“We don’t have the money for advertising right now, and we don’t have time to wait for people to find us.” Jenna’s voice was sympathetic but firm.
Then was there any other option except closing? Ashton’s eyes slammed shut, as if closing them could guard her against the inevitable. She didn’t want to lose this place. It was more than just her livelihood, her dream. It was Nana’s legacy—and it held Ashton’s best childhood memories. If they lost the restaurant now, she’d likely have to sell the building to pay off their debts. God, it would be like losing Nana all over again, but this time, she wouldn’t have a little piece of her left.
And Jenna and Chloe…she crushed her eyelids down harder. Had it not been for Jenna, whom she’d known since childhood, and Chloe, her roommate in culinary school, the doors never would have opened. They’d taken a chance, invested their money. She didn’t want to let them down. They were the only true family she had left.
Ashton opened her eyes. “You actually think being a contestant on the show is going to help business?”
“Yes, we do,” Jenna answered firmly. “Remember that guy from season one, the guy who accidentally set the guest judge on fire? He opened a new restaurant in New York and got a write-up in People magazine. It doesn’t matter if you win or lose.”
Hurt bubbled in her chest. “You don’t think I can win?”
“Sometimes it isn’t about who’s best. There are other factors in a TV show,” Jenna explained.
“Ashton was made for television,” Chloe argued. “Look at her—blue eyes, blond hair—”
“Dark blond,” Ashton corrected. “And I’m not trying out for a beauty pageant.”
“But being pretty helps. And you’re tall and thin. That’s the other reason I can’t be on the show,” Chloe added wryly. “The fat girls are always the first to go.”
“You’re not fat,” Ashton and Jenna said together, the way they’d done a million times before when Chloe made self-deprecating comments about her curvy figure. They looked at each other and started laughing. Some of the tension melted away.
“What I meant,” Jenna started, “was that there’s a lot more pressure in that environment than cooking at a restaurant. You’ll be under hot lights, cameras everywhere, with a time and budget constraint. But no matter what happens, you’ll get publicity. It’s not a long-term solution, but it would give us time to come up with a plan.”
“Do this for us.” Chloe put a hand over Ashton’s. “This is our last chance. If we don’t drum up business, then we close down. Please, Ashton.” One side of her lip curved. “Think of it this way. You’ll get to meet Ty Cates.”
All three girls sighed.
Ty Cates, the head judge on the show, was a culinary legend—and hotter than a serrano pepper. If Bobby Flay and Rocco DiSpirito had a love child, Ty would be it. From the unruly, dark brown hair that curled around his neck to hazel eyes that flared passionately when he talked about food, Ty put the celebrity in Celebrity Chef. It didn’t hurt that he filled out his clothes as well as he filled out an apron. Ashton would have died before admitting it, but Ty Cates had starred in more than one of her dreams—with whipped cream as his costar.
“He probably just breezes in to do the filming,” Ashton said. “The guy is all over the place. Every time I open a magazine or turn on the TV, he’s there. I read he has a new cookbook out and he’s doing a tour. If he’s on the set more than an hour a day, I’d be shocked.” Plus, according to US Weekly, lately Ty’s off-air personality had bordered on the male equivalent of a diva.
“Still,” Chloe said, “the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I wouldn’t mind feeding him my white-chocolate-berry crème brûlée.”
The girls sighed again.
“Unfortunately,” Ashton replied, “the way to Ty’s heart is a spread in the Victoria’s Secret catalog.” Since his arrival on the fame train four years earlier, Ty had been connected to most of the underwear models gracing New York City with their big-busted presence.
Ashton couldn’t help the quick peek down to her own chest. If big boobs were Ty’s requirement for a first date, she could take her name out of the running right now. She wasn’t training-bra flat, but her B-cups weren’t going to get the fraternity boys all worked up on wet T-shirt day.
Of course, none of that mattered anyway. Ty didn’t need to like the way she looked, only the way she cooked, and in that regard, she was Heidi Klum.
Holy crap, was she even considering this? Her brain screamed no.
Until Jenna’s hand closed around hers and she asked, “What do you say? Will you do it? For us?” She looked between her two best friends, dread relentlessly pounding in her heart before spiraling downward and deflating her lungs.
She couldn’t let them down. If this was what it took to save the restaurant, to keep a piece of her grandmother, to preserve Jenna’s and Chloe’s trust—and life-savings—then she had no other choice. Her next breath buoyed her courage.
“Okay. I’ll do it.”
Chapter Two
If someone had told Ty Cates four years ago that having an underwear model hanging on both arms was as fun as using his teeth to pull chicken out of a deep fryer, he would have had that person committed to the nearest mental hospital.
And if he’d been told he would prefer a good book to an exclusive nightclub, well, that would have earned that person electroshock therapy.
Heat may have been New York’s hottest new nightspot, but to Ty, the club was nothing more than a room filled with phony people and overpriced drinks.
“I’m outta here,” he yelled to his agent, Vic Tanner. He managed to shrug free from Monique—no last name—but Greta Von Hoff, a young German model, held tight.
“The party’s just getting started.” She rubbed against him. “We haven’t even danced yet.”
He’d seen her dance before—and her style was illegal in some states. “Maybe another time.” He removed her hand from his arm.
His head was pounding from the beat-less banging someone had passed off as music. The only blessing was the noise made conversation impossible. Greta had more air in her head than a helium balloon.
Ty rubbed his eyelids and yawned. A few years ago, he would have closed a joint like this down—and had an after-party with the latest “it” girl. Now he preferred a quiet evening at home with a woman he could talk to. Was that too much to ask?
The last woman he’d dated had only wanted to talk in bed—using mainly four-letter words. Still a Southern boy at heart, to Ty her words had been as sexy as Julia Child in a dominatrix getup. Maybe it was his fault that he attracted women who were only interested in getting their pictures plastered on Page Six. Whatever the reason, he was done.
As he pivoted to leave, Vic called out to him in his heavy New York accent, “Whoa, wait a minute there.” He grabbed the back of Ty’s expensive leather jacket and flashed a smile wide enough to touch the corners of his eyes. “Let’s talk this over. Excuse us for a minute, ladies.”
The models pouted prettily but stepped away as Vic yanked Ty through a throng of underdressed pseudocelebrities and wannabes and into a corner.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Vic demanded.
“I’m tired. I’m ready to go home.”
“Tired?” Vic’s eyebrow rose. “This party is for you!”
“This party is for a garlic press with my name on it.”
Kitchen Gadgets, Inc. had paid well to sell kitchen equipment with his name on the packaging. At the beginning, he’d gotten a kick out of seeing his name displayed. Now the absurdity of it all made his stomach roll. He didn’t even use a garlic press.
“Your contract says you have to be at the launch party until midnight. It’s a quarter after eleven. You’re staying.” As an agent, Vic sold his clients with his charm. But when it came to contracts, he was a stickler.
“Tonight is the last one of these I’m doing,” Ty said. “I mean it, Vic. I’m not signing any more contracts wit
h Kitchen Gadgets, Inc.”
Vic was slightly overweight, and when he lost his breath, his face tended to turn red. At the moment, his skin bordered on a nice merlot. “Do you even realize how much money you make when this company sticks your name on one of their stupid gadgets? And what do they ask in return? To show up at their launch party and use it a few times on your show. You’re going to give that up why?”
“Because I’m sick of this shit!” Ty’s shout caused a few heads to turn.
Vic looked around and gave a hefty, fake laugh. “You’re a funny guy, Cates. Always with the jokes.”
Then Vic lowered his voice, his face now the shade of cherry pie. “I’m sick of this shit, too. You used to be my easiest-going client, so grateful, so humble. But these last six months you got a stick so far up your ass it’s scrambling your brain.”
His mother back in Atlanta would have been appalled at his manners, but Ty was beyond the point of caring. He could barely remember that polite, caring, good ole Southern boy he used to be. “I mean it, Vic,” he told his agent. “I’m done.”
Vic’s face hardened. “Listen, you’re gonna stay till midnight unless you think you can walk on broken legs. But the minute that clock hits twelve, we’ll get you home like you’re frickin’ Cinderella.”
Ty took a deep breath. He could get through forty-five minutes. “Fine. Midnight.”
Vic’s color returned to a near-normal shade, and Ty left his agent to be the charming celebrity he was hired to be.
A few hundred people crowded the club, and he circulated through the room, signing autographs and talking up his new cookbook to be released in a few weeks. He danced with the VP of Kitchen Gadgets, Inc., avoided Greta and Monique, and wowed the crowd by coaxing the bartender into letting him mix a proper mint julep.
He kept one eye on the clock the whole time. When the hands finally hit midnight, he had already started toward the door. In his peripheral vision, he saw Vic wave at him in a come-hither motion, but Ty ignored him. He was officially off the clock.
It took about five minutes of weaving through sweaty, half-clad bodies over a slick and sticky cement floor before he reached the front door. A blast of fresh air hit him as he stepped outside, and he inhaled the freedom.
“Mr. Cates,” the bouncer said, opening a velvet rope barrier used to keep a crowd waiting and make the club more exclusive. “Your car is here.”
He’d texted his driver fifteen minutes ago to be curbside at midnight. “Home,” he said as he slid into the back of the black Lincoln Town Car. Within twenty minutes he was dropped at his apartment building in TriBeCa.
The doorman let him in. “Good evening, Mr. Cates.”
“Evening, Mel.”
Mel hurried to the elevator and hit the up button. “Making it an early night, Mr. Cates?”
“I have a morning appointment,” Ty lied.
Mel nodded. “And no visitors later?” Over the years, Mel had discreetly sent up many late-night female guests.
Mel’s face held no judgment. Still, Ty felt a pang of embarrassment that had been plaguing him far too often lately. “Not tonight.”
Ty stepped into the elevator and pushed seventeen. The doors opened to his apartment, which took up the entire floor. He’d purchased the unit to celebrate his first seven-figure contract. Immediately after, he’d hired an interior designer to decorate it. The result was a contemporary showplace that made Ty afraid to sit on his own couch.
Lately he’d been thinking about doing an overhaul, but he wanted to do it himself this time. Problem was, his next scheduled vacation was somewhere around the time social security kicked in.
Stupidly, he’d let Vic contract him until he could no longer remember why he’d even gotten into this business. His head pounded just thinking of the countless days of talk shows, public appearances, filming, and pointless parties ahead of him.
The only place in his apartment he could truly call his own was the kitchen, and it had been months since he’d last used it. At the moment, the shelves of his refrigerator were lined with takeout cartons.
Ty walked into the bedroom as he yanked off his tie. The red light on his answering machine blinked red, and he hit the messages button.
“Hi Ty. This is Andrea Cummings, the new Vice President of Talent for Food Fanatics TV. We start filming The Next Celebrity Chef in a few days, and I’d like to meet with you to talk about some changes from the previous season. Call me.”
Ty groaned. He’d forgotten they started filming this week. There went any chance for some free time. The show was a major time suck. On days they filmed, the sky was dark when he arrived and dark when he left. If there was one commitment Ty would have given anything to get out of, this was it. But he had an iron-clad contract.
What they should do, he decided, was drop the chef out of celebrity chef. Because between the million different obligations that came with the title, the chef in him had been lost.
Ty threw off the rest of his clothes and climbed into his large, empty bed. He hit the replay button on his machine and listened to Andrea’s voice again. Maybe there was a silver lining in all this. Andrea had a soft, sultry voice that talked directly to his groin. And if she had climbed the corporate ladder to vice president, she had to be smart. Maybe tomorrow would be the day he met the woman of his dreams.
…
She couldn’t believe she was here.
Ashton stood at the door to the Food Fanatics TV studio, her breath heavy and her heart racing. Filming didn’t start until the next day, but she’d been the first to arrive at the brownstone the contestants shared and she thought a walk would quell her nerves. Instead, she’d wandered a few blocks to the studio, where her anxiety had hit overdrive.
She pushed open the door and headed down a hall, deciding to take a peek. The kitchen had always been her place of calm when the world felt overwhelming. If she could see where the challenges would take place, maybe she had a prayer of sleeping tonight.
The hall ended at double doors with The Next Celebrity Chef emblazed on them. The kitchen was empty—a good thing, in Ashton’s opinion, since the first sight made her moan out loud. This was the most amazing kitchen she had ever been in, and she had worked at some pretty posh places during her career.
Two gigantic refrigerators sat against one wall, with seven—seven!—convection ovens lined beside them. Another wall boasted several grills and griddles and two gas ranges with a total of twelve burners. Stainless-steel prep tables were situated in the center of the kitchen.
She found the pantry near the back of the kitchen and peered inside. The room was fully stocked with every ingredient she could think of—staples like flour, sugar, dried beans, rice, pasta (although she’d sooner cut off her hand than use pasta from a box)—and more unusual items like calcium chloride and sodium alginate used in molecular gastronomy. One shelving unit housed small appliances, and she couldn’t help running her hands across the cool steel. From immersion blenders to hand mixers and pressure cookers to food processors, there wasn’t anything Ashton could think of that wasn’t on the shelves.
She returned to the center of the kitchen, closing her eyes and letting the enormity of the situation sink in. Tomorrow, this empty room would be packed with people and she would be fighting for her career, her restaurant, her life.
“Andrea?”
Ashton jumped at the deep timbre with a Southern drawl. She opened her eyes and croaked, “Ty Cates.”
Ty stood in the doorway, looking even better in person than he did on TV. She preferred him in an apron, but he looked damn fine in a pair of dark wash jeans and a black T-shirt.
A smile that could turn a woman’s legs into wet noodles curved his lips, complete with a dimple in his left cheek. He walked to her. “It is so lovely to meet you in person.” His words held more sugar than cotton candy.
To her utter mortification, she had to bite back a girlish giggle.
His grin told her he was used to that type of reaction, as i
f every woman wanted to jump his bones just because he’d been on the cover of People magazine more times than Brangelina.
“I’m not Andrea. My name is Ashton Grey. I’m a contestant on this season’s show.”
He frowned. “Contestants aren’t supposed to be in the studio before filming starts.”
A blush warmed her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I-I didn’t know.”
“You could get an unfair advantage by scoping out the pantry.”
“That’s not why I came here. I’ve never been in front of a camera before,” she explained. “And certainly not while someone is bashing my food.”
“We never bash food,” he contradicted. Then he amended, “Unless the dish deserves it.”
“Then I should be just fine.”
He let out a laugh. “You’re pretty cocky. I like that in a chef. Especially a female chef.”
“Cocky and female? I had no idea. Maybe I could sell the information to US Weekly—an exclusive on what Ty Cates is really looking for in a woman. A cock.”
“If that were true, then I guess I just found my soul mate.”
That was so typical of male chefs, acting like every female chef was some kind of butch ballbuster. She was tough because she had to be, but that didn’t make her any less feminine.
“Ty, you made it!”
Both Ty and Ashton whipped their heads around. A fiftyish woman with blindingly blond hair and a pink skirt that looked about four inches shorter than was appropriate for her age walked toward them.
“I’m Andrea Cummings.” She stretched out her hand, and Ty took it. “Is this your assistant?”
Ashton narrowed her eyes. “I’m Ashton Grey, one of the contestants. We spoke on the phone yesterday.”
“Oh, right,” Andrea said. “I should have recognized you from the tape Sally made.” She turned to Ty. “This woman has perfect aim. Don’t get too close when she has a knife in her hands.”
Ashton’s jaw clenched in response. Fantastic. Now Ty would think she was crazy on top of cocky.
But amusement flickered in his eyes. “I need to see this tape.”
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