A Recipe for Rivalry

by Olivia Quint

  A Recipe for Rivalry

  Passion Projects Series, Volume 2

  Olivia Quint

  Published by Olivia Quint, 2020.

  A Recipe for Rivalry

  Olivia Quint

  Copyright © 2020 Olivia Quint

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior consent of the author, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  We could all do with some more romance in our lives.

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  A Word From the Author

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you kindly for downloading this eBook!

  I’m a firm believer in the power of love to fight the many problems we face in today’s society. A Recipe for Rivalry is the story of two aspiring chefs, set against the romantic backdrop of the City of Love – Paris.

  Therefore, I pledge to donate 10% of its monthly generated proceeds (from both direct sales and Kindle Unlimited page reads) to the international humanitarian organization ACTION AGAINST HUNGER.

  For more than 40 years, ACTION AGAINST HUNGER has been dedicated to ending life-threatening hunger all over the world. You can click on their logo below to learn more about their on-going charity programs:

  Thank you once again for helping make the world a better place by downloading my story. Happy reading!

  With all my love,

  Olivia

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Epilogue

  Other Works

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Chloe

  “The Wester family name means something, young lady...” the annoying voice at the end of the line insisted on reminding me. I just hung up and sighed.

  The entire point behind my move to Paris would be defeated if I still allowed Mother’s words to get to me. Instead, I put the phone down on the iron-wrought table, picked up my little cup of coffee, and resumed studying the late spring rain trickling down from the grey heavens above.

  I wanted something different for myself. I wanted people to hear my name – Chloe Wester – and see me, not my family’s vast influence and wealth. I wanted to design my own fate. Why was that so hard for Mother to understand? To her credit, at least she’d tried listening to me. Father, on the other hand, flat out refused to even speak to me. “No daughter of mine will live as the help do!” he always told me. “You will NOT be a cook!” He never even bothered with the correct word – chef.

  Ever since I tried cooking for my friends during college, I realized that was what I’d love to be: a bonafide, certified, professionally-trained chef. Having left home behind, I finally had my best chance of becoming just that, in the most beautiful city of the Old Continent, no less.

  Up until then, I felt like I’d lived my entire life in a bubble. I was the Wester heir, which did mean something back in New York. It was the biggest name on Wall Street after all, and Father was dead set on keeping it that way. All he’d ever wanted for me was to take over the financial empire he’d built from scratch, sparing no thought for what I actually wanted to do with my life. Even with all his material wealth, Father’s thinking was myopic at best and downright ignorant at worst.

  He’d basically forced me to major in Business Management, but he couldn’t ultimately accept the “business” I decided to pursue. I wanted to run my own restaurant, but he saw that career path as beneath my station. For a little while, I tried appeasing his whims. I’d worked at his hedge fund, learning the ropes for a few months, but I was never happy there. I quickly realized that I wasn’t after material wealth like he was. What I wanted was the satisfaction of working for myself and bringing joy to others.

  Despite their considerable fortune, my folks never allowed me to travel to places where they had no financial interest in. Thus, moving to Paris was a completely new experience for me. Now that I think of it, we’d never had a family vacation. We never even felt like an actual family. While Father was a sworn workaholic, Mother seemingly lived for him. The way she never complained, never argued, even when I knew she was hurting deep inside, felt utterly wrong to me. I’d NEVER end up living like that!

  Sure, it was not easy breaking away from them. I used some of my trust money to start training as a chef, but I could only go so far in the US. I wanted more – class, prestige, refinement. When I heard about the opportunity in Europe, I had to seize it straight away. That’d been the last straw for Father, who from then on wanted nothing more to do with me. Mother did her best to convince me otherwise, but that only proved she cared more for Father’s wants than my happiness. To tell you the truth, I had no way of knowing whether I was making the best choice, but I knew for a fact that staying in New York would’ve been the wrong one.

  The sounds of umbrellas being shaken and closed brought me back from my reverie. It hadn’t rained for very long, but the wide streets had already formed steady rivulets flowing freely down their sides.

  I was still seated at a quaint café overlooking République square, waiting for a call that never seemed to come. Danielle should’ve called by now. I’d been living in a small hotel for several days by then. Thanks to her, I’d get a cozy little room of my own – a less expensive one, too. Having been virtually disowned by my parents meant that money was something I didn’t have enough of anymore, but that was fine with me. I only want a chance to prove myself.

  “Chloe, I’m so sorry!” a female voice suddenly declared to my right. Danielle was running toward my table, soaked from the rain, her shoes all but ruined. She burst into a string of excuses, but I held up a hand and smiled.

  “It’s all right, DD! You’re the one helping me out here. Waiting for a bit was the least I could do,” I added.

  The truth was, Danielle was habitually late, ever since I met her in college. While we weren’t roommates, she didn’t live far from the Greenwich Village campus. Still, that somehow never stopped her from making a late entrance to almost every single class at NYU.

  “So, are you ready to go? Wait, are those all of your bags?” she asked, visibly surprised. It must’ve shocked her to see me for once with just one small suitcase and an even smaller carry-on. “Non, mon amie,” her native French accent made evident, “this will not do at all! Immediately after you are settled in, we’ll go shopping. After that, we can discuss your meeting with my father.”

  Her father, the world-renowned Chef Jean Luc Didier, was the reason I came to Paris after all. Danielle and I had always been close, and when she suggested that her father could help me fulfill my dream, she made a very persuasive case. So much so that Chef Didier invited me to Paris for a once-in-a-lifetime training opportunity, as he himself put it.

  Unfortunately, I was also told he’d already picked another student to mentor that year before Danielle made her request to him on my behalf. Because of this, he’d have to find a way to choose only one of u
s to receive the certified training in the end.

  So, there I was: an almost complete amateur going up against someone mentored by a Michelin-starred chef, and with a considerable head start on me no less. Be that as it may, I was ready to do anything to get that training opportunity no matter who this mysterious other student was.

  I’m not going to let my dream slip away from me.

  ***

  “No, no... Wear the blue one, you’ll look more professional in that!”

  I wasn’t going to argue with someone who’d majored in Fashion & Design. I’d have gone with whatever Danielle picked for me just then. Since I was due to meet with her father, I figured she’d know what would appeal to him best.

  “As you say, DD,” I nodded. I was more than a little bit nervous, but also determined not to let any of it show.

  To be perfectly frank, I’d actually met Chef Didier a few times prior. He was a positively rotund man, always sporting a twirly mustache and a knowing smile. His close-cropped hair contrasted sharply to that of his daughter, whose golden tresses seemed to go on for days. Danielle herself was younger than me, noticeably thinner, and also a little shorter. She was the very definition of petite mademoiselle. Her voice could probably hit notes only dogs would hear, too!

  “He sent a car to pick us up, let’s go!” Danielle squealed, thumbing her phone closed. I followed her out of our apartment building and into the back seat of a navy blue sedan.

  Even after spending almost an entire week there, I was still taken aback by how gorgeous Paris looked at night. From the elegant boulevards, to the way the moon seemed larger and shone its light on the magnificent façades around us, setting them all aglow in molten silver.

  “I won’t be coming with you to the meeting, Chloe,” Danielle said to my left, breaking me out of my trance just as we approached her father’s restaurant. “You’ll have to do this on your own.”

  “But I’m so nervous, DD, what if this doesn’t go my way?” The pressure was starting to mount on me, but she put a calming hand on mine.

  “It’s all right, mon amie, you’ll do great! I just know it,” Danielle smiled and gave my hand a little squeeze.

  “Do you know anything about his other student?” I asked, hardly keeping my curiosity in check. Before she could give me an answer, our car came to a halt. I smiled back at her, then promptly stepped out, not wanting to keep Chef Didier waiting. Danielle’s words resounded in my head, and my anxiety gradually shifted into hope. I can do this!

  As I approached the building, the name of the restaurant flashed in curly lettering above me – “Le Génie de Cramoisi”. The Crimson Genie. Stepping inside, I noticed it had a very cozy feel to it, drawing me in as if I belonged there. True to its name, the deep red upholstery and dark wood furnishings perfectly complemented the rapturous scent of broiling, caramelized meat wafting in from the open kitchen. I wanted a place like that for myself – something entirely my own, bereft of my parents’ influence. The first person I saw as I made my way in was not Chef Didier, though, but someone else. Whoever he was, he seemed to have been waiting for me.

  The young man standing ahead of me with his hands crossed was handsome, all right. The first thing I noticed about him was his long, dark hair tied up in a neat bun, with a matching trimmed beard that gave him an old-school gentleman look. As soon as he saw me enter, his lips sported a confident smirk before he turned around and said something to someone else I couldn’t see. Without another word, he leaned against a nearby pillar and resumed watching me. I think he noticed me staring at him too because his smile only deepened, but how could I not? He was built almost like a fighter, his muscular forearms straining against his rolled-up white shirt. Suddenly, my view of him was blocked by Chef Didier walking toward me from behind the pillar.

  “Welcome, welcome, welcome!” he announced loudly, stretching his arms wide and hugging me. I wasn’t expecting that, but it certainly helped put my mind at ease. “I hope you’re enjoying my beautiful city so far!” Unlike his US-schooled daughter, he had no control over his French accent, which showed quite frequently. And proudly.

  “Yes, sir! I’m actually enjoying it very much,” I replied, grinning ear to ear.

  “Sir?! So American! Please, call me Chef. Now come, come, I want to welcome you properly, with a meal.” He then turned and motioned to the young man, still studying us. “Bring us two plates,” Chef Didier said, and the man whom I assumed to be a waiter nodded once and walked off. He came back quickly with two steaming plates of flamiche. It took me only one bite to become enamored with its exquisite flavor, the likes of which I’d never tasted before. This has to be one of the dishes Chef Didier is famous for!

  “This is just incredible, Chef,” I managed between bites. “Your cooking is... extraordinary!”

  “No, my dear, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. This meal was made by him!” the Chef replied, gesturing behind him to the young man still hovering nearby. The one who then promptly stepped forward, offering me his hand. I shook it, only half-confidently.

  “You must be Chloe!” He had the faintest British accent. “My name is Michael... Michael Fletcher. I hear you’re the one trying to take my spot!”

  I didn’t even have time to open my mouth before I heard Chef Didier speak.

  “Now, dear Chloe... we’ll see if you can make us something even better!”

  Chapter Two

  Michael

  She wasn’t what I expected, but then again, I hadn’t really expected any competition to begin with.

  Chloe seemed positively in awe as she walked in, looking all around the Génie before her gaze finally rested on me. They were quite amazing, those eyes of hers, with irises so blue they seemed almost frozen. She was shorter than me, yet her posture telegraphed a select type of upbringing. Her pair of killer, shapely legs peeking from underneath her pencil skirt drew my attention right from the start.

  In summary, Chloe was drop-dead gorgeous all right, but she seemed to be staring at me too, without even realizing she was doing it. Nor considering what effect it had on me. It was amusing to behold. She didn’t know we’d be rivals at the time, but even then, I couldn’t bring myself to think of her as one. Chef Didier had told me a little bit about her, of course. About how she grew up in stark opposition to how I’d been raised back in Manchester. How Chloe took to cooking only fairly recently. Although she must’ve made an impact on the Chef to be here, I honestly doubted she was anywhere near my level.

  At Chef Didier’s request, I presented her with a dish I’d prepared earlier that day, and she was completely blown away. After that little preamble, it was her turn to make us something. Quite unexpectedly, she settled on trying to recreate my very own flamiche.

  Looking over in her direction, Chloe appeared highly focused in the kitchen, almost like the food she prepared mattered more than anything else in the world. Her frowny seriousness made her look extremely cute, too. I had nothing against her, she seemed like a fine girl, but that still didn’t mean she should’ve been there. Why am I so drawn to her then?

  “I hope you’ll enjoy it,” she said as she brought the plates and laid them in front of us. In one fluid motion, she released her chestnut locks from the hairnet she’d been wearing in the kitchen, her slender fingers moving like she was casting a spell. Snapping my attention back to the food, it seemed she’d actually done a good job recreating my dish. Better than I’d anticipated, even, but I was going to let the Chef give us his final word on it.

  “Mmm... magnifique, Chloe! Maybe not as good as Michael’s, but definitely a solid contender,” Chef Didier started. “However, I’ll not judge you based on a single meal. You two shall be the sole chefs at the Génie, starting tomorrow!”

  “You know I like a good challenge, Chef,” I replied. “I’ll do my best to make you proud!”

  “Me, too, sir... I mean, Chef,” Chloe stuttered. She still did not seem all that sure of herself.

  “Indeed, you’ll start tomorrow too, m
ademoiselle Wester,” Chef Didier nodded. “You’ll both work in my kitchen over the next fortnight, to get a better feel for the life of a real chef. After that, I’ll open some stalls for you to run outside. The one who’ll get the most customers, wins!”

  I looked toward Chloe, her hands clasped timidly in front of her. As she met my gaze, she swallowed a knot that had been seemingly formed in her throat.

  ***

  A week wasn’t enough time to get to know someone well, but you could at least get the general gist by working alongside them. I’d cooked with Chloe for just that amount of time, and she’d proven to be handy around a stove, just like Chef Didier had said. I’d pictured her as an arrogant little brat at first, but she seemed genuinely nice, if only a little bit shy. Chloe still didn’t like addressing me much, but I relished the effect I seemed to have on her when we did talk.

  “Three more coq au vin!” I shouted to her as I walked back to my station. “Everyone seems to be loving your cooking, Chloe!”

  “You don’t have to sound so surprised, you know...” she chuckled without raising her head. Although she couldn’t maintain eye contact with me for very long, I could feel we were fast becoming friends despite our unique circumstances. Chef Didier’s plan was starting to seem like less of a competition, but I needn’t forget that it still very much was whether we liked it or not.

  After three dozen more orders, our shift was finally over. Chef Didier was working us to the bone all right, but I’d got used to his work regimen by then. Just like Chloe, I’d always wanted to be a chef, but unlike her, I’d never met my father. Mum made every meal I ate as a child, and when I was old enough, I took command of our kitchen. Ever since I received my first words of praise for my cooking, I started working hard, and just then, I had my first proper chance at becoming recognized as a genuine chef.

  I staid behind to help Chloe clean up, as it was her turn that day. She seemed surprised by my offer.