by Kris Bryant
Table of Contents
Synopsis
By the Author
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Epilogue
About the Author
Books Available from Bold Strokes Books
Synopsis
Determined to fulfill her dream of becoming a chef and winning a coveted scholarship to study cooking in Italy, Ki Blake rushes in late to the first class of her final semester at Kirkwood Culinary Academy and is stopped in her tracks by Taryn Ellis, the school’s newest instructor. A beautiful and accomplished chef, Taryn has walked away from her promising career in the city’s top restaurant to devote her life to her five-year-old daughter.
Ki and Taryn try their best to resist the urge to give in to the undeniable chemistry between them. And when at last they begin a passionate affair that must be kept a secret, they are each convinced it’s only a short-term fling.
It’s up to both Ki and Taryn to decide whether they have found something genuine or whether the taste of romance they’ve had is truly enough.
Taste
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Taste
© 2016 By Kris Bryant. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-719-4
This Electronic Book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, New York 12185
First Edition: October 2016
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Ashley Tillman
Production Design: Susan Ramundo
Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])
By the Author
Jolt
Whirlwind Romance
Just Say Yes: The Proposal
Taste
Acknowledgments
My writing family grows with every book. I’ve made incredible connections with so many women in this industry, not to mention the readers who make our success possible. Thank you, Rad & Sandy, who still publish me even though I am rather difficult. Ashley pushes me hard to make me the best writer I can be and I am forever grateful for her as my editor. A sincere thank you to my betas Cindy and Nadine who helped me keep this book in line. I would need a separate book to thank all of my friends, new and old, who help me along this fantastic journey. Just know who you are and know that yes, I mean you. Here’s to 48 seconds. Here’s to late night snacks and early morning donuts.
Here’s to a life full of love, passion, and taste.
Dedication
To Deb who gave me the idea because I’m always stealing the remote to watch cooking shows.
Chapter One
“Turn!” I yell at the car in front of me. I’m already seven minutes late and the person in front of me, who obviously isn’t in the same kind of hurry I am, is killing my patience. I hate being late. I lean back in my car and slowly count to ten to calm down. My clock flips and now I’m eight minutes late. I can see Kirkwood Culinary Academy up ahead. I’m twenty-seven years old and I still get butterflies on the first day of school. Technically, it’s the first day of my last semester at the academy where I will finally complete my culinary apprenticeship and become a certified chef. When I quit law school and told my family, my mother sank down on the couch and sobbed. She handled my coming out ten years ago much better. I know she wants what’s best for me, but in her mind, what’s best equals money. In my mind, and in my heart, it’s happiness. Cooking is my true talent. I have a relationship with food that I treat with respect. Food talks to me. I talk back. Unfortunately, I can’t get to class because not everybody is in a hurry. I say a quick “thank you” to whoever is listening when the old man finally turns. I whip across traffic directly on his tail. The second I can pass him, I do. I skid into the parking lot and grab the closest spot I can find. I choke on my seat belt before remembering to unlatch it. Karma for being an impatient ass to the little old man. I sprint to the heavy doors and barge through them, ignoring the startled students lounging in the chairs by the entrance.
I find my class and quietly close the door, hoping to slip into an empty chair in the back of the class. No such luck. There are only two seats open. One is easy to get to, but in the front row. The other is in the third row, but I’d have to climb over students to reach it. Since I’m positive I’ve already irritated the new teacher, I decide to take the seat near her and not disrupt class further. She looks up from her quick review of the syllabus and we make eye contact. If we were at a bar, a grocery store, anywhere but here, I would give her a flirtatious smile. She’s absolutely gorgeous. I stand there for a moment or two before she lifts her eyebrow at me.
“Chef, I’m sorry for being late. It won’t happen again.” I quickly drop into the open seat, breaking eye contact only to make sure my ass lands in the chair and not on the floor.
“I’m sure it won’t.” Her voice is low and dark; the huskiness sends chills across my body. This class just got more interesting. I grab a pen as she hands me a copy of the syllabus. Her name is Taryn Ellis. “This is probably the only day we will be sitting. The rest of the time will be spent in the kitchen. Are there any questions so far?”
Um, yes. Who are you? Where did you come from? Are you single? “I know you’re new to the academy. What made you want to come here and teach?” I ask. I know all of the instructors here because I’ve worked closely with each one over the years. She looks at me in surprise. “I’m sorry if you’ve already answered that.”
“No, it’s a good question. I was asked by the Academy to come and teach. Their schedule fit mine, so I said yes.”
“Are you from another institution or restaurant?” I hear a few students snicker. “I’m not trying to be rude, I’m just curious.” I don’t want Taryn to think I’m somehow making fun of her.
“Both, actually. I worked as Executive Chef at Rally’s downtown for a year and the Culinary Institution here in town.” Before I have a chance to ask her any more questions, she resumes the conversation about class expectations and goals for the students. I find her fascinating. She’s beautiful, probably in her early thirties, and has an accent. I can’t tell if it’s British or Australian.
She brings up the three students still eligible for the Excellence in Culinary Arts Scholarship to attend another culinary school f
or ten months in Venice, Italy. My competition is fierce. Scott McDonnell is a few years older than I am, and we have battled the last two and a half years. Mary Martin is a distant third, but her pastries kick ass and she has beaten us both with desserts. When Taryn calls my name and realizes I’m the third, she has a hard time hiding her surprise.
“Well, Miss Katherine Blake, hopefully your cooking is better than your timing,” she says. She’s smiling this time so I know she’s teasing.
“Ki. Call me Ki.”
“Quit flirting, Ki,” Scott says. He pokes my back with his pen. I try not to cringe and do my best to hold eye contact with Taryn. She pretends not to hear him and I pretend not to be embarrassed.
“Over the last few years, you’ve grown as chefs, learned how to run a restaurant, and how to plate. Our goal is to fine tune all of what you’ve learned, improve your palates, and learn how to cook under pressure. Even though everybody here interns at their choice of restaurant or food service as part of the program, I’m going to throw you into different environments and see how well you perform. There will be a few nights we will have class, but I will let you know well in advance so you can make the appropriate arrangements.” A few students shuffle at their desks, obviously not happy, but nobody says anything. At least not on the first day.
“Well, if there are no more questions, let’s get cooking.” She glances at the clock. “I’m giving you the afternoon to prepare me a dish of your choosing. It can be any style of cooking. If you can find it in the kitchen, you can cook it. I want to be able to gauge where you are myself. Today, we start fresh. No looking at recipes or pulling up something on your phones or laptops. Let’s see how well you do from memory.”
She dismisses us with a quick wave of her hand and we scurry for prime spots in the kitchen. I feel like I’m in an episode of Top Chef. I find a spot near the refrigerators, but far enough away so that I’m not bothered by people running back and forth to get ingredients. I take a deep breath, close my eyes and think. What would a woman who lives to cook, loves to cook, wants to teach others to cook, want to taste right now? She’s slender so I’m guessing she doesn’t indulge much in the classic French cooking style where everything is drowned in butter, or bathed in heavy cream. No, she likes to eat healthy. I decide on cedar smoked salmon with rosemary mustard. When I open my eyes, I find her looking at me before she looks down at her laptop. I don’t know why, but the look she gives me fills me with hope. I feel encouraged. I don’t see her look at Scott, or Mary, or any of the other students in the class. I’m even more determined to impress her.
Cooking has always calmed me. Regardless of time constraints. When I’m in the zone, nothing bothers me. The only time I’m arrogant is in the kitchen.
“Chefs, don’t forget hats and coats,” she says. Shit. In my haste this afternoon, I forgot mine. Strike two. I slink over to her.
“Chef, I forgot mine. May I borrow a set?” She looks up at me.
“Bad day, Miss Blake?” she asks.
“You have no idea, Chef,” I say. Charlie, a regular at the diner I work at, had a heart attack right there in the restaurant. I didn’t have time to go back to my apartment to grab my things. I was happy to make it to class at all. She unlocks the supply cabinet and hands me a hat and a clean jacket.
“Thank you so much,” I say. “This won’t happen again.” She gives me a look. “Really,” I add. I head back to my station. I have a lot of ground to cover in a short amount of time.
*
I watch as she brings the fork up to her mouth. A nice mouth with straight, white teeth, and full red lips worthy of tasting perfection. Just watching her is such a turn on. I have an incredible urge to feed her, and I can’t help but stare at her mouth as she tastes my food. For the briefest of moments, she closes her eyes. When she turns to face me the look in her eyes is that of pure gratification. I know I nailed it.
“Very good, Chef,” she says. She places the fork on the plate and I notice her hand is slightly shaking. I don’t know if my nearness is affecting her or if it’s my food. Either way, I’m suppressing the biggest girl squeal of my life right now. I respectfully nod at her and head back to my work station. I wink at Scott as I walk by and he scowls at me. I smile, remembering how she told him his lamb shanks were undercooked. He really is a good chef, but he’s too competitive and rushes. Hopefully, his impatience helps me win the scholarship this final semester.
I clean my station and wait for the rest of the students to finish. I’m dragging, hoping for some alone time with Taryn. Not just because I want praise for my cooking, but because I really want to get to know her. Scrubbing the work station again just makes me look stupid. I decide to grab my bag and head out. Tomorrow is a new day. Our eyes meet when I head out the door.
“I won’t be late tomorrow,” I say.
She smiles. “I know.”
“And I’ll remember my jacket and hat.”
“I know.”
Chapter Two
“Has anybody heard how Charlie’s doing?” I ask anybody who can hear me as I walk through the kitchen doors of Bud’s Diner. Ashley is the only one close by.
“He’s hanging in there,” she says. I exhale quietly. We’ve had some crazy things happen in the diner. Yesterday made the top five list along with a drive-by shooting, a drug bust, a fire in the kitchen, and when one of our waitresses went into early labor. I love the diner. There is so much character here. It’s been my favorite place to intern so far. I’m learning how to cook rich and delicious southern and soul food, and they are learning how to incorporate some of the classic French cooking I’ve shown them into what they already know.
This job has my mother crying. She expects me to at least work at the finest restaurant in town, but I tell her I have to learn it all in order to do my job to the best of my ability. If I win the scholarship to Italy, I might redeem myself a bit with her.
“That was scary,” I say. It really was. I’m a complete mess in situations of extreme stress unless there is food preparation involved. The only thing I was good for yesterday was holding Charlie’s hand. The five minutes it took for the ambulance to arrive was the longest five minutes of my life. “So what’s the special for today?”
“Ham hocks and beans,” Ashley says. I nod my approval. Perfect for this time of year. Warm, stick-to-your-ribs comfort food.
“I’ll make my cornbread.” I grab two cast iron skillets and throw them into the oven to heat up. I whip up the ingredients along with a dash of cinnamon and honey to give it more sweetness and flavor.
“How was your first day?” Bud asks. He does most of the cooking around here. I work in the mornings and I help get lunch started.
“Well, to start things off, I was late to class. Then I forgot my jacket and my hat and had to borrow from the new teacher, who, by the way, is gorgeous. We had to cook her anything we wanted.”
“Did you wow her?” he asks.
I smile at him. “I think so. She said ‘very good, chef’ and she closed her eyes when she took a bite.” I sigh remembering her mouth and how her brown eyes lit up.
“And that’s just day one. You have so many other dishes to show her before this semester ends. How did the others do?”
“Ha! She told Scott his lamb was undercooked and was too salty, but praised Mary for her strawberry shortcake. I’m not worried about her though.”
“Maybe we should be working on desserts with you. How about sweet potato pie, or pecan pie?”
“I know how to make those desserts,” I say. Not very well, though, and we both know it.
“Does your teacher like desserts?” he asks.
“Mary was the only one who made anything sweet, so I’m sure it was a treat.”
“How about strawberry-rhubarb pie?” That perks my interest. I can never seem to get the pie to firm up just right, no matter how much cornstarch I use.
“Perfect. Today?”
“This week sometime. We have quite a few things to get don
e today and tomorrow unless you want to come in tonight,” he says. My cat, Sophia, is ready to disown me. I’m sure I will pay for it tonight when she prances and dances across my body while I’m trying to sleep. I’ve been spending several extra nights at the diner this week trying to perfect fried chicken. Bud doesn’t mind as long as I clean up after myself. Plus, whatever we don’t eat or sell, Bud donates to his church’s food kitchen.
“Thanks, but I think I need to stay home tonight and relax. Also, Sophia is getting pissed that I’m not home more,” I say.
Bud laughs. “My wife’s the same way. It’s a good thing you don’t have one of those,” he says. I shrug. I think it would be kind of cool to share my life with somebody. My past girlfriends have all been younger, carefree, and emotionally unavailable. I’m ready for the grown up kind of romance.
We cook in companionable silence. We both prepare the breakfast orders as they come up. In the meantime, Bud thickens his ham and beans, and I take the cornbread out and slice it into equal portions. The heat lamp will keep them warm until orders come in. The breakfast crowd shuffles out and within thirty minutes, the lunch crowd files in and orders are up. I enjoy plating the food as much as I enjoy cooking. Bud thinks I try too hard. I tell him I make art in thirty seconds or less.
Chapter Three
“Let’s go around the room and find out what everybody cooked since the last time we saw one another,” Taryn says. We are standing around the center cooking station before she starts a demonstration on the proper way to prepare and cook a soufflé. Students answer and I know half of them are lying. When she turns to me I answer honestly.