by MJ Post
Chef Showdown
a romance
by
MJ Post
PUBLISHED BY:
MJ Post on Kindle Direct Publishing
Chef Showdown
a romance
Copyright © 2018 MJ Post
Kindle Edition, License Notes
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and/or persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are the property of their respective owners and are used for reference only and not an implied endorsement. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Dedication
Thanks to—
Mysti Parker for professional support and friendship
Victor Lee and Esther Yi for help with names and Korean-American culture tips (though they aren’t responsible for my mistakes!).
My advance readers:
Mysti Parker
Kathleen McElduff
Kenneth Morris
Julia Murdock
Jennifer Soppe
Georgina Young-Ellis
You guys are the best!
Table of Contents
Prologue
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
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
EPILOGUE
Other Books by This Author
Afterword by MJ
Prologue
Townsend Harris High School, April 2011
The gym was lavishly festooned with banners and ribbons for the senior dance. A platform was set up under the basketball hoop opposite the entrance. DJ equipment and speakers were crammed onto its narrow surface.
Jeff Chang, known in the senior class as Old-School Jeff, climbed up to take his thirty-minute shift as guest DJ. He leaned into the mike and announced in flutelike tones, “Okay, bitches — it’s time for Old-School Jeff’s 80s throwback!”
The assembled kids groaned as their 80s-obsessed classmate put on the first synthesizer-dominated dance track. It was their time to stop moving to the music and start milling around chatting and gossiping.
One kid called, “Play something modern!”
Jeff fake-laughed into the mike and boosted the volume.
Yookyung Lee, known to her friends and cooler teachers as Kacie, was happy to hang by the drink table. She was tired, but her friends Grace and Nicole had dragged her there anyway. She had come dressed for something other than a dance, had left her apprenticeship as a prep cook at an area Korean restaurant in sloppy street clothes. She was wearing black slacks, a gray sweatshirt with a picture of a chef’s hat and the legend ‘Cook It Up,’ gloves without fingers, backward pink baseball cap. It was hot in the gym, but she was so used to working over hot pots or manning a flattop that sweating didn’t bother her.
Complaints aimed at Jeff had failed to change the young man’s choice of music, so the kids formed into knots at different spots on the heavily scuffed floor. Grace and Nicole came over, along with Nicole’s boyfriend, Kwan, known as Skip.
“Jeff is so lame,” said Grace.
“Why didn’t you sign up?” Nicole poked Skip.
“Cause I want to be with you, baby,” Skip answered. He wasn’t looking at her, but looking around, probably at other girls. He was a selfish horndog; Kacie had told Nicole that a bunch of times, and he knew it, too.
Nicole noticed and tugged at his hand. He turned, took out his phone, and began looking at an app.
“Hey, Kacie,” Grace said. “Who would you give it up to?”
“Give up what?”
“Your virginity. Who would you give it up to?”
“My dad would kill me,” Kacie said.
“Suppose no one knew, your dad didn’t find out?”
“Don’t be stupid. I don’t have time for that anyway.”
Nicole chimed in. “Always in the kitchen, right? Come on. You’ve never had a boyfriend. You never go out. Half the kids say you’re a lesbian.”
“Does he say that?” Kacie pointed at Skip, who was oblivious to all but his social media. “What do you listen to him for?”
“She’s right,” Grace joined in. “You have to break out of your shell, Kacie. There’s more to life than studying and fixing dinner.”
“And if I tell you who I like, then what?” Kacie had had a crush on a certain boy for over a year, but she hadn’t told anyone. It was hopeless; he was rich and only went for white girls.
“We’ll do our magic.”
“No thanks.”
“Oh, come on!” Nicole gave a dirty look to her distracted boyfriend.
“Okay, okay. But you can’t tell anybody. I’ll tell you just because I trust you, okay?” She had known these two since freshman year, when they’d listened to K-Pop like 2NE1 and BAP through shared earbuds. “If I was going to give it up, I’d give it up to Brian.” She pointed to a cluster of kids a few yards away.
Brian Loomis was a six foot two, half-Korean half-white kid, rangy and lean, with flowing curly black hair and a jutting chin. He looked like a rock star with his slim hips and big boots and swaggering carriage.
“Brian? But he’s so arrogant,” Grace said.
“We’ll I’m not really doing it. He’s just hot. I think he’s hot.”
Kacie realized that she was alone with the two girls. Skip was sauntering toward Brian Loomis.
“No, Nicole! Stop him!” Kacie shivered even in the stuffy sweatshirt and felt like puking. Skip was a total asshole. He knew she didn’t like him. That was why he was being so rude.
Old-School Jeff was now playing a song about a dancing queen, whatever that meant. She lowered her chin as Nicole ran to stop her boyfriend. Grace criticized Skip in her ear; Grace also thought he was an asshole.
Finally Kacie realized someone was leaning toward her. She looked up into the eyes of the much taller Brian Loomis. Dark brown, sexy eyes, warmer than the smirk on his full and kissable lips. He wasn’t a nice kid, she knew that, but … what if this time was different? What if he had actually n
oticed her, too? Guys liked girls that could cook, right?
“Hey, Cookie,” he said.
That was a mean nickname she thought she had gotten rid of after freshman year. (Like to cook? You’re a cookie.)
“I hear you want to fuck me? Is that right?”
“Not really,” Kacie said.
“Then what?”
“We were just bullshitting, Brian. Don’t worry about it.”
“No, I think it’s true. I think you do want to ride on the Loomis Express. Don’t you?”
“Not happening.” Kacie was mortified, wanted to turn away. But what if it was all a setup? What if he was about to say yes after all? Would she have the guts to go through with it?
“Well, let’s talk about it,” he said. He fingered her sweatshirt. “What kind of outfit is this? It’s so unsexy. No wonder everyone says you’re a lesbo. And what the fuck is this?” He tapped on the pink baseball cap.
Skip was doubled over laughing. Nicole smacked him hard in the face, and he straightened and looked at her sheepishly.
Brian Loomis continued. “You don’t dress like a girl. You don’t look like a girl. And here’s something else.”
“Shut the fuck up.” Kacie turned away.
“No, I won’t. You talked behind my back. You said I have a sexy body.”
“I never said that! Skip was lying!”
“Skip’s my bro. He wouldn’t lie. Now, it’s my turn. Notice, I’m talking to your face, not behind your back. Listen up, Cookie. You have no ambition. I like to surround myself with people who are going somewhere in the world. What are you doing? Fucking culinary school? Low-paid bullshit. That makes you a negative person, and I don’t like negative people.” He stared down at Kacie, and his lips curled into a vicious grin. “Okay. I’m done.”
Kacie was blinded with rage. She threw off her hat, pulled off the sweatshirt. Underneath was a white tank top which showed her swelling, shapely breasts and her soft, rounded shoulders. “How do you like this? Huh? You’d be lucky to have someone like me!” She spat on him. “So fuck you!” She moved to the gym center and began to sway to the music. Cheesy 80s music, whatever. Pulled off and tossed aside the gloves. Moved faster and faster, swung her hips, shook her head till the bun came undone and her long silken hair spun around her.
“All right, Kacie!” Old-School Jeff called into the mike. “Now you’re MY dancing queen!”
Brian Loomis slunk off to the sidelines to admit privately he hadn’t realized she was smoking hot, but she was still a dumb bitch, and Nicole broke up with Skip and knocked his phone out of his hand, and, a few at a time, the Townsend Harris seniors circled Kacie and began to dance.
Chapter One
Chef Toby Brutus, Late Spring 2018
The modest two-story gabled home on Molly Barr Road in Oxford, Mississippi was set on a smallish plot of land with a compact garden in the back, a picnic ground on one side with some pleasant shade trees, and a detached two-vehicle garage on the other. For twenty-eight years it had been the home of Professor Roy Brutus and his wife, Professor Miranda Macklin-Brutus, both experts in the French language. For twenty-four years it had also been the home of their twin children, Tobias and Lillian.
Now both were moving out.
Tobias was a tall young man with dark hair to his big shoulders, usually captured behind in a hair band. He had rugged features, a hint of beard even after shaving. He was tan from outdoor work and well-muscled from swimming. His eyes were nearly black but showed hints of blue when the sun hit them at a certain angle. His parents called him Tobias and his friends called him Toby.
Lillian, his twin sister, was shorter with the same hair and eyes and a more rounded and curvy shape. A childhood injury had left a white scar-line across her cheek and chin, but her flashing smile, which contrasted with Tobias’ typical tight-set jaw, erased people’s notice of the disfigurement and left them memories of Lillian’s warmth and welcome.
In high school, they’d been called Light and Dark. Lillian was Light. Tobias, with his keen focus and dislike for small talk, was Dark.
Lillian was moving to New York to work a job in marketing. Tobias was moving out because he’d had enough of their parents.
This was precipitated by an envelope he’d found on his bed. Because he lived in a detached apartment over the garage, a perpetrator had had to take the emergency key from the hall closet of the main house, tread up the creaky stairs, unlock his locked door, enter his private apartment for which he paid a monthly rent check that was never cashed although he wanted it to be, neatly fold the rumpled clothes he had left atop his mattress, make his bed, put a new Ole Miss blanket on it, and lay the white envelope down in the most visible spot, just half a foot from a fluffed pillow that had not been fluffed by him.
The envelope had an Ole Miss return address and was stuffed with documents. Knowing what it was, he still tore it open with his finger along the inside top edge and slid out the letter which welcomed him to the University of Mississippi’s school of engineering.
He hadn’t applied.
He had, in fact, stated unequivocally that he had zero, zero, zero interest in attending the university that employed both of his parents, and that engineering was as goddamned odious to him as would be licking a sick toad.
But Professor and Professor Brutus had made it happen all the same. There was not a garden party they had declined to attend, not a dean or provost they had not charmed, not a decision they were unwilling to present to their grim and handsome son as a goddamned fait accompli.
Toby wasn’t having it. He was moving out. He would sleep on the floor of the food truck he owned for as long as he felt like it. Roy and Miranda did not rule him. He was a chef, he was Oxford’s best young chef, and that-was-the-end-of-it.
He had two hard plastic suitcases with wheels, a soft leather briefcase, a leather valise, a gym bag, and his old high school knapsack. He filled the suitcases with his most comfortable clothes; the briefcase with his diaries and notes from his apprenticeship with Chef Boris Winfrey; the knapsack with cookbooks. In the gym bag he stuffed more clothes and various small objects from his desk and dresser drawers. He had some swimming trophies but left them for his parents to dream over. He also filled the valise with clothes, including his one dark suit and his few ties. He also took his three favorite CDs , by Johnny Cash, Jason Aldean, and Alan Jackson, along with the only novel he’d read over and over, The Belly of Paris by Emile Zola.
Packing the notebooks stained with brown, red, and green powders and grease from the kitchen of Boris’ restaurant Gumbo King, his former workplace as line cook and later as a sous chef and the locus of the most crucial part of his apprenticeship, he knew he had a choice besides sleeping in his food truck. Boris lived in a mansion that had not been taken from him in the divorce, and there were plenty of extra rooms for him there. Boris was a second father to him and would certainly give him a place to stay; however, Toby now wanted to be his own man, not someone’s son. That was the way of it, then.
It had been an unlikely pairing. Boris Winfrey was more than just a leading restaurateur: he was royalty in Oxford’s black community, regularly pictured with ministers and at charity events. His restaurant had patrons of all colors, but its staff was almost exclusively black. His employment of a white cook, Tobias Brutus, had happened in a singular manner. Toby had come to Gumbo King with his parents. Eating the signature Mambo Gumbo, he thought that he tasted a slightly burnt flavor in it. It was still good, so he kept eating, but when he spied the famous chef passing through the restaurant en route to the kitchens, he flagged the man over.
“Oh God, don’t,” said Miranda. A freckled, coppery redhead, she wore sunglasses even in indirect sunlight.
Toby ignored his mother.
Boris Winfrey was a burly, round-headed man with a serious paunch, bright eyes, and square shoulders. “Yes, sir?” he said to obviously twenty-year-old Toby, in a tone that didn’t take the ‘sir’ seriously.
“Thi
s is still delicious,” said Toby, spooning through his gumbo, “but I taste, and smell, some burnt cinnamon in it. Is that intentional, or is it a quality control issue?”
“Burnt?” drawled Boris Winfrey. “Cinnamon? Quality control? What a simply fascinating question. We,” he harrumphed, “we aspire to please all our customers. Are you quite certain?”
“It’s all right,” said Roy, whose glasses balanced on a narrow nose and whose thin lips were as tight as he could manage.
“I think it will be obvious if you taste it yourself,” said Toby. “I mean, with your world-class palate. Sir.”
“No, really, it’s all right, it…” Roy tuttered in Southern-baked embarrassment. Miranda looked at her julep glass, which was nigh julep-less all of a sudden.
“And, so if I may ask, where did your palate receive its own training, young man?” asked Winfrey.
“Delta Culinary School, class of 2013,” Toby answered.
Boris Winfrey touched Toby’s bicep gently. “Let’s go in to the kitchen.”
Toby followed the restaurateur through the swinging door to a hot, noisy kitchen where rows of prep cooks chopped, seasoned, and stirred on gleaming metal.
Boris Winfrey dropped his sport coat atop a cluttered desk and bustled to a large gumbo pot being attended by a big young black woman with a hairnet and dull eyes. He took two long spoons from an adjoining counter, gave one to Toby.
“You first,” he said.
Toby eyed the cook, then dipped his spoon into the broth, bringing out a tiny portion. “I need a palate cleanser.”
Boris Winfrey signaled, and another worker brought Toby a basket of bread. He took a bite from a crescent roll, chewed thoroughly, and then sampled the gumbo on the spoon. That burnt taste was still there, distinguishable from black pepper, garlic powder, thyme, oregano, and sweet paprika.
“It’s there,” Toby confirmed. “Burnt cinnamon.”
“Hmm. Marie?” Boris Winfrey asked.
“Naw, he crazy,” said the cook.
Boris Winfrey now dipped his spoon and tried his own luck with the gumbo. He smacked his lips a few times. “Marie,” he said firmly. “What happened?”