Irish butter, and everything in between. Tablecloth-shrouded trolleys at either end of the bar held more mystery items for the great bake-off. Probably full of “challenging” ingredients like sea cucumber and monkey’s knuckles, if the Food Channel people have had any say in it, Sera thought, grimacing. They seemed to have taken over the place; camera jockeys and PAs with walkie-talkies stringing wires and testing light levels while the anxious restaurant staff looked on, wondering if they’d be able to clean up the mess in time to open for dinner.

  Outside, Canyon Road reveled in a rare warm winter day, the sun blazing merrily in a poetically blue sky. Tourists were strolling up and down the winding street in just their fleeces and down vests, stopping to snap photos of the whimsical sculptures that graced practically every storefront. “Santa Fe’s answer to Madison Avenue,” Sera had heard it called, and she had to agree. The exuberant art scene showcased in Canyon Road’s many galleries was at the core of the City Different’s charm—and brought in a great proportion of its tourism dollars.

  Already, people were peeking their heads in the Blue Coyote’s main entrance and peering through the wall of French doors that would be thrown open in an hour when the contest began. Food Channel production peons were keeping the gawkers at bay as politely as they could.

  Her opponent in this contest, however, felt no need for politesse.

  In the center of it all stood ringmaster Chef Austin, looking tall and leonine in a royal blue chef’s coat custom-embroidered in gold on the breast with his name and the steaming serving dish that was his trademark. He’s a steaming pile of something, all right, thought Sera, straightening her own plain white jacket self-consciously. Supremely confident, Austin was ordering the staff and TV crew about with equal abandon, and they were hustling to accommodate, fearful expressions in their eyes that Sera remembered well from her days in his kitchens. Her stomach tightened.

  The only way out of this mess was to win, and win big. If she beat Blake, the publicity would ensure her bakery became a real destination for tourists visiting Santa Fe. But if she lost…

  If she lost, she could kiss her Bliss good-bye.

  Oh, God…

  Hey. Don’t freak out just yet, she rallied herself. Blake may be in his element, but I’m not entirely unarmed. I’ve got my recipes, my equipment, and one highly volatile Scotsman.

  At Sera’s side, Malcolm oozed culinary menace, armed with camo-print apron, a special-order utili-kilt bristling with tools from pie crimpers to spatulas, and a hairnet that barely contained his snowy, waist-length locks. His mustaches had been braided, Gimli-style, giving him a truly ferocious look. If I can channel all that ferocity into wowing the crowd with our desserts, we’ve got a chance at winning this thing. But if he goes off the rails… yeek.

  “That’s the man, is it?” Malcolm growled, giving Blake the hairy eyeball from under furry brows. “Och, that preening popinjay dinna stand a chance against us, lass. Look at ’im, lording it up like ’e owns the place.”

  “He does,” Sera reminded him, smiling despite her nerves as she noted how prominent her pie maven’s brogue had grown since arriving in enemy territory. “Or at least, he’s the largest stakeholder, so he may as well. C’mon, the contest’s going to start soon, and we need to get set up.” She started tugging Malcolm toward the prep stations.

  “First I want tae size up th’ competition. Let’s go hae’ a word wi’ Chef Snottypants.”

  Before Sera could demur, Malcolm was marching, kilt swaying, over to her ex. “Hold your nose, Malc,” she called, trailing behind him. “Blake’s attitude stinks worse than a durian.”

  Apparently the threat of behavior more putrid than death-scented exotic fruit wasn’t enough to put the Scotsman off.

  “Austin!” Malcolm snapped, stomping to a halt beside the celebrity chef. Sera fetched up in his wake, stomach souring as she caught wind of Blake’s obnoxious cologne.

  Her ex didn’t bother to acknowledge either of them, continuing to bark orders at his staff as if his opponents didn’t exist. At his side stood a young man with a long-suffering expression, who was taking the brunt of it. Sera recognized him as Samuel Everett, one of the Southwest’s more prominent up-and-coming pâtissiers. She’d seen him featured in several industry magazines, all of the write-ups glowing. Sam must be the pastry chef here. Naturally, she thought, Blake drafted someone who can actually bake to be his assistant, since he’s still reading the back of Duncan Hines boxes himself. Under other circumstances, she’d have loved to swap techniques and gossip with the young chef over coffee. But no doubt Blake had filled his head with lies about her, and he’d probably run screaming even if they weren’t on opposite sides of today’s bake-off. It reminded Sera of why she needed so badly to win today.

  No more, Blake. No more. You’re goin’ down.

  “Oi! I’m talking to ye, ye arrogant shite,” Malcolm snarled. A vein began to pulse at his temple.

  Austin took his sweet time turning to face them. His eyes flicked wearily over Sera’s short frame first, from sturdy clogs to the sparkly snood Hortencia had crocheted for her. Only then did his gaze turn to Malcolm, and Sera saw his eyes widen for a moment before they became hooded with his habitual ennui once more.

  “Is this your second, or is it a sasquatch, Serafina?” Blake ogled Malcolm from kilt to hair net. “A bit… hairy… isn’t he? With this one around, you’ll want to check for stray fur balls when you plate your desserts.”

  Instead of swinging a cleaver at Blake, as Sera half feared, Malcolm merely planted his hands on his hips and eyed the other man for a moment. “What kind of accent is that yer sportin’, mate?” he asked, a trace of amusement coloring his brogue. “I canna quite place it. Sounds t’me a bit like Brighton—by way o’ Brooklyn.”

  Blake’s eyes bulged. His jaw worked furiously. His true origins were a mystery even to Sera, who’d spent more years by his side—and in his bed—than she cared to remember. But it was obvious he didn’t appreciate the Scotsman calling his ancestry—or his mystique—into question. “I won’t stand for being insulted in my own restaurant by some skirt-sporting savage,” he began, taking a menacing step in Malcolm’s direction. Malcolm met him halfway, the light of battle in his eye, issuing a growl that would have done a real sasquatch proud. But before either man could take a swing, Sera stepped between them.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t want Malcolm to pummel her ex. She simply wanted to do the honors herself.

  All the rage she’d felt through the years—the humiliations Blake had put her through, the dismissive, derisive way he treated her, and the ugly insinuations he’d spread all over town—two towns now—boiled to the surface in a blast of fury that had her face flushing brick red and her fingers balling into fists. Bad enough he’d poured his poison on her. How dare he insult her friend? She wanted to knee him in the balls. She wanted to channel Moe from the Three Stooges and fork him in the eye with two stiff fingers.

  Instead, she would show him up, but good.

  “Still a bully and a blowhard, I see,” Sera growled through gritted teeth, glaring up at her nemesis. “You might as well skip the convection ovens today, with all t
he hot air you spew.” She planted her hands on her hips and gave her ex a once-over as dismissive as his own had been, reveling in how freaking great it felt to stand up to her tormenter. “But your bullshit’s not going to hide the fact that I’m still the better chef—and the better person. By the time I’m done wiping the floors with you today, everyone’s going to know it.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sam Everett’s lip twitch before he wiped his face clean of expression.

  “I hardly think so.” Blake scoffed, sneering. “You forget: I know what you’re made of, you pathetic child, and I know you haven’t got the sauce to best me. I can’t wait to watch you choke, Sera-frigid. It’s what you’re best at, after all.”

  Maybe at one time, but Sera wasn’t that woman anymore. She didn’t freeze up. And she didn’t give up just because some mean, nasty bully pushed her around.

  “Let’s get this show on the road, Austin,” she said tightly. “The next time I lower myself to talk to you, it’ll be to accept your concession speech after I kick your ass all over this kitchen.” She looked around for the person she’d been told would be shepherding the showdown—some woman from the Food Channel apparently, whose job it would be to lay down the rules and make sure the contest ran smoothly.

  The hostess wasn’t hard to find, seated in one of the restaurant’s semicircular blue velvet booths. Her face was obscured from Sera’s gaze by a team of makeup artists and hair stylists who were buzzing around her like highly paid mosquitoes, making sure every lock was coifed, every lash lengthened. Her dress—a clingy red spaghetti-strap number more appropriate to a sultry Miami night than a chilly December day in Santa Fe—fit her with almost embarrassing intimacy, delineating a physique that spoke more of long hours in the gym than at the dining table. Blonder than Gwyneth Paltrow’s blondest day, tall and statuesque, she was everything Sera wasn’t as a woman.