She nodded and took a step back, wiping her shaking hands against her apron.
“Of course,” Whitney replied, looking down at the plate. “What are you serving us today?”
“This is my memaw’s recipe for Memphis-style pork. I’ve been helping her with it since I was six. I made sliders for you, topped off with homemade slaw on a soft roll.”
Katie cleared her throat and leaned in close to Whitney’s ear. “What’s a memaw?” she whispered. Whitney wasn’t surprised that Katie, born and raised in Orange County, was unfamiliar with the southern term of endearment.
“Another word for grandma.”
“Ah, ’kay, thanks.”
Whitney’s mouth watered as she looked at the perfectly portioned slider. With the tips of her fingers, she inspected the small sandwich. “Sometimes this can be a messy dish, but your presentation is excellent.”
Whitney took her first bite—the pork was sweet and the tangy bite of the slaw brought balance to the savory meat. She’d heard about Memphis barbecue, but this was her first experience with it. She was more than impressed with the first contestant’s dish and could only hope the other competitors would represent themselves just as well. If so, she was certain she’d gain fifteen pounds . . . not ten.
Chris moaned, closing his eyes with his first bite. Whitney pursed her lips as Coralee giggled behind her hand. “I hope that’s a good sign.”
“I gotta be honest,” Whitney deadpanned. The shaky contestant turned a ghastly shade of white. Aw shit, I should put her out of her misery. “I want to make love to this sandwich and cuddle ’til morning.”
A loud laugh escaped Chris’s mouth and he began to choke on his sandwich. Whitney patted his back and Coralee looked horrified. Apparently, Whitney’s sense of humor didn’t translate to the natives . . . or at least not to the shy and terrified contestant standing in front of her.
“You’ll, uh,” Chris interjected, “you’ll have to excuse Ms. Bartolina, she has a habit of getting attached to food. Really attached.”
“Um, is that good?” Coralee asked, pushing her bangs from her eyes.
“Yes, Coralee.” Whitney laughed and took a sip of water. “It’s phenomenal.”
The young woman sighed, placing both hands over her chest. “Oh, thank you! Oh my goodness, thank you.”
“As long as my cohorts don’t object, I’d like to invite you to cook for us in Los Angeles next month. That’s when we’ll narrow it down to the final sixteen. All expenses paid, of course.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’d love that.”
“Great. Katie will get all of your contact information. She has a packet for you as well.” Whitney nodded to Katie, who rose from her seat and gestured for Coralee to follow her to the exit.
“Thank you! Oh my God, I can’t even believe it! Memaw’s gonna flip!” Coralee jumped up and down on the tips of her toes, her blond braid slapping against her shoulder, before she joined Katie at the door.
“You’re welcome.” Whitney turned her attention back to Katie. “Send in another contestant—they can start cooking while we sample the food from these lovely ladies.”
“You got it.”
The other contestants glanced up from their stations, but immediately looked back down at their food when Whitney turned her attention to them. Chris leaned over and whispered, “You sure about her? She was shaking like a leaf.”
“I know, I know. But she’s got something, don’t you think?”
“The accent was cute, I’ll admit. I trust your judgment.”
“Doesn’t sound like it,” Whitney teased.
“Geez, I can’t catch a break today. I’ll be over here enjoying my slider. Let me know when it’s time to eat again.”
“No way! No freaking way!” Chris waved his hands back and forth and shook his head, his eyes wide. “There’s no way you’re getting me out there!”
After two long days of casting, Whitney and the rest of the crew were ready to mingle with the locals. After a few relaxing hours at Rippy’s Smokin’ Bar & Grill, Whitney led the group to the Wildhorse Saloon. Before leaving California, she’d spent quite a bit of time researching all of the restaurants and bars she hoped to visit during her short stay in each city.
The immense wooden dance floor of the famous honky-tonk bar called to Whitney, who was dying to join the locals as they slapped their leather boots against the shiny wood, twirling, laughing and swaying to Kenny Chesney’s baritone voice.
“C’mon, I’ve never done it. We’ll learn together!”
“I’ll go.” Katie hopped down from her barstool and placed her beer on the table. “I’ve always wanted to do this.”
“I’ll be here, nursing my beer,” Chris said after taking a swig. “Real men don’t line dance.”
“Oh, puh-lease.” Whitney rolled her eyes, knowing Chris was too intimidated by the cowboys already owning the dance floor. One in particular caught her eye. He was just her type—tall, broad chested, with sharp angled features on his deeply tanned, handsome face. Aside from the cowboy hat and rugged leather boots, he could easily be mistaken for Nolan Rivera.
Damn you, Nolan. Why can’t I get the hell away from you?
Whitney hadn’t seen Nolan since he broke her mother’s vase and stormed out of her apartment. After that day he sent dozens of texts and dozens of flowers, but Whitney refused to respond. She knew he wasn’t brave enough to show up unannounced. Or at least that’s what she told herself. The notion that he didn’t care enough to make himself vulnerable and approach her in person was too painful for her to even entertain. She’d reached a new level of detachment with Nolan, and the last thing she wanted to do was give him any power or control over her emotions as she prepared for the trip of a lifetime. So they’d had no contact whatsoever.
She approached the dance floor and Nolan’s doppelgänger caught her attention once again when he tipped his camel-colored hat in her direction and offered her a smug grin. A coy smile crossed her face and she positioned herself between the handsome cowboy and Katie, who was bouncing on her toes with excitement.
“All right, y’all ready for the Boot Scootin’ Boogie?” the dance instructor called from the stage. The dancers cheered and several of them swayed their hips back and forth as Brooks & Dunn poured through the speakers. Whitney studied their moves, the subtle taps of their boots against the grain of the floor, their shuffles in one direction and then the next. Within seconds, she had the routine down and was following along with everyone else, shaking her hips with each stomp of her boots. Katie stumbled along next to her and the two women laughed and danced until the song hit its final notes. By the end of the fourth song, both women were following along just fine and enjoying themselves immensely.
“I’m thirsty,” Katie said, pulling her hair up into a ponytail and licking her lips. “Wanna hit the bar?”
“Definitely.”
Whitney followed Katie, but the cowboy blocked her exit from the dance floor.
“Buy you a drink?” he asked, offering his hand to Whitney. His voice wasn’t at all what she imagined. His twang was sexy, but the register of his voice did not match his sturdy stature. Impressed by his potential chivalry, however, Whitney placed her hand in his palm and nodded. She signaled for Katie to go on without her, and followed the handsome stranger to the bar.
When they reached the thick wooden bar, her unnamed companion gestured for her to take the only empty stool available. Whitney obliged, thanking him.
“Beer?”
“Perfect.” The handsome cowboy signaled the bartender. “Two bottles of Yazoo Pale Ale.”
“Yazoo?”
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
“Why do you say that?”
He looked her up and down before speaking, stopping briefly on her breasts before returning his gaze to her eyes. Whitney wasn’t shy. In fact, she was quite the opposite. She was a strong woman who owned her sexuality. It was a gift, a privilege, and something she didn’t i
ntend to waste. Her silk top was deliberately open just above the swell of her breasts, beckoning attention, and that wasn’t something she’d ever be ashamed of. She worked hard for her body; there was no reason to hide behind false modesty.
“Your accent. You sound like a Yankee. Plus, southern girls know what Yazoo is.”
“Do people actually say Yankee?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded, tipping his hat again. “Southern gentlemen do still exist, ya know.”
The more he spoke, the less his slightly high-pitched voice bothered her. Instead, she focused on the charm that oozed from every pore of his body. He handed her a Yazoo and they clinked bottles before taking a sip. The ice-cold brew with just a hint of citrus satisfied her taste buds.
“So, southern gentleman . . . you got a name?”
“Where are my manners? Yep, name’s Boone. Nice to meet you . . .” He lifted his chin, waiting for her reply.
“Whitney.”
“Beautiful name.” He winked. “Where are you from?”
“California.”
“Damn, I was way off.”
That didn’t surprise Whitney. With her olive skin and dark hair, she was often mistaken for an East Coaster. Her father was Italian and was born and raised in New Jersey. She hadn’t seen him since she was five years old, but she’d seen enough pictures to know she looked just like him.
“I get that a lot.” Whitney smiled. “Where’d you think I was from?”
“Space.”
Whitney glared at Boone, with his shit-eating grin. “Come again?”
“You know, ’cause that ass is out of this world.”
Oh my Lord.
He narrowed his eyes and leaned in closer. “And, baby, I’ll definitely make you come again and again if only given the chance.” He looked awfully proud of himself as he popped a handful of peanuts into his mouth. Whitney laughed quietly behind her bottle of beer when he followed that move up with a wink.
She didn’t want to be rude, but seriously? “Um . . . Boone, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He leaned an elbow on the bar and raised both eyebrows when Whitney slid from the barstool to face him.
“Thank you for the beer, but you need to work on those pickup lines, my friend. You had my full attention until you busted those out. And back to back?” She clenched her teeth while shaking her head. “That was unfortunate.”
“So that’s it? We’re done here?”
“Afraid so.” She opened her wallet and placed a five-dollar bill on the bar. “I’m gonna join my friends. Take care now.”
Katie was waiting back at the table for Whitney. “Tell me about the hottie.”
“He needs to up his game.”
“Seriously?” Katie peered over Whitney’s shoulder at Boone who had moved on to another woman seated at the bar. “He’s got a great ass.”
Whitey laughed. “That he does, but he failed in the pickup line department.”
“Hell, if he looks like that, who the hell cares?” Katie insisted. “Even for just one night.”
Whitney wasn’t opposed to one-night stands. In fact, she’d assumed she’d meet one, if not several men who she wouldn’t mind spending an evening with while traveling the country. But she had standards. Anyone could buy her a beer, but a real man didn’t rely on cheesy pickup lines to get her in bed. He just had to be himself.
She shrugged off Katie’s comment. “There’ll be plenty of others. One city down, nine to go.”
“What’s next?”
“Chicago. We leave in the morning. Be in the lobby by eight.”
Katie nodded. “I’ll be ready, I promise.”
Upon hearing the name of their next city, Chris perked up and raised his beer. “To Chicago and its pizza.”
“And its men,” Whitney added with a sly smile.
If Whitney had only known what, or who, was waiting for her in the Windy City . . .
CHICAGO
The moment Whitney laid eyes on Charlie Hutchins at the auditions she knew she was in trouble. Lots and lots of trouble. He was tall with fair skin, hair the color of chocolate, and piercing blue eyes. And when he opened his mouth, all bets were off.
He had an accent, a British one, and with that combined with his handsome face, it took every ounce of strength inside of Whitney to maintain her professionalism while interviewing the former rugby player who’d turned home cook. She knew Chris and Katie were watching, as were the cameras that followed her through each interview with the potential competitors. Charlie Hutchins was the twenty-second person to present Whitney and the others with a dish, but he was the first man to catch her eye. There was just something about him. She wanted to know as much as she could, and he seemed more than happy to oblige.
“So let me get this straight—you’d never cooked back home? How in the world is that possible? Your dish is outstanding.” She caught herself flirting with the British hottie, but his beef satay with spicy szechuan sauce was one of the most delectable Asian-themed dishes she’d ever enjoyed. Her tongue was awakened by the heat of the chili peppers in the sauce and in turn, her curiosity was awakened by Charlie.
“It’s the truth, I swear it.” He lifted his hands in surrender. “Broke my leg last season, ended my career.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m on to bigger and better things, right?”
Whitney licked her lips, feeling her cheeks redden. She tipped her forehead toward the handsome athlete, noticing the taut muscles of his arms as he flexed them briefly. “I guess so.”
“Anyway, I was a lazy arse back home—always on the road, ate in pubs half the time. But after my leg, I was bored out of my mind.”
“How’d you end up here? There’s no way you flew from England just to audition.”
“I’ve been staying with my brother and his wife for a few months, getting back on my feet. One day, I was watching TV and stopped on the cooking channel.”
“What made you stop?” Whitney propped her chin on her open palm and leaned in to hear more. She found herself so wrapped up in his story, she was becoming oblivious to the crew and waiting contestants surrounding her in Crosby’s Kitchen, a local restaurant near Wrigley Field. Chris wanted them to wrap up early so he could attempt to score some Cubs tickets and Whitney could feel his eyes boring into the side of her face as she continued her banter with Charlie. But she didn’t care. Not one bit.
“A beautiful woman.” Charlie raised both eyebrows before continuing his story. “That Giada is smoking hot, and—”
“Wait,” Chris interrupted. “You started cooking because Giada De Laurentiis is hot? Are you kidding?”
“Afraid not, mate.” Charlie laughed, wiping his hands on his checkered apron. “It was a marathon, so I watched, totally mesmerized by this angel on the telly.”
“And just like that, you learned to cook after watching a few episodes on the Food Network?” She held her breath as her producer challenged the contestant. Chris was skeptical, and Whitney’s muscles tensed. She wanted to see more of Charlie and didn’t want Chris to overrule that decision.
“Not exactly. But that night, I decided to make dinner, you know, to earn my keep. I’d been staying with my brother for weeks and hadn’t pitched in much. I wanted to say thanks.”
“And?” Whitney asked, eager to hear more.
“And they loved it. His wife, Auden, asked what came over me and took my temperature—she thought my leg was infected. Like I was delirious or something.” Charlie smiled, shaking his head while his front teeth dug into his bottom lip. Whitney centered her attention on his mouth, wondering what it would feel like to press herself against him, to make love right there on the counter of the restaurant. Charlie inhaled deeply, tossing a kitchen towel behind his shoulder. “And the rest is history. I became obsessed and started cooking for them every night. Auden saw the flyer for your show, and, well, now I’m here.”
“I see.” Whitney cleared her throat, pulling herself out of her
kitchen fantasy. “Well, I’m impressed. I think we’d like to see you in Los Angeles.”
“Whitney, I think—” Chris started, but Whitney wasn’t about to let him finish. She bolted from her barstool, grabbed the welcome packet, and gestured for Charlie to join her.
“Congratulations, Charlie, you’ve made it through to the next round.”
“Brilliant.” His blue eyes grew wide as he reached for the welcome packet. Together, completely in sync, they turned away from Chris and the crew and walked toward the exit.
“Big plans tonight?” he asked.
“Not exactly.”
“Would you like some?” One side of his mouth tipped up in a cocky smile. Her attraction to this man was ridiculous—there was just something about his attitude, his demeanor, his boyish grin. She could tell he didn’t take life too seriously—something they had in common.
“I’m sorry?” Whitney was caught off guard by the question and tried to stall. She hadn’t intended to get involved with any of the potential contestants, but she was intrigued and didn’t want to deny their mutual attraction.
“You. Me. A night on the town?”
She clenched her teeth, looking back at Chris before lowering her voice. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“C’mon, I’ll show you around.”
Whitney placed a hand on her hip and leaned to one side. “You’ll be my tour guide, huh?”
“It’d be my pleasure.” He closed the gap between them and Whitney could feel her heart pounding in her chest. The electricity between them was undeniable.
“Fine.” She played it cool, wanting him to work for it. “Meet me at seven in the lobby of the Palmer House.”
Charlie licked his lips while looking into her eyes. His fingertips strolled down her shoulder blade and a delectable chill ran down her spine. A potent desire to devour his lips came over her right there in the middle of auditions. He leaned in closer and he whispered into her ear, “Until then.”
Whitney wasn’t exactly a rebel, but she didn’t allow rules—both written and unwritten—to bind her. She’d read her contract thoroughly and was fully aware that nothing officially forbade her from spending time with contestants outside of the competition. Her evening out with Mr. Hutchins wasn’t against the rules, but she knew it wasn’t the smartest idea. Chris would definitely not approve and she could only imagine that Saul would feel the same. But the cameras were off and Chris, Katie, and several crew members were living it up at Wrigley Field. No one had to know but her and Charlie. She only hoped he could be discreet.
If You Can't Take the Heat Page 3