Cravings

by Dee Carney

  He all but bounced away, each step causing Ginger to wince. The urge to call out and get him to come back sat right on the tip of her tongue.

  There went the man who’d never tasted her food, who could also make—or break—her career. Thoughts of Lee’s earlier dishes and his culinary successes weighed heavily on her, twisting her insides. All because she wanted to stick it to him.

  What the hell had she just done?

  Chapter Six

  Lee paced the sidewalk, stopping only occasionally to acknowledge the people striding past him and entering Chef Pelletier’s place. While a few young men wore flip-flops, some women glided by in expensive-looking stilettos. Custom-tailored coats brushed against plastic jackets. The cars they drove ranged from Mercedes Benzes and Range Rovers to Ford Escorts. Some walked.

  He wasn’t stupid enough to dismiss any of them, no matter their attire or mode of transportation. Only those in the know ever got invited to Food Fighters. These were his peers, his critics and his patrons. One wrong move tonight in front of them and his career could be skewered.

  On top of that, he’d let that smarmy-assed Thomas in on what was happening. Now that Ginger had added gasoline to Thomas’s gossip-fueled fire, the stakes had quadrupled.

  “Having second thoughts?”

  His heart pounded a little harder, a little faster. The low, husky voice came from behind, the brush of her clothing sparking an immediate sexual awareness of the woman who’d spoken. He turned in time to catch her lowering from tiptoe, a mischievous smile making her glow.

  Lee leaned in close, the brush of his lips against her cheek not as accidental as he made it seem. “Not a chance. What about you? Reconsidered?”

  She shook her head, the motion lending a slight sway to her breasts. His gaze dropped, mouth gone Arizona dry as memories flooded him. Although she wore her usual T-shirt, this one seemed tight, outlining every dip and curve, all of them in the right places. Her black slacks hugged her hips, and the moment she turned, her apple bottom became a temptation for the eyes.

  Maybe they should disappoint the crowd pushing their way into the restaurant and head back to his place to finish what they’d started almost a week ago. It was a miracle he’d even gone this long without barreling into her kitchen, flipping her over his shoulder and charging out of there while beating his chest.

  She shifted, and he lifted his gaze to discover he’d been busted lusting over that ass again.

  “What just happened there?”

  He frowned. “Where?”

  “That look in your eyes. I don’t think it has much to do with food.”

  “Not true. I was thinking about apples,” he murmured. Biting into one, specifically.

  The skeptical glance she gave him spoke volumes. Her mouth quirked to the side, her eyes microseconds from rolling. “You’re so full of it, but I’ll let it slide for now. Anyway, I did want to apologize.”

  “For?”

  “The whole Thomas Silver thing. I opened my mouth, and the words just jumped out.”

  He could believe it. “Yeah, well, the side bet only makes it a little more interesting. When you lose, I’ll enjoy having you peeling potatoes and slicing onions where I can see you.”

  “In your dreams, baby doll. The only thing I’ll be prepping for you is the map to the nearest soup kitchen. Your snooty soul might pull up stakes and head for the hills, but at least your conscience will be spotless.” She began walking toward the entrance, the swing in her step probably unintentionally sexy but sending a pulse through his cock to match her cadence.

  “My body wouldn’t know what to do with a spotless conscience,” he said while holding open the door. His gaze dropped to watch the sway of her ass again. “Not with this filthy mind doing its thing.”

  “Yes, what are we going to do with that filthy mind of yours?” she teased.

  He smiled at her tone, wanting to extend the moment before settling in for go mode. Now that they stood here, about to face each other down in front of dozens, he had no choice but do what he did best. Regardless of who she was and how much he liked her, he would not allow Ginger to win tonight’s competition.

  The restaurant had shut down at nine, but an hour after closing time, it was full to capacity. Chairs and barstools had been shoved into the kitchen, only a small path left down the middle of the crush of bodies. If the fire marshal had any idea about the unsafe conditions, he’d be having conniptions while birthing kittens. Didn’t stop anyone from not coming, though. Most everyone stayed polite and cordial while beer, booze and wine flowed fast and furious. The bartenders manned their posts, refilling drinks and pocketing hefty tips. Lee almost envied Max’s idea for the underground event. He had to be pulling in some serious cash flow once a week from the liberal spending.

  Beside him, Ginger blew out a breath. “All right,” she said, scanning the crowd, “walk me through this. I’ve only been to one.”

  Lee checked his watch. “At exactly ten fifteen, we’ll be standing behind those counters there. Max will walk out and announce himself and us. He’ll also unveil the theme ingredients. We’ll have twenty minutes to create an appetizer that centers around those items.” Lee led them toward the line, not wanting his explanation to slow down the proceedings. “Max and two random audience members will judge the dishes. That round’s winner is announced, and we start the second round—an entree—with new mystery-theme ingredients. Same judges, then a tally of the two scores. Chef with the most points wins. It’s modeled after that television show, except it’s only two rounds and we’re done in under an hour. Make sense?” At her nod, he added, “I’ll show you food storage, because everything not tied down is fair game for your dishes.”

  They did a quick tour, opening and closing cabinet drawers and chillers, locating herbs, fruits, vegetables and a veritable grocery store’s worth of food stuffs. With every step, his stomach tightened. Not quite anxiety, but not a good feeling either. It might have started off as a promising idea, but the wager wedged itself between them now. Another reason for Ginger to keep her distance despite the obvious attraction.

  “I don’t get it,” she said once they stood behind the staging area. Lee slipped on his black chef’s jacket, but Ginger merely watched him. “Why are the seats jammed so close to the front if everything is based on three people’s scores?”

  “Ever been to a roast?”

  Her brow furrowed. “Pork or steak?”

  Lee chuckled. “No, I mean the kind where people insult the guest of honor in good fun.”

  She shook her head. “Not a big fan of those.”

  Uh-oh. “I thought you said you’ve been to a Food Fighter event before?”

  Ginger began laying out knives side by side on the butcher block, her hands steady. But there was something telling in the way she worked, each placed to form a meticulous line. She might not be showing any outward signs of nervousness, but her sudden insistence on order betrayed her secret. Each knife tip aligned with precise care to the one next to it, all handles facing the same way. “I came to one, right.” She looked up, her task completed. “It was a long time ago and nowhere near the size of this crowd, though.”

  The kitchen was standing-room only. Lee grimaced and said, “If it was a long time ago, I wonder if it happened before the popularity really hit. And if so, I should warn you that the atmosphere is a lot more charged these days. You know how everyone’s a critic? Well, the people tonight will be taking that role very, very seriously. Think about the worst review you’ve ever read about your food and then think about the thick skin you grew to get over it. Then I want you to double that armor in preparation for tonight.”

  “Wait…what? I’m not sure I understand. What’s that have to do with a roast? I’m not following this conversation at all.”

  “Shit, Ginger, I thought you knew.” Lee squelched the urge to rub his hand over his face in frustration. “This is going to get pretty interactive, with the crowd doing a lot of yelling and shouting and…h
eckling. It’s all in good fun, but it’s not always pretty. You’re not just preparing dishes hoping to win the judges over with the taste of your food. You’ve also got to contend with entertaining the crowd. Otherwise the distraction—and they will be a distraction—will seriously fuck with your head.”

  Yeah. Because that was exactly what she needed. To be heckled while she worked. Bad enough she had to contend with working side by side with Lee, knowing he did his damnedest to outcook her, especially when his presence distracted the hell out of her. Even now, she used the knives as a way to settle nervous energy, a place to focus rather than on the depths of those almost golden eyes. She hadn’t told him, but the morning after their interrupted tryst, her delicate skin had revealed faint marks from where he’d touched her with a sure, talented grip. She’d run her fingers over them, remembering the moments in vivid detail.

  Now, as she stood next to him, her mouth suddenly filled with a sudden, inexplicable yearning for him again. His taste. His low, murmured words. The hard erection nestled beneath his slacks had been a tease for her senses, anticipation living within her. She’d hidden it well last time—at least she hoped so—but every time they came together, her defenses against him crumbled a little bit more. The obstacle of their restaurants became less a hindrance and more a conquerable challenge.

  As much as she tried to tell herself that his kisses hadn’t been that good to be causing so much internal turmoil, in fact, they had.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to another exciting evening at Food Fighters!”

  Her head snapped up at the sound of raucous applause. Ginger didn’t know exactly how heavy-handed the bartenders were being, but based on the enthusiastic responses, some people must have been well into their second or third drinks by now.

  Yeah. It was going to be a long hour.

  Max Pelletier moved to the front of the room, stopping when he stood in front of Lee and Ginger. With shoulder-length hair slicked back, a fine layer of stubble covering a sculpted jaw, and a designer suit molded to a tall, lean frame, he epitomized elegance. His left cheek dimpled when he smiled or spoke, and, according to rumor, those hazel eyes drew women in droves. Successful by anyone’s standard, he still managed to maintain a distant air about him, more rumors suggesting his attitude was the impetus for many an infamous breakup. He wasn’t exactly her type, but she could see why women would be tempted to be his next conquest.

  After the noise of the crowd died down, he continued. “Over the next hour, two chefs, who many of you know well, will settle a dispute. Not with words and certainly not with violence…” A loud chorus of boos lifted into the air, and Ginger had to smile. “No, my friends, these two chefs will fight it out with food!”

  A few familiar faces stuck out from the crowd, filling her with a sense of pride. Some of her staff had managed to make it out and sat up front, grinning from ear to ear. After a subtle wave to them, she decided to ignore their presence just in case it served to fuel her alarming stress level, already spiraling out of control.

  Stomach rolling, Ginger looked over at Lee to find he’d been watching her. He didn’t turn away when caught but offered her a brief nod that, for some reason, settled her nerves.

  Max walked while talking, going to the end of the counter to grab a silver tray topped with a silver cloche. The sight of it took her back to the first dish Lee had sent over to her restaurant, to the wonderful brilliance of his creation, and Ginger forced herself to set aside the memories. It was time to show him she could not be cowed by his good looks or his good cooking. She had a wager to win, and she’d do it right now.

  “Chef Danielle, Chef Solomon, if you are ready, it’s time to start the appetizer round. From the second I lift this cover, you have twenty minutes to prepare an appetizer, enough for three servings, that must center around the ingredients I present to you. I, along with two people from the audience, will taste and judge your dishes. Scores will be assigned based on creativity, presentation and taste. So, without further ado, your theme ingredients are…” His empty hand grasped the dome’s lid. A beat later, he lifted it with a flourish. “Grapes and bacon popcorn!”

  Ginger’s heart punched at her chest, the pounding probably loud enough to be heard from across the room. Grapes. Bacon popcorn. What the hell was she supposed to do with those two things? From what she could tell, there was more than one variety of grapes. Thomas seedless—also known as plain old green table grapes—as well as a couple of red table grapes she couldn’t tell apart if someone paid her money. She’d have to pop a few in her mouth just to figure out which ones she wanted to use, already putting her precious seconds behind when every one of them counted.

  And Jesus take the wheel…bacon popcorn? She’d never even heard of it before. The package sat on the counter, intriguing and daunting all at once.

  Movement caught her eye, and she whirled to watch Lee take off at a run toward the refrigerator units. Every instinct told her to move, to start gathering ingredients even if she had no idea what to prepare. Twenty minutes would fly by if she wasn’t careful, and she could still be standing there trying to come up with something suitable. She’d been a chef far too long, serving comfort food to too many people to get stuck on something simple now. Think!

  “Anyone got a match? A match? Anyone?” She located the person calling out over the low din of the crowd. A young man she didn’t recognize waved a beer bottle in one hand as he asked his questions. “How about a lighter? Come on… Someone help Chef Danielle out and light a fire under her ass!”

  By the time Ginger’s back went ramrod straight, the crowd laughed uproariously. Holy hell, they were barely thirty seconds in and the people were already going for blood. If she had another ten seconds to wrap her brain around those damned grapes, she’d think of something. Anything comfort-food related.

  Comfort food…comfort. Not a single thing would come to her mind other than a cheese plate that had to do with grapes and bacon popcorn, was an appetizer and could be made in under eighteen minutes. Two minutes lost already because she couldn’t get her feet to move or her sluggish brain to work. Still, Ginger was not about to just hand those parking spaces over to Lee. If a cheese plate could win this round, then the judges didn’t have exacting standards, and she knew better than that.

  Following Lee’s example, she went to the pantry, praying for inspiration along the way. He rushed past her, juggling a variety of packages, none she could see well. Something cold like milk or cream maybe. The rest were a blur. All she knew was that he looked determined and focused. If he had any doubt or apprehension, it didn’t show. Unfortunately, his confidence rattled her even more. She couldn’t even get her mind wrapped around the theme ingredients, and Lee seemed on his way to creating yet another masterpiece.

  She yanked open the fridge, skimming everything inside, settling on none. The sheer abundance of food overwhelmed her, the choices too myriad. Bunches of herbs stared back at her, while cartons of juices and trays of vegetables taunted. The contents of the drawers were hidden, but she knew cheeses of every type lay inside, along with some smoked deli meats.

  A raucous burst of laughter came from the audience, and Ginger turned just in time to catch Lee saying something to them. He smiled while working, his attention moving from the throng to the workstation. Dammit, he seemed to actually be having a good time. Lee was in his element. Doing his thing. On his way to winning. Probably go back to his restaurant, open a celebratory beer with the fellas, something high-end no doubt, and…

  Wait a minute.

  Ginger yanked open one of the drawers, looking for something she thought she’d spotted earlier. And there it was. In a clear plastic bag, twist tie sealing it shut, she found pizza dough. She grabbed it, some peppery Arugula, goat cheese, grape tomatoes and red onions. With each item she selected, her idea solidified for a sweet-and-spicy pizza. She wouldn’t need meat because the bacon popcorn would provide all the flavor. It was fucking genius.

  She hustled back
with her stack, dropping the bundle before she’d even come to a full stop, feet almost sliding past the workstation. It took precious seconds to locate a rolling pin, but by the time she ripped open the pizza-dough package, she’d spotted it and had it ready to go.

  “Looks like we’re having pizza,” someone yelled. Applause and cheers bounced through the room.

  The audience dimmed to her peripheral consciousness. Food was her priority right now. She focused on their vivid colors, tasting everything as she worked, the bright flavors bursting on her tongue.

  “Chefs, you have fifteen minutes left!”

  Rolled to a quarter-inch thickness, the pizza dough wouldn’t take long to crisp up. She set it aside to assemble the other ingredients in order. Ginger dropped goat cheese in chunks onto the dough but knew it wouldn’t be enough. Darting back to the fridge, she located mozzarella balls steeped in water and grabbed the container. Not stopping to think, she tore off pieces of the new cheese and dotted the rest of the dough with the mozzarella.

  “Where’s the sauce? I want sauce, Chef!”

  Ginger diced grape tomatoes and a handful of red seedless grapes. She tossed them, along with slices of the red onions, onto the cheese. “You don’t deserve any,” she called out, grinning.

  So maybe this heckling thing could be a little fun.

  “You don’t deserve to win either, but that’s not stopping you from trying,” Lee said, every word loaded with his patented smugness.

  Eyes on the countdown timer glowing red from the across the room, Ginger slid the pizza into the oven, already blistering hot at nearly five hundred degrees. Her heart raced with anticipation and fluttered from nerves, but she ignored the jab for the moment to use the few minutes left to prep the arugula and bacon popcorn, cutting the former into a fine chiffonade and the latter into chunks.

  She ran over to the grapes again, this time selecting a bunch of ripe green ones. Quickly, she cut them into quarters. As she worked on the last one, exposing the juicy center, she gave Lee the attention he had coming. “Not only do I deserve to win, but I’m going to wipe the counters with you when I do.”