Both Ethan and I shuddered at his words. His partner looked miserable as Reed continued to ramble on with his master plan. Ethan set aside his notes and groaned. “I don’t know about you, but that sounds like the worst version of hell on earth imaginable,” he joked in a low voice.
“Hell is Reed’s face on everything.” I shivered. “Yeah, our project is going to kick his project’s ass.”
Ethan laughed and nodded at Reed. “I’d rather work the line and wash dishes in my spare time than work with Reed Jerkoff.”
“I’d rather work the line, wash dishes and get a lecture in French on making crepes from Boulanger than work with Reed Jerkoff.” I laughed.
“I’d rather work the line, wash dishes, get a lecture and have my balls cut off than work with Reed Jerkoff.” Ethan winced and covered his crotch as I laughed.
He barked out a laugh and leaned his muscled forearms on the table. “Well, maybe not having my balls cut off. Even Reed’s not worthy of physical mutilation.”
When said Jerkoff turned to shoot Ethan a dirty look, we both doubled over laughing. I straightened when my knee bumped Ethan’s under the desk, the laughter dying in my throat as his eyes met mine. For a brief second, I caught a small glimpse of attraction. The memory of my shower the other night surged back in full force as a slow burn started low in my stomach.
When the professor called our attention to the front of the class, Ethan looked away and cleared his throat. He bent his head and scribbled down some more notes. Scholarship competition or not, I thanked whatever culinary gods above had assigned us as partners for this project, hoping I’d see him look at me with the same desire I felt. Not as a rich kid, but as someone who was worth wanting, not for what I had but who I was. I wanted him to treat me like an equal, someone he respected, not the golden boy he thought I was.
Chapter Fourteen
Ethan
After an already long day of class, I stood amongst a small group of people I recognized from the culinary program outside the classroom in which the scholarship’s preliminary competition was to be held. A cranky and still sick Claire clutched the travel mug of tea I’d made for her and I fidgeted. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Lassiter sitting against the wall, head bent over our textbook, no doubt trying to cram in as much minute shit as he could.
“Will you hold still?” Claire whispered as my foot tapped impatiently.
“What? I can’t help it.” I sighed and shook my head.
“I’ve had a crapload of cold meds and you’re still making me nervous, E. Settle down. You’ve got this.” She cocked her head at the rest of the people milling around the hallway. “This should be basic stuff we learned our first year.”
“I know. But it’s still important and you know I hate tests.”
I turned my head, feeling like I was being watched. Lassiter nodded and looked away when the door to the classroom opened. I shifted my weight and cracked my neck as I followed Claire into the room and waited for our instructions.
Boulanger walked in with two other white-coated chefs and stood in front of the assembled group. They hadn’t told us ahead of time who would be judging the competition, only that it would be during the week at night after class due to judge and facility availability. One, I recognized from one of my other classes but the other wasn’t familiar.
“Good morning. I recognize all of you from our classes over the years, but I shall introduce myself and my esteemed judges anyhow. This is Chef Linda Shultz, award-winning chef.” The intense-looking, tall, blonde chef with spiky hair nodded and smiled. I’d had her as an instructor for several classes last year and she was strict but fair. She’d owned a string of restaurants and bakeries but had quit to teach.
“Also judging your dishes today is a good friend of the school and owner of Sharpe’s on Fifth, restaurateur Calvin Sharpe.” Short and round, his dark skin set off by the white starched jacket, he reminded me of a kindly grandpa.
“Last but not least, I am Laurent Boulanger. In addition to being handsome and charming, I am the instructor for pastry and I will be your third judge for today.”
Several people chuckled nervously at his joke and I had to hand it to him. Boulanger was my favorite instructor even though he taught my most hated class. He paused and I looked around, drawing in a deep breath as I saw everyone else’s attention focused on Boulanger. Except Lassiter, who looked away as soon as I made eye contact.
“Competition for this scholarship is fierce. The ten of you competing for this opportunity today have demonstrated your interest and dedication by submitting with your application package, your grades, your letters of recommendation and personal essays. Each of you had to be recommended by at least one instructor from the school, so please know you are representing both them and yourselves. Throughout the entire competition we will be judging you on your conduct, attitude, the ability to meet deadlines and personal integrity. The student who wins this competition will have earned a semester of intensive classes here on campus and the opportunity to study abroad for a semester at the Institute’s sister school in Paris.”
He paused and looked around the room.
“For this round and all rounds we will be evaluating your professionalism, organizational skills, personal safety and adherence to all sanitation practices and protocols, knife skills, and basic French techniques. We will judge the three dishes you will be preparing for us today on taste and appearance as well. We will expect you to present your finished dishes, which include salad niçoise with seared tuna, steamed mussels in a white wine, tomato and fennel broth, and steak au poivre with herbed frites. Since all of you have made these recipes several times over the course of your education at the Institute you will do this all by memory. Now find a station and begin. You have ninety minutes to prepare your small presentation plates.”
Fuck. Ninety minutes for nine plates. I took a deep breath and laughed softly when Claire winked at me. You can do this, Martin. These recipes are cake. You’ve made them a thousand times and you can do this better than anyone else here.
Well, almost anyone. I glanced over at Lassiter. I was the more creative of the two of us, but he was more consistent. We’d see which won out in the end.
“You may begin.” Boulanger pushed a stopwatch and the beep echoed in the quiet room.
For a second we all stood there like idiots before his words sunk in and we scrambled for our stations. Claire ended up in front of me and Lassiter was two stations over.
I took another steadying breath and tied my apron around my waist as I got to work. Timing was everything. All three dishes had to be the perfect temperature at the end of the ninety minutes. I’d be lucky to get this shit done on time but if it meant I had a shot at this scholarship I’d happily bust my balls. When I glanced around the room, Lassiter was intent on his mise and even Reed was serious for once.
What caught my eye was my baby sister. Claire was moving slow and sluggish, having to pause for rattling coughing fits. She nodded at me and went back to work.
Thirty minutes later I had all my mise completed and was draining my fries for the steak frites for the first round of frying when Claire bent double with the loudest coughing fit I’d heard since she had gotten sick. Wheezing and red, she waved over Boulanger, who spoke to her quietly. I cursed loud and colorfully when she sadly shook her head and untied her apron.
When Claire finally met my eyes she shrugged and tried to give me a halfhearted thumbs-up.
Claire was out.
When I looked around, Lassiter’s expression was worried and he mouthed, Is she okay?
I shrugged and tried to focus. Worry for Claire warred with my competitive instincts. I should walk right now and check on her. But if I did, my chances for the scholarship were totally blown.
Boulanger stopped at my station, leaning in to speak softly. “Madem
oiselle Martin has removed herself from the competition. She requested I inform you she will consult a doctor and wishes for you to continue.”
He squeezed my shoulder in sympathy and moved on when another person in the group hissed with pain, clutching her bloody finger.
I drew in a deep breath and closed my eyes. Do this for Claire. Don’t fuck this up now, Martin. Nothing was going to stop me making it through this round. When I opened my eyes, Lassiter was watching me again, a worried look on his face. I nodded in response and pushed thoughts of anyone else out of my head as I focused on grinding out the required dishes.
Since I’d finished my mise, at the end all I’d have to do was fire the steak and tuna medium, do the second fry on the potatoes, add the mussels to the broth and assemble the salad. Sneaking glances at the clock, I knew I’d timed everything perfectly and still had time to get everything out hot and cold at the end, though I knew it’d be a rush.
An hour later, sweaty, exhausted and on edge, I was finishing adding my garnishes and wiping down my plates when Boulanger called out, “And time is up, competitors. We look forward to tasting all of your hard work. Leave your completed dishes at your stations and we will post the results in approximately one hour.”
The other two judges stood behind him, faint smiles on their faces. I wiped my face with my arm and tiredly made my way to the front with the rest of the group to shake the judges’ hands. On the way out of the room, I glanced over at Lassiter’s station and sighed. His plates were almost as well presented as mine. Almost.
As soon as I hit the hallway, I had my cell phone out and was dialing Claire as I stalked up and down the hallway, waiting for her to answer. I felt my body tense. Come on. Answer the phone.
When Claire finally answered, I could barely hear her mumbled string of words over the background noise. “I’m at the student health center waiting for my prescription, okay? It’s nothing serious, just bronchitis, but I have to go. Hope you kicked ass.” She ended the phone call as I cursed and I was seriously tempted to hurl the stupid piece of plastic when I heard Lassiter’s voice behind me.
“Is Claire alright? Her coughing sounded pretty nasty in there.”
I fought the urge to bite his head off, as he honestly didn’t deserve it. He obviously cared about Claire too. But I wasn’t in the mood for chitchat.
“She’s at the doctors and they gave her meds, so she’s okay,” I said softly and leaned against the wall. I let my body slide down and my head thumped back as I closed my eyes again. I knew Lassiter had joined me when I smelled his cologne and heard a rustling next to me.
“She’ll be okay, Ethan. She’s tough. Hell, you know she’s probably yelling at some poor pharmacist to hurry up right now.”
Against my will, I chuckled. He was right. Claire usually possessed more patience than I’d been gifted with, but I didn’t pity anyone who got in her way after this long-ass day.
We sat there in silence while some of the people who’d competed joined us and others milled around the hall, waiting. I had to hand it to Lassiter—at least he didn’t try to make small talk.
After what seemed like forever, I heard Lassiter’s voice next to me and blearily blinked my eyes. I jerked away from his body, sitting up with a start when I realized I’d fallen asleep with my head on his shoulder.
“Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you,” I mumbled, embarrassed. “How long was I out?”
“Not long. Boulanger just posted the results.”
I yawned and stretched, still exhausted even after my catnap and pulled myself to my feet. I stood next to Lassiter reading down the list. Only the top five would make it to the next round.
“Jacob Silva.”
“Kailey Fowler.”
“Elizabeth Rios.”
“James Lassiter.”
“Ethan Martin.”
“Fuck yeah,” I crowed. Lassiter’s grin echoed mine and I stuck my fist out. For a second he didn’t react. When he finally curled his fingers into a fist and bumped it against my own I grinned wider.
“Congrats, Lassiter. Now I get the chance to kick your ass in the next round.”
“You can try, Martin, but you know I’m better at baking than you are.”
I snorted at his words. “Whatever. You’re the one who tutored me so if I suck, you suck.”
When I heard Reed’s voice behind me, I felt the brief flash of camaraderie I’d shared with Lassiter fade. “Martin made it, but I didn’t?” He sniffed. “Well, I know who Boulanger’s favorites are now.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, with two more judges besides him? I call bullshit on your theory.”
“It’s a pity your sister dropped out of the running, but it’s for the best. It’s not like she belongs here anyhow. This competition is for the cream of the crop and she obviously doesn’t have the chops to be here.”
White-hot rage shot through me at his words. When I turned on him, Reed stumbled back against the wall. No one talked shit about Claire. No one.
“Jackson, don’t you ever talk about my sister. She has more talent, drive and determination than you have in your little finger. More brains too.”
I balled my fingers into a fist as Jackson’s face blanched in fear but I froze when I felt Lassiter’s hand on my arm.
“If you punch him like he deserves, he’ll go whining to the judges about how you hit him, Ethan. It’ll cost you your spot. Don’t let him ruin everything you’ve worked for.”
I stepped back and shook off Lassiter’s hand.
“Fuck off, Reed.”
Jackson straightened himself up to his full height and attempted to look tough. “It’s for the best. I’m much better at the business side of things anyhow.”
When he wandered off to annoy the hell out of someone else, I stuffed my hands in my pockets and took off. Claire was out of the running for the scholarship, I’d had some weird moment with Lassiter and I needed to work my ass off to pass the next round of competition. What I didn’t understand was why I was happy Lassiter had made it to the next round as well. He was my direct competition, so why were we suddenly starting to feel like a team?
Chapter Fifteen
Jamie
I didn’t know what to expect when I walked into pastry class on Friday afternoon. The first round of competition on Wednesday night had been brutal after a full day of lecture and class. At the end, I was exhausted, but elated to be continuing on to the next round.
I still couldn’t get a read on Ethan, which was beyond frustrating. As mercurial as he was, I couldn’t predict whether he’d be agreeable or act like he wanted to rip my head off.
“Monsieur Lassiter? Since Mademoiselle Martin is still sick, I would like you and Monsieur Martin to continue to be partners. Oui? Merci.” Chef nodded and moved on to the next station.
We’d practiced pastry dough and fillings all week but today we were making several desserts and putting it all together for Chef Boulanger’s inspection and grading. I could only hope cooperative Ethan would make an appearance today.
I stared at the ingredient list and closed my eyes, turning my head to crack my neck. I hadn’t slept much since I was still stressed over the crap with my dad and a headache was slowly working its way up my neck.
“You going to stand there and hold the list, Golden Boy? Or are we going to whip these desserts into shape?”
I jumped, startled by Ethan’s sudden appearance. I opened my eyes and shot him a smirk to cover how unsettled I was feeling. “I was born ready, Martin. Which would you like to work on? The pastry shells or the cream filling for the cannoli? Or the tart?”
My smirk widened when I saw him squirm a little bit at the mention of the cream filling. I handed him half of the ingredients and walked toward the pantry without another look, calling over my shoulder. “Cream
filling it is, Martin.”
“Asshole,” he hissed.
I snickered but kept walking. I had cannoli to make and an uncomfortable but agreeable Ethan as my partner. I’d never been one to make the first move but I didn’t know how much longer I’d be able to keep my hands to myself. Ethan might punch me in the face but not trying would be even worse than that. I wanted him—not the fake Ethan who kept everyone away with his biting sarcasm. I wanted the real Ethan. The one who poured every single ounce of his passion for food, for cooking, for life into everything he did. I wanted all his intensity directed at me.
Ethan was already back at our prep station when I brought all of the ingredients we’d need for the cannoli pastry and the apple tart. I hid a smile when I saw him peering at the recipe instructions, his brow furrowed in concentration.
“Need some help there?”
“You focus on the dough, Golden Boy. I’ve got this.”
He poured some heavy cream into the bowl for the filling and cranked the mixer on to high. Cream splashed everywhere and when I lowered the speed Ethan glared at me.
“You know I’ve made whipped cream before, right?”
“I’m sure you have, but if you overbeat it, the filling won’t have the right texture.”
He stared at me as he reached over and cranked the mixture back up. I turned it back down.
“Hey, stop touching my mixer and focus on your dough, okay?”
“Alright, but if you overmix it—”
“If I screw it up, I’ll fix it.”
We worked in silence for a while, the rest of the classroom a flurry of movement around us. Everyone’s complete focus was on their task. Even Reed had steered clear of us since he’d been eliminated from the scholarship competition.
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