Babydaddy To Go: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Adams, S. C.

  “The pot,” the kid says confidently. He’s probably fresh out of high school based on his young looks and steady voice.

  “Is that your final answer?”

  He hesitates. “Yes?”

  “Would anyone else like to amend his answer?

  I raise my hand again, only to be looked over in favor or Samantha.

  She shoots me a smug look before answering. What’s that about?

  “You’d put the strainer in the pot to make it easier, especially with such a large quantity of pasta being made.”

  Nate beams at her, making my stomach sour. Is he flirting with her right now? After our amazing date last night?

  “Excellent, Samantha,” he says. I note, for some reason, that he knew her name but not the boy’s name who got the answer wrong.

  “Everyone make a note of that,” Nate continues. “Sometimes the best piece of equipment is a combination of multiple pieces.”

  He goes over a few more things at the front of the room, peppering us with questions as the demonstration proceeds. I’m paying attention, but it’s extremely difficult. Even though I slept late this morning, I’m still exhausted. My sleep was fitful at best. The stress of figuring out Nate’s identity and my first day at school made it hard to stay asleep. It’s no wonder I snoozed through my alarms.

  A yawn escapes from my lips.

  “Are we boring you, Miss Hall?” Nate asks, startling me. My cheeks are going to be permanently red if Nate insists on embarrassing me so much.

  “No, sir,” I respond quietly. “I had a long night.”

  The reference to our date catches him off guard. He swallows hard and turns back to the board. From the corner of my eye, I catch a dirty look from Samantha.

  Does the blonde Barbie realize this isn’t a competition? It’s not like we get a prize for finishing the class. No one will be eliminated, that I know of. She’s being a bitch for no reason! Samantha doesn’t even know me, yet I can tell she doesn’t like me. I wish I knew why.

  “I would like you all to take your spaces in the kitchen labs. As I mentioned earlier, your desk partner will be your kitchen partner.”

  I stifle a groan. Samantha and I have to actually work together? I might have to beg for a new partner. I’m sure I can get one of the boys to take Samantha off my hands. That is, I could if I could figure out how to talk to them.

  Without a word to Samantha or anyone else, I shuffle into the kitchen that matches the number on our table. From far away, I couldn’t tell how big the kitchenettes actually are. Though there is a single sink and fridge, there is a lot of counter space as well as two stoves and two ranges. I guess that means Samantha and I won’t be collaborating as much as I’d worried.

  “Your seat mate will be your partner for some things, but for the most part you’ll be cooking alone,” Nate growls, reading my mind. “For this activity, you’re to work as a team. I’m going to read off a dish and you’ll put everything you need to make that dish onto the counter. This is your first quiz, and you will be graded. Use teamwork to ensure the highest possible score.”

  This actually sounds kind of fun. I didn’t know we’d be playing games on our first day!

  “We’ll split the kitchen,” Samantha says. “You take that side, I’ll take this side.”

  Not wanting to make her angrier than she already is, I accept Samantha’s leadership role. It’s a good idea. While Nate prepares, I peek through the cabinets on my side to get a feel for what we have and where it is. Behind me, Samantha does the same thing.

  “Okay! Your first dish is chicken parm for two with freshly grated cheese, homemade sauce, and fried chicken.”

  My side has the grater, sauce pan, and strainer. I also pull out a few plates for serving and preparation. Samantha pulls out everything else, including utensils and a cutting board.

  We’re among the last group to be judged. Nate doesn’t say anything other than, “Great job.”

  “You all did well,” he says back at the front of the room. “It’s going to get more difficult from here on out.”

  Nate runs through five more dishes and each time he gives us a great job, but nothing more.

  “Okay! One last dish,” he says. “Get everything you would need to make a medium rare steak and mashed potatoes.”

  This is so easy! We gather the few pans and utensils necessary. This time, Nate doesn’t check us.

  “Now, use that equipment to make a medium rare steak with simple seasoning and mashed potatoes.”

  Excellent. Finally, we get to actually cook.

  I get to work right away, ignoring Samantha and getting in the zone. I can do this.

  I belong here.

  6

  Nathaniel

  Monday

  Alyssa and that blonde girl, Samantha, are standing at their work stations ready to serve me their steaks. Luckily, they’re near the rear of the other side. It’ll be a while before I have to ruin Alyssa’s life.

  The first kitchenette holds two young boys, probably eighteen and nineteen years old. They stand at attention in front of their plates. I like these two already, but I can’t show them that.

  Silently, I slice into the first boy’s steak and take a bite. It tastes okay, but it’s extremely underdone.

  “You call this medium rare?” I ask, holding the steak in front of his face. “This cow is still grazing!”

  I slam the nearly raw meat back onto the plate and take a spoonful of mashed potatoes. It takes me longer to chew than should be necessary for mashed potatoes.

  “Did you even cook your potatoes? Did you just think you could chop them up, squish them, and I wouldn’t notice that they’re almost as raw as your steak?”

  The boy cowers beneath me. I love teaching classes for this reason. Students fear you, and I like to be feared.

  “Sorry, sir,” he whispers.

  I turn from him in disgust and turn to the second boy’s dish. When I cut through the steak, I find it perfectly medium rare.

  “Do you see this?” I ask the first boy. “This is what medium rare looks like.”

  Are those tears in his eyes? I think they are! It’s my first day as a teacher and I’ve already made a student cry. There should be an award for that, although I also feel somewhat bad. After all, he’s just a kid. But should I tell the other chefs?

  After all, I’ve been in touch with some of the former teachers – and some of the students – from NYACA. They helped me get in the right headspace for my year as the instructor here. It’s been tricky, and I’m still treading a fine line between firm discipline mixed with supportive encouragement. Teaching is definitely a difficult profession.

  Biting into the steak, I find that the temperature is right, but the outside is chewy.

  “Did you bother to sear your steak?” I ask the boy.

  He shakes his head.

  “Always sear meat before cooking it,” I growl loud enough for the entire class to hear. “I hope the rest of you are better than these two.”

  This one’s mashed potatoes aren’t much better than the first, but at least they’re fully cooked. I tear him apart for screwing up such simple dishes and move on to the next team. They look sufficiently terrified of me.

  When I was leading the discussion and lecture, I tried to be nicer to the students. However, this is practical learning. If they can’t take the heat, they won’t last in the kitchen. Most of these kids will have to be assistants before they can lead their own restaurant. Chefs love to yell at the lower cooks in the kitchen, even if the mistake was the chef’s fault. I’m not trying to be mean to these students, I’m trying to prepare them for the reality of their chosen professions.

  The next group is somewhat better, but the girl’s steak is medium well and the guy’s mashed potatoes are bland. He didn’t add any seasoning, not even salt. Yet, his steak was over-seasoned with salt, pepper, and what I think was burnt oregano. I’ve never had oregano on a steak before.

  By the third group, I’m st
arting to wonder if this is a prank. Am I on some TV show where I’m supposed to teach terrible chefs how to not kill people in the kitchen? That’s the only explanation for the awful steak and potato combinations I’ve had to endure thus far.

  I pause after the final group on this side and cleanse my pallet with crackers and water. Reluctantly, I pay a visit to the group closest to the rear on the other side. Miraculously, their food doesn’t make me want to die. Both of them nailed medium well on the steaks. I make a note in my scorebook that they should get good grades on this first assignment. They also did well on my scavenger hunt. I have a feeling these two are going to be star students.

  “What are your names?” I ask the two boys.

  “Kyle,” the taller one tells me.

  “Stephen,” adds the other.

  “Well, done, Kyle and Stephen. I look forward to tasting more of your dishes throughout the year.”

  The two boys beam. As fun as it is to tear the students down, it’s nearly as fun to build them up. It can’t be all negative.

  Three tables later, and I’m standing in front of Alyssa and her table partner, Samantha. Samantha’s chef’s coat is unbuttoned at the top, revealing a lack of proper under-attire. I choose not to point it out.

  “You’re a great instructor,” Samantha gushes. “I’ve learned so much today. I think you’ll find my steak is perfectly done and my potatoes are fluffy and flavorful.”

  She smiles at me like I’m the steak and she’s starving. Beside her, Alyssa scowls. Good! I decide to play off of Samantha’s flirting, even though I feel nothing for the girl.

  “I’m sure you did wonderfully,” I tell Samantha. I allow myself to check Alyssa’s reaction. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are hurt. It’s for the best. No one can know that we were together last night, and no one can know how attracted I am to her.

  When I left Alyssa’s last night, I assumed she would be angry with me when she found out who I am. As I fell asleep, I realized it didn’t matter. A teacher can’t fall for one of his students, and that’s that. It’s not explicitly against any rules here at the academy, but it’s frowned upon in general. Alyssa is off limits. That’s why I need to push her away today. If flirting with Samantha and putting down Alyssa’s dish is what it takes, then that’s what I’m going to do.

  Samantha arches her back so that the curve of her breasts peek out of the top of her chef’s coat. It’s pretty desperate, to say the least. Right now though, it’s harmless, so I allow her to keep up her little games.

  She hands me a knife and fork and gives me minimal space to taste her food. Samantha’s slender body is leaning up against my side as I slice through her perfectly cooked steak. I take the bite, and it’s a bit under-seasoned, but it’s among the best dishes of the class.

  “Excellent work, Samantha! Your steak is exactly medium rare and the exterior is seared to perfection. You’re a natural.”

  Alyssa looks like she might throw up beside us. I ignore the hurt and take a taste of Samantha’s mashed potatoes. They’re runnier than they should be, but they taste delicious. She put the right amount of seasoning, including some dill for extra flavor. I love dill in my mashed potatoes. Is it possible that Samantha only did that because she read in an interview that I like dill? I know I’ve said dill mashed potatoes are my favorite food in plenty of magazine articles and blog posts.

  “Delicious, Samantha. You added just the right amount of flavor to enhance the potatoes without overpowering them. Excellent work.”

  Samantha leans into me to thank me in a suggestive voice. I hate desperate girls like this, but we’re in the middle of a classroom session so it’s tough to put a lid on her overtures. Alyssa is giving us both dirty looks, but she doesn’t say a word. I didn’t think she would. The Alyssa I met yesterday was quiet and reserved. Shy girls don’t usually call out their teachers for flirting with students, even if said teacher took the shy girl out for a date the night before.

  Alyssa’s dish is next and the potatoes look a thousand times better than Samantha’s. Luckily for me, the steak is burnt on one side.

  “You managed medium rare, but what is this sear? Did I tell you to brand the cow before you served it to me?”

  “N-no,” she stutters. “I got distracted…”

  “Distracted?” I shout. “There’s no distraction in the kitchen. That causes fires and unhappy customers. You do not get distracted when you are a chef. Do you understand?”

  This time, Alyssa only nods.

  I chew the steak for a while, taking in the flavors. Taste-wise, it could be better.

  “What spices did you use on this?”

  “Salt, pepper, garlic powder, onion power, and a dash of mesquite flavoring.”

  That’s what is throwing off the flavor. “Did you bump the mesquite and drop it onto the steak when you were prepping it?”

  “No, I did it on purpose.”

  “Wrong answer,” I say. “I didn’t ask you to experiment today, Miss Hall. I wanted a steak with simple seasonings. Do you have trouble following instructions?”

  Alyssa opens her mouth to argue, but I shut her down. “That was a rhetorical question, Miss Hall. If you have a question about an assignment in the future, please ask instead of taking it upon yourself to make changes to what I requested. Would you do this with a customer’s order?”

  “Of course not, sir,” she replies.

  I try the mashed potatoes. Like Samantha’s, they’re too smooth. I prefer a little chunk in my mashed potatoes.

  “Did you murder these potatoes? What did they ever do to you?”

  Alyssa shrinks against the side of the counter. I can see the questions behind her eyes. She’s probably thinking, who is this guy? What happened to the sweet guy I made dinner with last night? I want to tell her he doesn’t exist in the classroom. Instead, I tell her that she should mash her potatoes less than half as much as she did here.

  Her eyes are glassy, but not like she’s going to cry. She looks more… defeated.

  Did I push her too far?

  I check her face again, and it’s changed. This time, she looks determined. I sigh, relieved. It’s important to push her to her breaking point because that will make her a better chef, but I don’t want to push her so far that she gives up. I can see the makings of a great chef in her, but she needs guidance. That’s what I’m here for.

  I’m also here to make sure none of these kids gets a big head. That can destroy a chef. We’re always learning, and it’s important to remember that.

  The rest of the evaluations go about as well as the first half did. I don’t nail into anyone like I did Alyssa and I can tell by the way her eyes follow me that she notices. I avoid meeting her glare.

  “How do you think that went?” I ask the class when evaluations are finished. No one responds. “I’ll tell you: it went well. It’s your first day here, and for many of you this is your first formal training. You’ll get the hang of it. You’ll find your groove. Today, I wanted to measure your individual skillsets. You’re all talented chefs, and I think you’ll excel in this class.”

  They look surprised but grateful. Maybe I should be less of a dick next time we do an evaluation? That wouldn’t be nearly as fun, so I decide to keep up my current persona.

  “Please clean up your stations. Remember, you’ll be using these kitchens for the full year, so keep them tidy. Also remember, I know who uses each kitchen, so if you leave a mess, I’ll be able to figure out who did it. As soon as you’re done, take your seats and we’ll go over tomorrow’s plan.”

  I watch as the kids scurry around their kitchens to clean up. Calling them kids is a bit unfair, since they’re all out of high school and over eighteen. To me, they feel like kids. At thirty-five, I’m old enough to have fathered some of them, if I became a father at seventeen. That’s not unheard of. I’m nearly twice their age!

  At least some of the students are older. The youngest are eighteen, and the oldest is thirty-two. She’s still younger
than me, but having her in the class makes me feel less ridiculous.

  Alyssa is on the younger side. I looked at her file, so I know she’s twenty. That’s probably why she gave me a funny look when I poured her a glass of wine last night. Technically, she’s not old enough to drink it. That rule is often ignored in New York City. I’d bet things aren’t as lenient in Maine. Was that wine her first taste of alcohol? She only sipped the wine, so she didn’t get drunk, but it’s possible I witnessed her first time drinking. I would ask her, but I don’t think she’ll talk to me again after how I treated her today.

  If only I could tell her that I behaved that way because I enjoyed spending time with her last night! My heart clenches at the thought that she might never know. It’s worse to think that we might never get another chance to have a date like that one.

  I need to push her from my mind. I’m the teacher, she’s the student. That’s the relationship we need to maintain.

  Twenty minutes after I called cleanup time, the last group takes their seat. I stand from my desk and write on the white board.

  “For tomorrow, I want you to have read the entire pasta chapter in your text books. I know it’s long, but you’ll need it. Pay close attention to the fettucine recipe and the alfredo sauce recipe. You’ll be using both of those tomorrow.”

  The class frantically writes down their chapter assignment. Below where I wrote tonight’s assignment, I add what we’ll go over the next day.

  “If you’d like to read ahead, you can move on to chapter six. Yes, we’re going out of order. The textbook is great, but it doesn’t make sense in the order its presented.”

  They write that down, too.

  “Does anyone have any questions?” I ask.

  One of the boys in the front of the class raises his hand. “Are we hand making the pasta tomorrow, too?”

  “Yes, you will be. Does anyone here have pasta-making experience?”