by Mindy Klasky
“I wasn’t hungry after all that work today. I decided to treat myself to something special, to some strawberries, out of season. I have some whipped cream. And some nice, warm chocolate.”
His hand moved faster, his fingers tightening as he pictured the ripe red fruit sliding past her lips. “Careful,” he growled. “You wouldn’t want to—”
“Oops,” she said, and he heard the pretend innocence in her voice. She knew exactly what she was doing. She knew exactly how her words were racing him to a cliff. “Lucky for me that chocolate dripped on my leg. Easy enough to clean up.”
He groaned, seeing the trail of rich chocolate as clearly as if he were kneeling between her thighs. He imagined collecting it with his index finger. Raising his finger to her mouth. Watching her lips close over the chocolate, over him, working from the base of his digit to the tip.
“Mmm,” she sighed, as if she’d never eaten anything as delicious in her life. “That’s amazing.”
And he exploded. Short, sharp, fast, like a teenager frantic to finish before his grandmother walked in on him. He couldn’t keep from gasping, couldn’t bite back the bark as his body spasmed.
He would have been ashamed if she’d been there. Embarrassed that he’d had about as much control as a Boy Scout.
But she wasn’t there. She was halfway across town. She was sitting in her own kitchen, drinking a glass of wine. Or not. Eating a bowl of berries. Or not. Wearing a fantasy of silk and lace. Or not.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Finally, he dared to trust his voice. “You’re the one who’s amazing.” His cheeks burned as he said the words. He wasn’t good at this, the paying of compliments, the words of worship. He’d tried them all with Harper, and look where that had gotten him.
Shit. It had gotten him sticky and sweaty and feeling like he’d just run a dozen baseline sprints. And he hadn’t felt this great in ages. He took another sip from his glass of whiskey and settled in to see if he could return the favor.
~~~
Ashley handed her plate to Marta Corman, feeling like she was giving the intern the password to her computer, the key to her safe deposit box, and the combination to her gym locker, all at the same time. “Remember,” she said. “The rolls should be vertical on the plates in front of the judges.”
The Wake Up intern smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll be as careful as you would. You’re the last contestant, so I’ve had a lot of practice.”
Nevertheless, Ashley watched until Marta had left the room before she crossed to the coffee maker at the far side of the room. Remembering how bitter the brew had been her first day, she automatically added powdered creamer and extra sugar, stirring briskly to mix it all together. She was still staring at the whirlpool in her cup when a voice whispered in her ear, “Too bad they don’t serve a decent cab franc here.”
Slam. She couldn’t say she blushed. Instead, her entire body, head to toe, went as hot as a lobster dropped into boiling water. As red, too, she assumed. She took a sip of coffee that her brain told her was scalding, and she marveled that it felt like ice against her lips.
“Good morning,” she said to Josh as she turned to face him.
“Yes,” he said. “It is.” He’d brought his own coffee from outside, a paper cup with a brown corrugated sleeve to protect his fingers. He looked absolutely calm as he eyed her over the rim. “Did you get a good night’s sleep?”
He knew she hadn’t. He’d kept her up until three in the morning—and that was after they’d talked until midnight the night before.
She forced herself to take a steadying breath. It hadn’t all been phone sex. They’d actually shared some real conversation after… After. He’d told her a lot about growing up in Raleigh, about his parents moving away when he was in high school, about leaving for college and coming back once he was playing professional ball. He’d made her understand the game better than she ever had before—why grown men cared about hitting a silly white ball, why running around the bases mattered. He’d explained about teamwork, about being the absolute best that he could be, about that feeling when he watched the ball sail over over the fence, when he’d literally knocked one out of the park.
And she’d told him about her own life. About growing up in Raleigh too, about attending University of Raleigh because that’s what she’d always expected to do, what her parents had always expected her to do. About going away for cooking school, about struggling to master a new city, a new curriculum, a million new skills in the kitchen. She’d skated over the disaster with Martin, just saying enough to let him know she’d come home without a diploma. There hadn’t been any reason to dwell on the mistake, to state explicitly that Martin had changed her relationship rules forever. Instead, she’d glided into how she’d worked her way up through the restaurant ranks, learning every job. She told Josh how much she wanted to open her own restaurant, how it meant everything to her—artistic fulfillment and business success and the combination of all the different bits of her—student, chef, daughter, woman.
It seemed like they’d talked about everything. But there was one thing they hadn’t shared. One thing they hadn’t dared to tell each other.
“Okay,” she said. “Spill. What did you cook today? You said you’d tell me after you turned it in.”
“Mrs. Boudreaux’s Chicken Dreams.”
“Who’s Mrs. Boudreaux?”
“That’s what I was at the library, trying to find out,” he said.
God! Wasn’t he embarrassed to be standing there talking to her? Didn’t he feel the weight of all those things they’d said to each other over the phone? Wasn’t he remembering the things he’d done, the things she’d done, the words they’d spoken to each other?
But, no. He seemed as calm and self-possessed as a well-fed tiger as he said, “It turns out, she ran a restaurant in downtown Raleigh. She was famous for her biscuits, her country ham, and her Chicken Dreams.”
Well, two could play at that game. Maybe not well, but she’d be damned if she let him see how much his presence set her on edge. “What exactly does one dream about, with chicken?”
“They’re like little bites of deep-fried chicken pot pie. Just enough cream gravy to hold together bits of carrot and onion and tiny cubes of chicken. They’re breaded twice and fried in shortening.”
The description alone made her mouth water. It wasn’t fair she and Josh were competing against each other. She wanted to order him to make Mrs. Boudreaux’s Chicken Dreams for her right then, right there.
Instead she said, “I went in a different direction. I wanted to use North Carolina shrimp and peanuts, you know, the type of food that’s been served in the tidewater for generations. I tried to balance soft and crunchy, hot and sweet. I made a sort of Thai summer roll, with a peanut dipping sauce.”
“Sounds like it could get messy,” he deadpanned. She knew precisely what sort of mess he was talking about, and she started to blurt out an embarrassed protest, but she was interrupted by Marta’s voice, raised from the doorway. “All right, contestants! The judges have cast their votes. Time for all of you to come out on the set.”
~~~
Josh made sure he stayed close to Ashley as they filed into the studio. Wake Up was on a commercial break; it took less than a minute for the contestants to toe the line. They were all getting better at this. Hell, in another couple of weeks, they’d be ready for prime time.
In another couple of weeks, the show would be over. The contest would be won.
He felt confident about the Chicken Dreams. They were his favorite dish from all the ones Angel had ever served. A pain in the ass to make, that was for sure. If he’d known how long it would take to master the double-breading, he probably wouldn’t have tried. Especially not in the wee hours of the morning.
He caught a yawn against the back of his teeth. It had been worth it—the pre-dawn scramble, the fatigue that dragged at him like a rain-soaked uniform. He wouldn’t have given up a minute of his phone time with Ash
ley.
The producer counted them back from the commercial break. Wake Up’s cheery host and hostess explained the rules of the contest once again, how there were ten men and ten women still in the competition, how they would soon be cut down to five each. The survivors would make a main dish and a dessert and—sparkle, sparkle, grin, grin—the grand prize was now the chance to run the restaurant at Rockets Field for an entire year, with the cash and consultant still on the table. Ten points were awarded by each judge for the appetizer and the dessert; the main dish was worth twenty. The contestant with the highest score won.
He barely listened as the judges critiqued the appetizers they’d gorged on. They went through them in order, lowest to highest score. He didn’t expect to be among the first eighteen, and he wasn’t disappointed.
But then, Bill Morton turned to the camera and announced with a shit-eating grin, “And in second place, we have Josh Cantor, with his Mrs. Boudreaux’s Chicken Dreams. Step forward, Josh. Take a bow for your twenty-eight points.”
He stepped forward, all right. He even took a bow, waving a jaunty hand at the camera. A quick calculation told him that at least one of the judges had thought his entry was perfect.
But that didn’t compare to Ashley’s thirty points. She’d earned a perfect score on her appetizer. And she hadn’t needed to pay off her grandmother to do it.
He wanted to be happy for her. He was happy for her. But he couldn’t break down the knot in his stomach, the worry that she was going to win the competition. He had to walk away with the Apron prize—it was the only way he was ever going to see his restaurant dreams come true. Of course he knew she wanted it to—needed it to—and that only made him feel more sick to his stomach.
Ashley’s eyes were shining after the show went to another commercial break. She was polite back in the green room, accepting the congratulations of the other contestants, at least the ones who stuck around, the ones who were continuing to the next round. He could tell, though, that she was barely able to tamp down the victorious smile that kept tugging at her lips.
Some of the other chefs asked her about her choices, how she’d chosen Asian flavors as the backbone for the dish, where she got the idea to use traditional Carolina foods. Before she could finish answering, that intern girl came back into the room. “Ladies and gentlemen!” she called out, immediately getting everyone’s attention. “Congratulations on reaching Round 3 of the competition! But here at Wake Up Wake County, we don’t want things to get too easy for you!”
There were groans of frustration—some mock and some real. Josh heard one woman mutter a curse he usually only heard in the locker room. After a losing game. Against a division rival.
The intern ignored the flurry. “For your next round, the judges have decided that each of you must include a specific ingredient in your dish. There’s a different one for each of you, right here in these envelopes.”
She started calling names, in the order that the chefs had been ranked that morning. And that was when Josh got an idea.
It wasn’t a great one. He didn’t have time for that. But it was good enough, under the circumstances.
He edged closer to the intern, waiting for her to call his name. He took his envelope awkwardly, jostling the one left in her hand, and then he followed up the confusion by stumbling a bit, by jolting the girl back a step.
By the time he made sure she was steady on her feet, he ended up with both the envelopes. A quick glance at the address labels, printed big as day, a quick switch, and he was left holding Ashley’s envelope. She had his.
He headed for the door before she could realize the mistake. Fortunately, the entire room full of wannabe chefs helped cover his escape—people were clutching their envelopes close, acting like they’d just been given a battle plan and told they’d be shot on sight if they let a word slip loose to the enemy.
“Josh!”
He heard Ashley call his name, sharp above the noise of the crowd. He almost turned around out of reflex. Out of wanting to see the line of her neck one more time, the smooth arch of her lips.
But he’d worked hard enough to get the switch done. No reason to torpedo his own hard work.
His phone buzzed against his thigh as he slipped behind the wheel of his car. Nope. Wasn’t going to answer it.
He sucked in a deep breath as the phone stopped vibrating. He might as well head over to Rockets Field. A good workout was the only thing that had a chance of taking the edge off, until Ashley Harris tracked him down to exchange the envelopes. In person.
CHAPTER 5
Ashley stood on the doorstep, reminding herself that she had absolutely no reason to feel intimidated. So what, if she’d never set foot inside this neighborhood before, scared off by the guards in their hut at the base of the hill? So what, if her entire apartment would fit on the front porch of Josh’s house? So what, if every inch of the mansion looked perfectly maintained—the paint immaculate, the winter lawn sculpted despite the brown grass?
Dammit. The man was just like her. They were both competitors on Who Wears the Apron, and she was willing to bet she’d spent more time in kitchens the past seven years than he had. Josh was a professional baseball player for God’s sake. How did he have time to come up with a single recipe, much less convince the judges to pass him on from round to round?
Before she could psych herself out and climb back into her little sedan, she punched the doorbell with her index finger. Maybe she held the button a little longer than was strictly necessary. That would serve him right, for ignoring her back in the green room. For ignoring her calls—all of them—for the entire day.
After all, she thought as her cheeks flushed, he’d been eager enough to talk with her Wednesday night. And Thursday, too.
She wasn’t an idiot. She knew he’d purposely drawn her here to his house.
And she wasn’t innocent. She’d wanted to be drawn. She’d dressed for the occasion. Or not, as the case might be. Beneath her lined wool skirt, she wore the slightest excuse for panties she owned—a wisp of coal-black silk trimmed in lace as delicate as meringue. In a moment she was starting to regret just a bit, she’d gone without a bra, trusting that her crimson sweater would conceal the tight buds of her nipples. She hadn’t bothered with stockings.
Those decisions had made perfect sense in the privacy of her bedroom. They’d even worked in her car on the drive over as she considered just what Josh had done to lure her here. But now, on his front porch, with a breeze blowing hard from the north, tightening her already stimulated nipples…
She resisted the urge to cross her arms over her chest, and she reached again for the bell.
The door opened before she had a chance to ring another time. At least Josh had upped the wardrobe ante himself. He wore charcoal slacks and a dress shirt, open at the neck. The crisp white cotton set off his tan, emphasizing the slight crookedness of his nose, that remnant of some long ago break.
“It’s about time,” he growled, stepping back to let her walk into the foyer.
“You could have answered your phone.”
“And take the chance you’d skip coming over here? I don’t think so.”
“You’re a real asshole, you know?”
He looked shocked, and she didn’t think it was because of her language. His confidence leached away. His smile wilted, and he said, “Ashley…”
She let him wallow in it, let him think about just how annoying he’d been. The gold flecks in his eyes dimmed, and his eyebrows knit in worry. He swallowed, hard, and she could practically hear his mind racing, trying to come up with the right words, the right apology.
“Busted,” she said, when the breeze picked up again, and he was still at a loss.
“I didn’t mean… I thought…”
There was a power in this, in having him on the hook. But in the end, she had to admit that she’d wanted to come here. She’d wanted to follow up on their phone conversations. She’d wanted to see him in his home, in his element.
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And she’d been flattered as hell that he’d manipulated the envelopes to get her there.
She set one hand over his heart and was gratified to feel him suck in a breath. “If you wanted me to come over, you should have said so. Straight out.”
“I want you.” He didn’t skip a beat. Instead, he looked straight into her eyes, turning her inside out with those three simple words.
Drawing in her own stunned breath, she raised the manila envelope between them. “Well then. Special delivery.”
His grin was slow. Easy. “Yours is in the kitchen.”
He led the way through the house. It was hard to believe that anyone lived there. The rooms were perfectly cleaned—she could see the stripes from a vacuum cleaner sculpted into the area rugs. The furniture, the lamps, the rugs, everything was painstakingly selected, precisely placed. Aside from the immaculately centered vases on shelves and the artisan bowls on tables, every room was empty.
Until she got to the kitchen.
“This is gorgeous!” she breathed, shock lowering whatever inhibitions lingered.
No wonder the guy could compete in Who Wears the Apron! He practically lived in a professional kitchen—the stainless steel refrigerators—two of them—the eight-burner gas stove, a knife-block filled with German steel. She consciously tamped down her jealousy.
Sure, he had all the toys. But she was going to win the game.
The center island was surrounded by four comfortable-looking bar stools. A hand-thrown pottery bowl overflowed with tropical fruit—mangos and papayas, guavas and persimmons, a horned melon and a handful of mangosteens. A stack of mail slipped across one counter, and a couple of bright pottery dishes were stacked in the sink.
The far wall was all windows. The lights in the room were dim enough that she could see into the backyard. The immaculately trimmed hibernating lawn stretched all the way to a line of trees; there wasn’t another house in sight. The flagstone patio boasted a smoker the size of her car, along with deck furniture that looked more comfortable than her own bed.