Especially when he turned his head suddenly and caught her staring.
Heat seared up the back of Skye’s neck, flooding her cheeks with warmth, and she immediately dropped her gaze to the table in front of her. But there was no way to block her ears, and she listened to every word as Beck explained how he’d come up with his dish.
“Actually, I’d planned to do salmon,” he told the judges. “But you’ve seen that from me before. And then I had the chance to take a few minutes alone with one of the chefs from another team…”
Skye kept her eyes stubbornly trained on her own plate, ignoring the inferno in her blood.
“And she talked some sense into me about what a signature dish really is. So I decided to do this take on linguini with clam sauce. Because for me, cooking is all about taking what you’ve got, and turning it into something better.”
“Flour, egg, clams, white wine, lemon juice,” Devon Sparks counted out as he twirled another bite of pasta around his fork. “Very basic ingredients, but you made them sing. Well done, Chef Beck.”
That wasn’t a glow of pride she felt, and it definitely wasn’t satisfaction that she’d helped Beck crystallize his dish, Skye told herself. Nope.
No way.
Finally, it was the West Coast team’s turn to be judged. Skye stood up straighter, pulling her shoulders back, but not so far back that she was in danger of poking anyone’s eye out with her overlarge chest.
It was a fine line to walk, but she managed it.
The judges strolled down the table, looking cool and fresh and relaxed, and just generally giving off the air of people who hadn’t been brawling their way through a crowded competition kitchen for the past five hours. Skye blew an errant curl off her sticky, sweaty forehead and tried not to miss the chill, dark confines of the walk-in cooler.
“Chef Gladwell,” Claire Durand said in her cool, precise voice. “What do you have for us today? Your team sourced all the ingredients for these signature dishes from…”
“Chinatown,” Skye confirmed. “Which, honestly, if I’d chosen first? I still would have picked Chinatown. It’s my favorite neighborhood in the city.”
“Oh?” Claire wasn’t really looking at her. All her attention was focused on the plates in front of her, but Skye nodded anyway.
“I used to live there,” she babbled nervously. “Above a Chinese grocer, actually, so I’m super familiar with the local shops and what they offer.”
“So even though you drew the short straw, you kind of lucked out,” Kane Slater observed, giving her a friendly smile that somehow didn’t relax a bit of the tension holding Skye’s shoulders in a rigid line.
“Yes. And I hope you enjoy what we’ve prepared for you.” With a practiced flick of her wrist, Skye turned her plate and presented it to the judges. “I know you said ‘signature dish,’ which could mean something we’re known for. But I wanted to stretch a little, and honestly, to me, I think my signature as a chef is the willingness to treat simple, perfect ingredients with love and respect. This dish definitely works for that. It’s a savory meringue, with chives and parmagiano reggiano to give it some bite, with a topping of sweet onion confit and whole basil leaves.”
Each judge had a spoon, and they took turns digging in.
Skye studied their reactions anxiously, holding her breath. Was this too out there? Not out there enough? Would they think she’d tortured the concept of a meringue, pulling it too far off course and taking too many liberties, or would they be impressed that she’d managed to solve the sugar problem?
But when “Intriguing…” was the first thing out of Claire’s mouth, Skye knew she had them. Her shoulders dropped at least two inches, sending relief all down her spine and through her lower back.
Claire Durand looked her in the eye and said simply, “I’m impressed. You’ve achieved something I didn’t think was possible.”
Relief flooded Skye’s system. They were so in!
The judges had more comments, but Skye barely processed them, her whole body alight with hope and joy. She definitely wasn’t still tingling with the aftereffects of Beck’s kiss. No way.
The rest of her team did well, as she’d known they would; Fiona’s playful take on Jell-O shooters was an especially big hit.
Devon Sparks couldn’t stop admiring the brilliant little squares of jewel-bright gelatin flavored like Fiona’s favorite cocktail, the French 75. Fi spent a bunch of time explaining how the French 75 got its name when it was invented during the First World War—for having a kick like a 75mm artillery cannon—but Skye had a feeling that Devon wasn’t listening to her.
The calculating look on his movie-star-handsome face made Skye think grown-up Jell-O shots might be making an appearance at his New York restaurant in the near future.
Nathan’s summer vegetable tart was always a favorite on the Queenie Pie menu, and the judges appeared to agree that it was awesome. Oscar had quietly, stubbornly, made carnitas, the way he did every single Sunday at the café, over Nathan’s strenuous vegetarian objections, and the judges were impressed with the perfectly caramelized crust on the tiny chunks of juicy pork.
They even liked Rex’s unapologetic fish and chips, especially the way he battered the potatoes before frying them, making them extra crispy.
All things considered, Skye thought they had a good shot. But then, she’d thought that before and wound up extremely disappointed. So when the judges headed back to the front of the room to make their announcement about who would stay in the competition and who would be going home, Skye couldn’t help but hold her breath.
Chapter 12
Tension filled the kitchen like smoke from the grill, so thick Beck wondered why it didn’t set off the fire alarms.
On one level, he could see why everyone was jacked up. Shit was about to go down. It was tempting to let his heart rate increase, get his adrenaline pumping in case action was called for—but it wasn’t.
They all just had to stand there and take it, whatever the judges said.
Beck crossed his arms over his chest and set his jaw. There was nothing he could do about it now. Whatever was going to happen would happen, regardless of what he wanted.
It reminded him a lot of being in the Navy, actually. Decisions were made. Orders were handed down. And it was up to grunts like Beck to execute.
Wanting didn’t enter into it.
But if he could want something …
The tiny rebellious voice in the back of his brain, the one that had gotten him into so much trouble when he was a stupid kid—the one that had nearly gotten him tossed out of recruit training—piped up with one single wish. Like it was Beck’s inner eight-year-old blowing out the candles on the last birthday cake anyone had ever made for him.
If we make it through to the finals … I wish I could be the one to take us all the way.
Stupid, he told himself. It was so freaking stupid to want what he couldn’t have. It didn’t even make sense. If they made it as far as the final head-to-head culinary battle, it would be Jules up there going at it, not Beck. Or maybe Max, if Jules had to step aside for some reason.
Although, the way those two fought when Max first showed up to advise the team, Beck was pretty sure it would take something on the level of a severed hand to make Jules step aside.
All of which made it that much more unlikely that Beck would get his stupid, stupid wish.
So he ignored it, the way he’d learned to ignore the bone-deep need for sleep, the ache of overtaxed muscles, the hollow scrape of hunger. And he focused on what the judges were saying.
“It’s been a long road to get here.” Claire Durand surveyed them gravely, her shoulders so straight and still she almost looked like she should be in uniform. “And you’ve all done remarkably well. We, the judges, would like to thank each of you for the wonderful flavors and techniques to which we’ve been treated in the last few weeks.”
She looked at her co-judges, who both nodded.
“It’s good to
be back,” Devon Sparks said. “I look forward to a lot of delicious food and some impressive cooking, now that we’re getting close to the finals.”
Beck noticed new lines carved by worry and sleeplessness on Devon’s face, but there was a bright sheen to his electric blue eyes as he looked at the group of assembled chefs. “I want to thank you all for the concern and the well wishes about my wife, and I’m very happy to be able to inform you that as of this morning when I talked to Lilah, she was doing great, feeling better, getting plenty of rest…”
He paused, his whole body strung so tight with emotion, he appeared poised for flight. Beck tensed instinctively, bracing for impact, even as his gaze sought out Skye’s pale face.
“And actually, we just found out…” Devon’s throat worked for a heartbeat before he managed to keep going. “We’re having a baby girl!”
Everyone clapped; a couple of people even cheered. Devon was a celebrity chef with a reputation for throwing his weight around, but over the weeks of the RSC he’d proven himself to be tough but fair as a judge—and totally, completely, irrevocably in love with his wife. The combo made him pretty well liked by the chef contestants, and there’d been a lot of worry when he’d had to leave. Beck understood that everyone was glad to have him back, and glad to hear that his wife was okay.
Beck was glad, too, of course he was. But as he stared at the look of tremulous, complicated relief on Skye’s heart-shaped face, what Beck didn’t understand was why the sight of it, and the sound of the Sparks’s happy news, made him want to smash the entire kitchen to smithereens.
Get a grip, Beck.
“Right on,” Kane Slater added, slapping his palms against his thighs with a big, blinding grin. “Way to go, Devon. And yeah, what Claire said. You’re all rock stars!”
That got more cheers. Beside Beck, Winslow was bouncing like he’d jumped onto a trampoline.
Claire held up a hand for silence. “All true. Which only makes this more difficult, to say goodbye to one of the last three teams. But it is now that time.”
Beck had to give it to her. Now that the moment had arrived, she didn’t drag it out. No glancing at her co-judges for last-minute validation, no waffling around. All she did was take a deep breath in and let it out slowly before turning her gaze to the right of Beck.
Where the West Coast team stood.
Mouth suddenly dry, Beck experienced a moment of panic that felt like free fall. Shit, was she about to cut Skye out of the competition?
No. I’m not ready.
“Chef Gladwell, in answering the challenge today, you and your team exemplified everything the Rising Star Chef contest stands for. You presented your signature dishes with authority, never backing down from the bold, idiosyncratic flavors you showcased, and you told us exactly who you are. Very, very well done.”
Beck’s head floated down out of the ether and back onto his shoulders. That sounded pretty good. After all that about showing who they were as chefs, and with the way Claire was nodding at them in obvious approval, there was no way she was sending Skye packing.
But it wasn’t until Claire said definitively, “West Coast team, you will be competing in the final round of the Rising Star Chef competition. Please choose your lead competitor and one sous-chef,” that Beck finally managed to draw in a shaky breath.
Of course, that was the instant he realized that the fact that the West Coast team was in meant that he and his own team now stood a fifty-fifty chance of being cut.
Well, fuck.
Claire left the West Coasties to their exuberant celebrations and cast a sympathetic look over the two remaining teams, standing there quaking in their leather cooking clogs, waiting to hear their fate.
“East Coast team and Midwest team.” She spread her arms, looking back and forth between them. “You both did well today. The Midwest team has shown us some of the most consistently avant-garde, innovative plates throughout this competition, and today was no exception. Chef Larousse, although we loved your crab consomme and the delicacy of the avocado foam, some of the judges felt that you relied too heavily on showy techniques and not enough on the food itself.
“And East Coast team … your ability to bring classical preparations into the new millennium has been exciting to watch—and even more exciting to taste. Chef Lunden—” she nodded at Max, who straightened up like a kid who hadn’t expected the teacher to call on him.
“Your barbecued pork belly ramen was a triumph, as was Chef Beck’s clam linguini.”
Holy shit. Beck blinked. She’d called him out specifically. Well, that was just … cool.
Holding his head up, he told himself to enjoy this moment, to let it make the outcome of the next few minutes unimportant … but he still tensed all over when she drew in another deep breath.
Accent heavier than usual, Claire lifted her chin and announced, “East Coast team … you will be competing in the final round of the Rising Star Chef competition…”
The rest of her instructions about choosing a lead competitor and a sous were lost in the ear-splitting whoop Win gave, pumping his fist in the air and throwing his arms around the chef nearest him. Who happened to be Beck.
Beck barely noticed. It felt like fireworks were detonating in his chest, sparking in his belly and knocking him around from the inside as his team fell spontaneously into a group huddle and howled with glee.
“We’re in,” Max crowed, while Jules cackled joyfully into his shoulder.
“If I could have everyone’s attention for just one moment.” Claire’s round, elegant tones cut through the ringing in Beck’s ears and the chatter of his teammates.
He got himself upright again, hauling Winslow to his feet as he went, and cast a quick glance at the Midwest team.
They were already filing out of the kitchen, looking pissed and exhausted and beaten down. Their team leader, Ryan Larousse, cast one final glance over his shoulder and snagged on Beck’s stare.
A man wasn’t defined only by how well he bore up under a loss. He was also defined by how he behaved in victory—and Beck hated a bad winner. Gloating wasn’t just pointless and petty. In some parts of the world, in certain situations, it could be deadly.
So Beck nodded at Larousse, man to man, and waited to see what the little shit would do.
After all, this was the piece of crap who’d actively tried to hurt Skye; this was the guy Beck had completely lost his cool and snapped on, taking him down to the kitchen mats with his fists in a display of raw temper and uncontrolled anger that had scared everyone present—Beck, most of all.
Some intense emotion spasmed across Ryan Larousse’s face, and Beck could see the muscle in his jaw ticking as the guy ground his back teeth together.
But in the end, all he did was nod back and follow his team out of the kitchen.
Beck wished he didn’t respect the guy for that, but he sort of did. After all, he knew exactly how badly Larousse had wanted to win. And instead, he was on his way back to Chicago with his tail tucked firmly between his legs.
That had to suck.
Meanwhile, Claire seemed to have asked the two finalist teams to state their choices for lead chef and sous-chef, because Skye was stepping forward, determination firming her soft little chin.
“I’ll be competing for the West Coast team,” she said, voice completely unwavering. But Beck could read the nerves in the quiet jingle of the bangle bracelets around her wrists, before she clasped her hands in front of her to still the sound.
“And your sous?” Claire asked.
Glancing back at the pixie-ish platinum-blonde woman behind her, Skye said, “I’m bringing Fiona Whealey to the finals with me.”
“Ah,” Claire said, interest sparking in her voice. “An all-female chef team in the finals? Theo, correct me if I’m mistaken, but I believe this may be a first for the RSC.”
“No, you’re right.” Theo Jansen who’d sauntered into the kitchen after the tasting, looked as proud and smug as if he’d personally traine
d Skye and Fiona. “Best of luck, ladies.”
“Who needs luck when you’ve got this much skill?” Fiona flexed her wiry arms with a wink, making the intricate spoon tattooed on her bicep bend like something out of that Matrix movie.
Beck’s desire to clap Skye on the back was rivaled only by his urge to slap the look of fatherly approval off Theo Jansen’s smug face. Beck had seen assholes like that in the service—guys who said the right things about wanting women to succeed, get promoted, whatever, but all with this air of “Aren’t they cute for wanting to strap on a gun and defend their country?”
Which was hilarious, considering that the toughest submariner Beck ever met was a five-foot-three petty officer, third class, named Marianne Wells.
Beck took a moment to be glad Theo was no longer a judge.
Claire Durand looked as if she was suppressing the urge to laugh at Fiona Whealey’s posturing as she turned back to the East Coast team.
“And you? Who will be going head to head with Chef Gladwell?”
Their team leader, Jules, arched a brow in Theo’s direction. “If you think one all-female team was exciting, you’ll love this. I’ll be competing for the East Coast team, with Winslow Jones as my sous.”
Beck didn’t acknowledge the slight sinking in his gut. The sharp disappointment was fleeting and meaningless.
“Well, isn’t this something!” Theo clapped his hands together, pleased as punch. “This is the year of the woman!”
“Um, hello?” Win raised his hand and pointed at himself. “I like women fine, as friends and stuff, but … not actually a woman, over here. All man, with man parts. I just want to be clear on that.”
“Oh!” Theo looked surprised, then embarrassed. “No, of course not, Chef Jones. I didn’t mean to imply … anything.”
Sometimes it was hard not to believe in karma. Act like a fool? Look foolish. The end.
“All right.” Eva Jansen swooped in to take control of the conversation and rescue her floundering father. “Congratulations to both the final teams—hundreds of chefs would kill to be in your clogs right now. And now that you’ve chosen your competitors, we’re going to let you go so we can start setting things up for the final challenge, which will be announced here in the competition kitchen tomorrow morning. Everyone, take the night off. You’ve earned it.”
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