I cleared my throat, trying not to let her get to me. Then, I riffed, adding more depth and life to the otherwise staid piece. “We want your creativity, your passion, your food knowledge all laid bare on your plate. It’s the only thing that matters. A chef is an artist.”
She drove right back to the safe course. “At the end, we’ll taste each dish individually, and those three on the bottom will face an additional elimination challenge. Please think outside the bistro box.”
Sophia pointed to a clock on the table. “You’ll have ninety minutes and everything in Le Chat Rose at your disposal. Good luck and get started!”
There was a flurry of aprons, knife bags, and limbs as the chefs tore at the cards waiting on the bar and raced to the kitchen.
Then it was Sophia and I left to talk to each other on-camera. I thought she seemed rather quiet after all the shit I’d put her through.
Should I have been more suspicious? Absol-fucking-lutely. Never take silence for surrender.
Chapter Twelve
Sophia
Paris, France
Hawthorne was a pro all right. At being an ass. If he thought he was going to get better billing by fucking Charlotte, that was his business.
So why was it so annoying that he practically created a sacred chef bond by raising his eyebrow at Charlotte’s ridiculousness and then talking up my résumé to the contestants? Was he trying to throw me off my game? Not going to work, buddy. I was too much of a professional for that bullshit.
For the next half hour, we walked between stations, pointing a few things out and asking the chefs simple questions about their ingredients and preparation. Then we left them to their work as the cameras captured every frantic minute.
The energy in the room was effervescent, and it truly made me itch to get back in Sassafras’s kitchen.
A camera rolled in front of Hawthorne and me as we headed back to the bar to discuss what we’d seen.
“Are you worried about the alarming amount of truffle being thrown around by these young chefs?” Hawthorne asked me, maintaining a wide, pouty smile with those lips.
Damn him.
“I’m more worried about anyone stuck with duck confit. Traditionally, it needs to simmer for at least three hours in duck fat before being cooled and refrigerated for up to a week.”
“It will take talent,” he agreed, playing weirdly nice for the time being.
Soon, I began a countdown. “Okay, Chefs. Your time is up in three, two, one. Knifes down, everyone!”
A collective sigh of relief mingled with despair passed through the bistro.
“Time to find out how you fared,” I announced.
Hawthorne’s half-smirk, which sold everything from coffee to condoms, made its first appearance in the competition. This time, it was reserved for a mousy girl I knew Hawthorne would devour if she were actually his line cook. Back when he worked in his own kitchen, his reputation was fierce. He could reduce grown men to frantic fits of tears. A friend who worked with him said it was like constant whiplash, the way you always had to watch your back.
Even with the whiplash atmosphere, Hawthorne’s restaurant delivered. He racked up great reviews, hooked locals and celebrities alike, and grabbed more than a few up and coming awards.
But then he sold it off a mere sixteen months after opening it. The question was why? Sure, travel writing had its perks, and kitchens were a grind, but no one does that. Chefs are too competitive to give it all up that quickly. What demons made him sprint across the world? And how long would he try to outrun them?
“Please tell us your name and what you’ve done,” he requested.
The girl gestured to her plate. She stammered, caught in the classic lust trap. Her voice had a hint of an accent. Italy, if I had to guess.
“Clara Romero. I got duck confit and foie gras,” she finally managed to say. “I did my own duck confit and riffed on a fettuccine duck white bolognese with a foie gras cream sauce. Oh, I also hand rolled my own pasta.”
“So you turned a French classic into an Italian dish,” I said pointedly.
She flared red. “I… well, yes. My own twist.”
“Okay.” I nodded. “Let’s see if you pulled it off.”
We both took the forks and knives waiting at each station and twirled a strand of fettuccine high above the plate. I put a normal-sized bite in my mouth and began to chew. Which was when I learned the lesson to take much smaller bites on camera, like Hawthorne had done. He beat me to the punch as I tried to chew and swallow faster than a hotdog eating contestant on the Fourth of July.
“You can breathe,” Hawthorne told Clara. “The pasta is cooked to a perfect al dente and the twist of lacing your cream sauce with foie gras is decadent.”
She ducked her head in obvious delight as I maneuvered a piece of duck confit onto my fork. I breathed in all of the aromas, using all my senses to judge each bite. I stared her in the eyes as I tasted, wanting her to know I was serious about my review. Wanting the world to know. I set down the fork and knife.
“Were you nervous about trying to confit duck legs in ninety minutes?”
Mousy Girl was back to the stammering. “Well, yes, but that was the challenge.”
I nodded. “Yes, it was. I’m just not sure you pulled it off. The duck is a little on the tough side. We usually expect a luscious, fall off the bone texture. And this sauce is quite heavy. I wouldn’t want more than a few bites, especially on a romantic bistro date.”
“Yes, Chef,” she stammered.
I turned to go but caught Hawthorne picking up his fork again.
“While I respect Chef Sato”—Hawthorne shot me a subtle smile, that bastard—“I have to disagree. The foie gras was balanced by the lemon zest, and the seasoning was spot-on.” He took another bite to spite me. “In fact, I would urge my bistro date to devour it whole.”
I nodded thoughtfully, like I was truly considering his assessment and refused to let him see the angry zigzagging through me. I knew he couldn’t be a gentleman. He’d be throwing little digs at me all season to get under my skin and lower my clout. I refused to give him the pleasure. The mask needed to stay tightly strapped to my face.
We walked to the next table. Behind it stood a young, tattooed man with the air of a cocky little bastard.
“Please tell us your name and what you made for us today.” He was the guy who had whispered “oh fuck” when he saw me. At least, he knew who to fear.
I could tell instantly he was that guy at school who looked good and knew it. Not the prom king type or quarterback, the one luring girls under the bleachers with pot and sex. He wore his charm like a favorite jacket.
“Jackson Pell,” he answered. “I got steak tartare and steak frites.”
I laughed. “So you decided to go with the lamb?”
Jackson gave me a wicked grin in return. “I’ve prepared a tartare with a twist. There’s chilies for heat, a bite of garlic, and a handful of other spices. I replaced the typical toast with double crisped frites and decided to quick cure the egg in olive oil. The tenderloin is finished with a flurry of shaved white truffle.”
I dipped the point of my knife into the egg and let the yolk run down the sides of the tartare. “Beautiful,” I said. “Well executed on the egg, but the truffle is a little on the excessive side. It looks like the heavens snowed on your plate. But let’s taste.”
Hawthorne and I took a bit at the same time. I glanced at him, knowing he was tasting the same explosion of flavor I was.
Not wanting to give much away, I kept my face straight. “What did you cut the beef with?”
Jackson had all the cool confidence of a master chef. He didn’t flinch or stumble, even with blistering lights bearing down, and the cameraman zooming in on the plates.
“Actually, I used a mandolin slicer. Tartare is typically ground or hand chopped, but I wanted the visual effect of the waves of red. I froze it for as long as possible to make slicing easier. It makes the texture more interes
ting, too. Tartare shouldn’t taste like kitty food.”
I nodded, impressed, but still not letting on to my thoughts.
Hawthorne pointed me over to the next chef who said her name was Emma Smyth. She was nearly as tall as I was, with deep red hair that curled perfectly over her shoulders. I found myself liking her immediately by the straightforward, confident vibes she radiated. Although there was something familiar about her. I couldn’t quite figure out where I knew her from, so I let it go as she explained her dish.
“I grabbed mussels and coq au vin. I decided to use the quail legs instead of a rooster due to the time constraints. Under their skin, I rubbed a mushroom and onion duxelle. I also created a mussel consommé from the liquid in their shells, which I simmered with some lobster shells.” She poured the broth over the little quail legs arranged in a beautiful tepee on our plates.
I took a small spoonful. “You achieved a really delicate consommé from the mussels in such a short time,” I said.
“Thank you, Chef Sato,” Emma said. “You’re going to give me goose bumps.”
“Oh?”
She smiled. “I’m such a fan of yours. I’ve been to both Third Coast and Sassafras, and I thought you were doing some really interesting things with vegetables.”
At this, she shot a furtive glance at Hawthorne. She must have read his review and disproved. Ballsy.
I tilted my head in thanks. Hopefully, the producers didn’t think I was asking contestants to say these things. Or that Emma thought I would give her preferential treatment.
“That’s nice to hear. Going back to your dish, I would say it missed the mark a little in acidity, which is where the broth could have shined. An extra squeeze of lemon next time would do the trick.”
Then, I hurried to the next table before Hawthorne could fuck with my flow.
After eating five more dishes, ranging in quality from great to just okay, I had a pretty clear picture of who my front runners were to win this whole thing. Great colors and textures went a long way to a perfect plate of food, and some of these young chefs had it all. There was only one or two I thought hadn’t done well, but it was a tough, finicky challenge. Anything timed was bound to be.
“Imaginative efforts, Chefs,” Hawthorne said as we walked back to the front of the bar. “Chef Sato and I have discussed your dishes, and our favorite of the night belongs to Jackson’s tartare.”
Jackson whooped as everyone politely clapped and glared daggers.
I clapped, too. “It was balanced, textured, and flavorful. Every bite had a beautiful mouthfeel and contained every note you were trying to hit. Really great work, Jackson, although watch your truffles next time. Less is more when it comes to luxury ingredients.”
Jackson nodded in thanks.
“Now,” Hawthorne continued. “It’s time for the bad news. No three-course bistro dinner is complete without something sweet. Tomorrow, three of you will be cooking us dessert, but you won’t know which classic pastry we’ve chosen until then. Sleep well, Chefs.”
Mousy Girl Clara raised a hand. So, she had some gumption after all. “Wait, who are the three chefs?” she asked.
“You’ll know that tomorrow as well,” I told her. “Everyone but Jackson should come prepared to cook.”
It was putting a huge target on Jackson’s back, but Charlotte had specifically asked us to do a little of that seed planting. It made for great ratings when the cameras followed the chefs back to their suites and got footage of their life together on the road. Luckily, Hawthorne and I were exempt from that. It added to our aura of standing above the rest.
With that, the cameras were off for the day, and I was left staring at Hawthorne’s sinister smirk.
“Shall we head back together?” he asked.
I scoffed. I wasn’t his usual opponent. I didn’t melt under his sinful gaze or get hot and bothered by his smirk. Not much, at least. “I didn’t appreciate your overhanded attempts to make me look ignorant.”
Hawthorne tilted his head, still smiling. “I’m not sure what you mean. I call the food as I taste it. If we don’t agree, then we don’t agree. It isn’t entirely surprising. All things considered.”
“Are you going to be an ass for the next three months? If so, I’d like to know up front.”
“I think you should get out more. That stick up your ass hasn’t loosened once. This is Paris! Live a little.”
“And you clearly should stay in more. I can see bags under your million-dollar eyes from all those late nights with hookers and heroin.”
Instead of being offended, Hawthorne seemed slightly turned on. His eyes dilated as they zeroed in on mine. “I’ve begun to notice a trend, and it brings up a natural question. Why are you so obsessed with my sex life, Sophia?”
I gaped at him like a dying fish. Which pretty much summed up how I felt. “Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Am not!”
“Wow. Very mature, and also totally convincing.”
“You may be a household name, Hawthorne West”—and here it took a lot of self-control not to say my newly christened middle name for him—“but for all of the wrong reasons. I plan on proving my worth without dropping my panties.”
His gray eyes twinkled wickedly as they hovered around my waist. I threw my hands up and stalked to the car production had left for both of us. “Find your own ride back, West. I’m sure one of your fans would love to take you home.”
I really tried not to, but I couldn’t help looking back once to see the expression on his face. He was still fucking smirking. It clearly didn’t bother him at all to be stranded. I tried not to think about the fact that he probably had a dozen hook-ups in Paris he could call for a ride.
Whatever. I could use the extra time at the hotel. I had plans tonight that were better done off-camera.
Chapter Thirteen
Sophia
Paris, France
My pulse pounded in my throat as I tapped the room key to the door and watched the green light flicker. With a quick look over my shoulder, I pushed the door open and gently shut it behind me.
It had been too easy, conning the desk manager into giving me my co-host’s key so we could “prepare” for filming tomorrow. A few flutters of my eyelashes, a story about our show—which the whole hotel already knew about—and I was in, ready to take that man’s ego down twenty notches.
First, the bathroom. I replaced all of his toilet paper with duct tape and grabbed an armful of his towels to take to my room. Next, I tore a tiny piece of the tape and stealthily arranged it at an angle under the faucet so it would spray directly in his face. For my finale, I pulled out a tube of clear lip gloss and left him a little note on the mirror with hearts and an XOXO.
I applied a coating, smacked my lips and puckered up. The kiss was a beautiful touch.
As I was leaving, I caught sight of Hawthorne’s perfectly arranged ties hanging in his closet. Like his ego, they could do with a little shortening.
I paused. If he was half the chef he claimed to be, he’d travel with his knife. If he wasn’t… well, then it was settled. He was a hack.
I pushed aside toiletries and peeked under his carefully rolled socks and shoes. Hmm, a boxer briefs kind of man. Suddenly, the bare-chested photo shoot barged into my brain. I couldn’t stop picturing his impressive six-pack and the way his tattoos curled down his abdomen lower and lower to a perfectly carved V line, following his happy trail down to his—there!
A glimmer of silver caught my eye.
I pulled the knife from its protective casing and bit back my annoyance at not only his signature etched into the metal, but how perfectly balanced it felt in my hands. I stacked the ties in a neat tower. With one hit, I hacked off the ends. I eyed the belts and toes of his socks but decided the ties were symbolic enough, basically being phalluses and all.
Now that the deed was done, my pulse skyrocketed. I hurried to the door and slipped from the room. Nobody was in the hallway, and I fist pumped in
to my room next door. Ha! I sprawled on the bed and felt the blood rushing through my body from the adrenaline high. I pictured the look on Hawthorne’s face when he took off his pants and tried to take a shower. In my mind, I stripped off all his clothes and watched his broad, bronzed shoulders glistening with water. His hands soaping up every inch of his luscious, hardened body.
Yeah, I was totally getting off on the rush of not getting caught. My need built in my lower belly and trickled down in a heat wave.
I slid my fingers beneath my panties and roamed. It only took a second of picturing that happy trail and where it led before I was moaning. Louder and louder, I moved my fingers around my wetness, taking myself higher, then back down to barely a whisper. I varied the speeds, imagining Hawthorne’s face when he went for a towel. Standing naked, burning with rage.
I let the fantasy build, turning him around from every angle, letting him grab me with darkness in his eyes.
“Take me, Hawthorne. See if you can tame me,” I murmured. “Take your revenge.”
I pictured his rock-hard cock twitching at my words and forced my dream-Hawthorne to grab me forcefully and thrust inside of me. Over and over again.
The numb heat began to build in my toes. I went faster, bouncing against my fingertips and arching away from the bed, as my body was consumed by fire. I fingered my nipple, intensifying the pressure and letting everything go still while I held my breath in one gasp.
I imagine stroking his thick cock and his mouth burning hotter on my lips. What would he feel like? What sort of hard ridges would slide between my fingers and under my tongue before stretching and filling me up? It was intoxication, thinking about his anger. I was at the point of no return.
So then why, at the moment of climax, was I not picturing his anger but water streaming down his tattooed muscles and his huge, wet cock as he pushed me against the shower? How did the need not dissipate as his name escaped from my lips while the pressure finally released and I collapsed, shivering at the sudden cold?
Melted (Cooking up a Celebrity Book 1) Page 6