A Sure Thing

by Brit Blaise

  "If I'd gotten oil on my partner, I'd be on my hands and knees feeling around on the floor for my head.” He looked at the cameras and sighed. Felicia. Even several years of both personal and professional history couldn't mask the growing discontent eating at him.

  "Sounds like a great relationship."

  "I didn't mean—I shouldn't have said that,” Mike said quickly. “Felicia has enough to worry about without me complaining about her. Her mother has Alzheimer's and it's taking every extra penny she makes to keep her in a nursing home. Plus, she's really good with the business."

  The restaurant had been an overnight sensation. Five years later, they boasted a five-star rating. Mike often wondered how much of their phenomenal success came from his cooking and how much from Felicia's management skills.

  He tried not to feel guilty while he tied the apron. It could've been worse. The woman wasn't drenched after all.

  Oil?

  Drenched?

  Woman drenched in oil?

  Better yet—stacked redhead drenched in oil. Just like that, he entered the zone. The sex zone. The place where his head told him he made poor choices on the cusp of a moment. Sometimes faster. There were days he spend ninety-nine-point-nine percent of his day in the zone. Especially over the past year since he'd decided to take a stab at celibacy so his choice would be based on anything other than sex.

  "I can handle this,” he said to Felicia when she approached looking ticked. “Why don't you find somebody to clean the mess off the floor before someone falls and we get sued?"

  Felicia took a moment to give him a frozen stare before she dashed off like a racehorse out of the starting gate. Mike tried not to sigh out loud as he turned his attention back to the woman at his fingertips. Evidently too polite to stand there and tell him what a bumbling idiot he was, she just smiled at him over her shoulder. Her electric green-golden eyes momentarily blasted him.

  He could feel a budding attraction, even though she wasn't his type—his cookie-cutter-blonde type. However, he'd learned not to trust his rapid sexual interest. He'd been left feeling both foolish and guilty on more occasions than he could count when he didn't use his head. Finding someone to love could be lonely business. Darned lonely.

  Testosterone started to muddle his brain. And, just when he thought it couldn't get any worse, she turned to look at him again. She wanted him? Yes!

  Now he just had to find a way to avoid jumping into bed with her right away.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER 2

  "We're going to start off with a foolproof cheese soufflé,” Chef Mike said after he took his place behind the counter. “Served with a wild mustard salad, topped with a cranberry vinaigrette dressing. For dessert, we'll prepare chocolate sauce cockaigne and serve it warm over vanilla ice cream."

  Applause resounded throughout the kitchen, accented by an occasional, “Ooh,” and “Aah."

  Foolproof, huh? That remained to be seen. Cara didn't see any reason to join the accolades. None of it sounded like Cooking 101 to her. And chocolate sauce cockaigne? Cock—aigne? Please let me get laid?

  "Felicia will answer any questions. Have pity on her though, please,” he added. “She's getting married in a few weeks and isn't even going to take a honeymoon because of the opportunity to have this class televised."

  "To you?” one of the women asked. Cara held her breath.

  "No. Not me."

  Cara refused to believe she could have the bad luck to be standing right next to him. How could she keep her mind on cooking? It had been too long since she'd been in a serious relationship. Way too long. Much of what fueled her vivid imagination came from movies or steamy novels instead of her own life experience. Right now Riva's sure thing premise didn't ring true. What would he want with a nerdy investment advisor, besides some tweaking of his portfolio?

  On her left stood the older lady who'd spoken to her in the lobby. Cara read the name on her card. Betty.

  Betty gave her a smile as the harsh camera lights glared in both of their faces. Those damned cameras would be trained upon them the entire time as they stood next to the star of the show, Chef Mike. Just what she needed for her thirtieth birthday—cameras in her face. Thanks, Mom.

  "Now, we'll take just a minute before we begin. The make-up man will come around and see if any of you could use a little color,” Felicia told the class and proceeded to cast a dubious look in Cara's direction.

  The minutes stretched before Chef Mike spoke again. Betty filled the time entertaining Cara with stories of the dishes she'd learned to cook from him. Cara might not care to cook the stuff, but she considered herself an expert at eating, thinking about eating and talking about eating. The clothes sizes ranging from eight to eighteen in her closet were a clear indicator.

  Chef Mike clapped his hands to get everyone's attention. “Let's start cooking,” he said, before he turned to look directly at Cara, then gazed around the room.

  Cara smiled inside. She'd started simmering the second she'd looked into his sexy eyes. He singled her out to make eye contact again, as if he'd read her mind. Was she that transparent? Her heart raced. For a moment, he made her feel like the only woman in the room.

  Chef Mike held up an index card. “Along with a recipe card detailing exactly what we hope to accomplish, everyone should have a bowl, cheese grater, tablespoon and a whisk.

  "The white sauce I prepared in advance will be brought to you in saucepans by our helpers. But, as you might've already noticed, we've only six people to help the twelve who will be making a soufflé.

  "Don't expect to work at the same pace as your neighbor. And don't be afraid to ask for help,” he told everyone before he turned to Cara again. His handsome face broke into a captivating smile, which made her think cooking classes might be a good idea after all.

  But French cooking? French kissing? Definitely.

  "Let's start here on my left. Cara?” he asked, but didn't wait for an answer. “We'll begin by grating five tablespoons of Parmesan cheese. Everyone, follow Cara's lead."

  Uh-oh. Cara picked up a small chunk of cheese and smelled it. Yep, smelled like Parmesan. She held the piece gingerly between her thumb and forefinger while she rubbed it over the surface of the grater. The cheese curled sparingly onto the cutting board. It was as hard as a rock, so she put some muscle into it. She sawed enthusiastically, until a fluffy pile of cheese began to mound in front of her. It was easy.

  "Ouch!” Cara slipped and scraped her knuckles across the sharp surface of the grater.

  Before she could put her injured digits to her mouth, Chef Mike seized her hand. Cara watched his large, square hands swallow hers. She began to feel warm, despite her wound. She had a thing about hands. Chef Mike's were great. “My hero."

  "Felicia, we need a couple of Band-Aids over here for Cara. Small size."

  Small? Cara looked at her bloodied fingers. Yes, there were two scrapes, but small? “Are you certain you don't want large ... or at least medium?"

  Chef Mike smiled at her and then cautioned the class about the perils of scraping their fingers on graters before he continued with the instructions.

  After Felicia finished doctoring her injury, Cara tried to figure out what to do next. She looked around the room. Everyone seemed to be far beyond grating.

  "Measure your cheese and put it into the sauce pan.” Chef Mike moved closer to her as he spoke barely above a husky whisper.

  "This cheese?” she asked. Could she have misunderstood him?

  "That cheese."

  "But it might have skin in it.” Cara bent to examine the cheese. “It must be mixed in.” When she looked up, Mike was watching her.

  "You're getting behind,” he said, low enough the blondes couldn't overhear.

  Cara lifted her chin and swallowed. She became increasingly uneasy under his scrutiny. He disturbed her. He intrigued her. Most of all, he made her feel electrified. Could this be the elusive “chemistry” she'd heard about, but had never ex
perienced? She had chemistry with her sure thing? How great was that?

  "Everybody, by now you should've been given four eggs,” Chef Mike told the class after he looked away from Cara. “I want you to separate the whites from the yolks. Beat the whites until they're stiff, but not dry."

  Beat it until stiff? Cockaigne? Was this guy for real? Who knew cooking could be so erotic? Her nipples tingled at the thought of beating his cock between her breasts. His cock-head nudging her chin as he moved it back and forth between the chubby girls. Oh, my...

  Picking up an egg, she smacked it against the side of the bowl. Nothing. She gave it another whack. It cracked, but wouldn't pull apart. A final tap against the glass bowl produced the desired results as the egg shattered into three pieces. When her thumb accidentally pierced the yolk, her eyes flew to Chef Mike to catch his reaction.

  It couldn't be a “good thing."

  "If anyone has broken a yolk and needs another egg, just raise your hand, and Felicia will bring you a clean bowl,” he said to the class. He flashed a friendly smile at Cara. “It's not a big deal. Even chefs are known to puncture a yolk now and then."

  Cara felt relieved by his words and raised her hand. She couldn't help but feel surprised to see several other hands waved in the air. She lifted an eyebrow at Chef Mike to show him she'd noticed she wasn't the only one to have trouble.

  When the remnants of the previous egg were swept away, Cara began again. This time when the egg cracked she didn't pierce the yolk, nor did she ruin the remaining three eggs. There were, however, a considerable number of shell fragments floating about in the bowl. They refused her attempts to capture them, no matter how hard she tried.

  "What should I do about the pieces of shell?” she asked Chef Mike, just as the cameraman seemed to move closer and hover like a stealth bomber.

  "Push them aside and someone will dispose of them."

  She tilted her bowl so he could get a better view. “Not those shells—these,"

  Chef Mike closed his eyes. He appeared to be thinking.

  "Never mind,” she said. “They'll probably taste good with skin.” On a scale of one to ten—with burning fries an eleven—what are a few shells?

  "Remember, ladies, we want our soufflés to puff—to breathe. Soufflés are notoriously transitory. They can breathe for a few meager moments, then pouf ... they dissipate like a deflated balloon. If a soufflé is well made, you can count on having maybe ten minutes in a holding oven. Under ideal circumstances, we want them to be served immediately.

  "Quickly, ladies. Once your soufflé goes into the oven you'll have thirty minutes to complete the remainder of the meal."

  After she delivered her soufflé to the ovens, Cara noticed the entire class waiting for her before they could continue. She imagined Chef Mike wished he could take back his “work at your own pace” speech.

  "Could someone ask the cameraman to quit shoving his equipment in my face?” she asked.

  Chef Mike's head jerked to pin her with an unbelieving stare plastered on his fabulous face.

  "What?” Cara asked. What would it hurt to let him think she'd noticed another man's equipment?

  Suddenly, she wanted to get down and dirty with the handsome chef. No holds barred, she wanted to go for it. What did she have to lose?

  "Felicia is passing out the recipe cards for raspberry vinaigrette dressing,” Chef Mike said. “Remember to take time to wash and dry your greens and don't pour the vinaigrette on them until you're ready to remove your soufflé from the oven."

  The raspberry thing wasn't a problem. Cara finished hers in record speed. Her reflexes honed, she managed to slap the lid on the blender in the nick of time. Only a few drops of vinaigrette dressing joined the oil on her suit.

  Wash the greens, he'd said? No problem. She could wash greens.

  "What happened to your wild mustard leaves?” Chef Mike asked over her shoulder as he made rounds, inspecting the salads.

  "What's it look like?” she asked, uncertain of what he wanted to hear. “It isn't every day one comes across a wild mustard leaf. How's it supposed to look?"

  "I'd say those leaves look as if they've been put through the wringer, but since they're swimming in water, that's not possible.” He snaked his arm around her to pick up a limp piece and give it a shake. She shook as hard as the leaf from the nearness of him, and wet ... she had that going for her, too.

  "I don't like wild mustard leaves,” she said. “After all, how good could a mustard leaf be? Especially one that isn't domesticated."

  "I take it to mean you've never tried them?” He gave the green another shake before he dropped it back into the bowl. “Don't start with these ... they're beyond help. I'll share mine with you.” His arm touched hers as he moved away, sending shock waves through her.

  Chef Mike took his place at the counter. “Is everyone about ready to start the dessert?"

  "Betty, how about a swap? I'll trade you a hot stock tip if you make my dessert for me. Wait! Did the cameraman just record what I said?” Cara could see the lens pointed in her direction out of the corner of her eye.

  "Just teasing, folks. No hot stock tips here,” Cara said loudly, imagining what the compliance department at her firm would say about her impromptu comment.

  "Are you a stockbroker, dear?” Betty asked.

  "I was."

  "That's nice,” Betty said, while she dropped a piece of chocolate into the top of her double boiler.

  Cara quickly followed Betty's lead before she got behind again. Distracted by the movement of the camera, though, she found it hard to concentrate. While Chef Mike had his back to her making his rounds again, she stopped a second to watch.

  "Nice ass—” Cara bumped the pan. “Ouch! This pan is really hot!"

  Betty looked at her and smiled sweetly.

  What a nice lady.

  Cara added the evaporated milk and sugar to the pan. She stirred constantly like it said on her card. An egg? She'd forgotten the egg. Well-beaten? How could she beat an egg and stir the pot at the same time?

  Chef Mike used one hand to beat his egg. Perhaps she could, too? Of course, men have an advantage. With all the one-handed, hope-this-doesn't-cause-blindness, exercises men get as teenage boys.

  Undaunted, she grabbed the egg and smacked it against a small mixing bowl. The egg opened with masterful precision. She caught her breath as she peered into the bowl. There were no errant eggshells floating in the dish. Yes!

  Take that, Chef Mike with your glorious blue eyes and long, tapered fingers that make me think of things I shouldn't in a public place.

  She beat the egg, while she stirred the pot. Chef Mike was so impressed he came over to watch. She lifted the bowl with her well-beaten egg, smiling at him.

  "I wouldn't do...” he started to say.

  She dumped the egg into the hot chocolate sauce. “What?"

  "That,” he said. He shook his head and walked away, but not before she saw him grinning.

  Betty drew closer to look into Cara's saucepan. The well-beaten egg had congealed into a big glob on top of the bubbling chocolate. Cara frantically began to stir it, but the chunky lumps stubbornly remained. What the fuck was cockaigne anyway?

  "You know, it's his fault,” Cara said, barely above a whisper. “I couldn't concentrate on the recipe while I was admiring his yummy ass."

  "Do you mean Michael?” Betty asked. “Well, I don't believe I'm entitled to an opinion since I'm his mother."

  "Yeow!” Cara seared her hand on the hot saucepan. She envisioned Chef Mike jumping on his galloping white charger to rush to her rescue again. Her hero didn't disappoint her. If not for the pain, she could almost enjoy it.

  "Felicia, please get me some ice,” he said. “Let's hold this under cold water, until Felicia brings the ice.” His sympathetic tone was comforting. After he propelled her toward the closest sink, she leaned back against him. He seemed to cradle her in his arms. Just as the pain began to subside it occurred to Cara that Chef Mike mus
t have put his whisk in the front pocket of his trousers. A very big whisk.

  "Don't even think of moving away from me while the camera is trained on us,” he murmured huskily into her ear, his voice dropping an octave.

  "Maybe we should have Felicia bring you an apron,” Cara said. “I heard somewhere an apron will take care of everything."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER 3

  "You know I'm already wearing an apron.” Mike groaned. His cock groaned, too. “Down, boy.” But his pesky dick had no intention of listening. The damn thing was staging a protest right in the middle of a televised cooking class.

  "Be careful with that thing. It feels like a dangerous weapon,” she said and gave a smoky chuckle.

  "Can't you even pretend to be sympathetic? There are TV cameras here. I didn't plan an X-rated cooking show."

  "I forgot about the cameras.” Cara looked up at him, her pale amber eyes glowing with unconcealed amusement.

  Mike cursed under his breath. If she continued to look at him like that, he'd have a hard time putting out the fire she'd stoked when she'd nestled in his arms.

  He proceeded to wrap the ice brought by Felicia in a towel and laid it against the red blotch on Cara's hand. Her flawless porcelain skin looked as though it wouldn't tolerate being abused. It gave her another touch of vulnerability. He couldn't think of a woman in more need of protection than this one—from herself!

  Her rounded bottom brushed up against him a second time. “Hold still, please? When you keep bumping into me, you make things worse.” Wisps of her hair tickled his chin as he held the ice on her hand. He let out a long, audible breath.

  "I don't know how it could get any worse.” Her voice stroked him as she whispered the words. Her low, sultry voice—sassy velvet—caressed his senses. He could feel his face color at her words. When was the last time a woman had made him blush? Had he ever?

  "Do you think you could be quiet for a minute?” It wasn't that he minded her talking while he helped her. He enjoyed her lighthearted banter. He couldn't handle how it affected him in a roomful of women and TV cameras. What was it about her voice?