by Poppy Parkes
Checking on my cheeses, I prep my cornstarch and some more white wine, whisking them together before pouring them into the saucepan once its contents reach a boil.
A camera zooms in close to me, pointing first at my face, then at what I’ve got going on my counter. I allow myself a small grin. My nerves have melted away, even so closely watched and recorded, because now I’m doing what I’m really damn good at — cooking.
Catching a whiff of the aroma that’s rising from the bubbling saucepan, I smile even wider, because I’m going to win this thing. I know it.
Colby
I should be watching my Mornay sauce more carefully. But even though I’ve got so much riding on this competition, all I can think of is the stunning woman across the room who’s trying to serve me my ass on a platter via her cheese sauce.
I can’t fucking believe that Brie is here, counting me as her newly sworn enemy in this competition.
I don’t want to be her enemy. I want to be her closest ally. I claimed her as mine the first moment I saw her, and nothing has changed that.
Brie is meant to be mine.
I know she feels it too. I think of the way she almost punched that producer in the face and smile to myself.
And promptly drop an egg on the floor. I look across the room to see if Brie noticed. My heart thumps when I see her raising a quizzical eyebrow across the way at me.
Like she’s asking if I’m okay.
Like she cares if I’m doing okay.
My heart feels suddenly too big for my chest. I could drop all my eggs and still be so damn happy.
Because despite what she said, Brie still wants me. I’m not out of the running yet. And I’m not talking about the competition.
Although if I get my act together, I can still be a front runner in that too.
Shaking my head as if to clear it, I order my brain to stop thinking about the sexy woman across the room and focus on not burning my béchamel.
My entry in the competition is a Mornay sauce, which is a buttery béchamel with Gruyère cheese melted into it. It’s quite a simple sauce, actually, with just a few ingredients: milk, butter, flour, and the cheese, with just a smidge of salt and pepper.
It’s not the most flashy sauce. But when you pour it over a Croque Madame fried egg sandwich made with from-scratch French bread? It’s to fucking die for.
My Croque Madame video is my most popular one yet on my YouTube channel because it’s pretty easy to make but tastes so damn good that it blows most folks away.
Eyeing Saffron and Basil as they saunter around the room, checking out what each chef is making and discussing their thoughts for the camera, I wonder if my Croque Madame will blow them away.
But the “madame” that’s most on my mind, in spite of myself, is blonde and beautiful and heartbreakingly far away.
She belongs in my arms.
Basil and Saffron are pointing at my cook station now, heading my way. I clear my throat and get ready to start talking about my Mornay even though what I really want to say is how taken I am with my cooking enemy. Brie Marsden.
I don’t want to get my girl in trouble, though, so I stick to the script — for now.
Brie
I check the clock — forty-five minutes left. Just enough to get my sourdough bread fully cooled and my quick pickles brined.
If I felt confident before, I’m over-the-moon now. Because I know — I’ve got this in the bag.
My fondue is gently bubbling in its electric pot and smells so freaking good. In addition, I’ve got an array of sides almost fully assembled: fresh cherry tomatoes and tart Granny Smith apple slices, roasted baby potatoes and broccoli that I’m keeping hot in the oven’s warming drawer, and crisp slices of bacon, plus the pickles and the bread that I’ll cube once it’s cool.
Yeah, I’ve been busy, making damn good use of my time in this competition. And it hasn’t even been that weird cooking under the intense gaze of the live audience and the television crew.
I step back and survey my creations. I’d be proud to serve this to guests or paying customers, and I feel just as good about presenting it to Saffron and Basil to be judged.
I think they’re going to love it.
Hell, it’s hard for me to resist dipping a juicy slice of bacon into my fondue and savoring it. A chef’s harshest critic is herself, so I know that I’ve nailed my entry.
Glancing around the room, I see my competitors in various states of disarray. Nobody seems to be managing their time as well as I have. There are a lot of sweat-beaded foreheads as the cooks race to get their cheese sauces ready in time.
Placing my hands on my cook station to steady myself, I draw a deep breath and dare to steal a look across the room at my number one enemy. You know, the enemy I’d just as soon kiss as crush via my contest victory.
Colby’s working fast, but he doesn’t seem as stressed as the rest of the contest participants.
In fact, he seems to be spending a lot of time looking over at me.
When he sees that I’m checking him out, he gives me a half-smile that I could eat right up. He raises his eyebrows as if to ask, Are you okay? Like he cares about my sauce more than his.
My insides turn to jelly.
Because damn, I want him so badly.
Maybe yesterday I really did get things wrong — see things wrong.
I’ve never wanted so badly to be wrong. Not once in my entire life.
I wish I could throw down my apron and run across the room to hurl myself into Colby’s arms.
But I can’t. All I can do is keep cooking. So I turn back to my burbling fondue.
I must not have realized how close I was to the electric pot.
Looking back on this moment later, I try to imagine all the ways I could have done things differently.
Something to avert disaster. But I can never come up with a damn thing.
As I turn to check on my quick pickles, I knock against the electric pot with an elbow. It teeters to one side, cheese sauce sloshing over its sides and coating the counter. Unheeding of how I could be burned, I reach for the thing to steady it, to save my prize-winning sauce.
It’s true what they say about reality suddenly moving in slow motion during high-stress times. It totally happens, and yeah, it’s cliché — but it’s only cliché because it’s so brutally accurate.
It happens to me now.
I reach out for the scorching pot with both hands, ready to endure the burns I will certainly raise on my tender palms and fingers. Better to go home with bandaged hands than with empty ones.
Stumbling, I miss.
As my fingers close on thin air, I have all the time in the world to watch as my fondue pot seems for one exhilarating second like it might settle, only to fully topple in a glorious fountain of flying cheese.
There’s fondue everywhere. And the electric pot doesn’t just stop at being overturned. No, it keeps tumbling to the floor, taking the food processor with it.
Somehow the pot survives its fall. The food processor’s bowl, however, cracks and shatters into angry plastic shards when it hits the floor.
I should be grateful that no one gets scalded by hot splattered cheese. But in this moment, under the unrelenting gaze of the cameras and audience members, all I can do is gaze miserably at my ruined fondue coating my cook station and quietly cry.
I’ve lost.
All my efforts have been for nothing. I’ve still got my sides, which are miraculously unsplattered, but I have nothing to serve them with.
The fondue I thought would win me the prize is everywhere but in a clean dish. None of it is salvageable.
And with the food processor’s broken bowl, I have no way to remake my fondue. Not in the scant time I have remaining. Not if I want to win. Fondue depends on the cheese being finely grated, something that I can’t possibly do by hand with my — I check the clock — thirty-five remaining minutes.
My eyes have a mind of their own. They travel across the room, search
ing out the man that I still ache for in spite of myself.
Colby is starting back at me, mouth dangling, spatula-carrying hand frozen in midair instead of stirring whatever white sauce he’s got brewing at his cook station.
Basil and Saffron materialize in front of me, blocking my view of my enemy and the man I want more than anything. Practically every camera in the room zooms in on me, capturing my anguish from every angle.
“This is awful,” Saffron says with real empathy, surveying my disaster. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah,” I say thickly, “it is.”
Basil speaks gently but gets right to the point. “You’ve got thirty-five minutes left on the clock. Are you going to try to salvage your sauce?”
I shrug helplessly. “My food processor.” My voice is too loud, echoing through the suddenly hushed room, but I don’t know how to manage it. I don’t know how to manage anything at this point. “Its bowl is broken. I can’t hand grate enough cheese and cook it. There’s no time.”
Saffron nods. As president of CCI, she knows her stuff. “The food processor’s grating blade is key to prepping cheese for the amount of sauce we’ve required of competitors.”
Basil turns to her. “Why is that?”
“Well,” she says, angling so she’s facing the cameras more than me, “if you want a smooth fondue, you need to grate your cheese, not chop it, which is a common mistake. And with the amount of time left for poor Brynn here, she needs to get it done fast if she’s got any hope of melting it in time to serve.”
“Is she out of the competition then?” Basil asks, giving the cameras a grave look.
“Not officially. But unless she happened to bring another food processor with her, yes, she effectively is.” Saffron looks at me sympathetically.
I heave a shuddering sigh. Saffron is right. I’m toast.
Turning away to head to the bathroom where I can sob in private, I think of how disappointed Mom is going to be. Fresh tears well in my eyes.
A loud clunk behind me makes me jump. Spinning around, Colby fills my vision.
Colby and his food processor.
His unbroken, fully functioning food processor.
That sound? It was from him setting his food processor on my counter.
“What are you doing?” I ask, not meaning for my words to sound so sharp.
“Donating to the cause.” He gives me a sad smile.
Basil and Saffron are on him in an instant, a camera pushing to get a close-up of his face. His beautiful, beautiful face.
God, I’ve got it bad for this guy.
“Are you giving Brynn one of your tools?” Saffron asks, eyes darting between the two of us like I’ve got something to do with it.
“Yes,” Colby says firmly, “and her name is Brie.”
Saffron colors beneath her caramel skin. “My apologies,” she says, then mutters something under her breath about how she thought my name was a joke, given my competition category.
Basil jumps in. “I believe that there is a strict no-sharing policy in our rule book, isn’t there, Saffron?”
She nods. “That’s right.”
“I figured as much,” Colby says. “All I need to know is if Brie can use my food processor to remake her sauce.”
“She can,” Saffron says, forehead puckering, “but that would disqualify you.”
“But not her?” he demands.
“That’s correct,” Saffron answers.
My stomach twists. “Colby, no,” I begin, but he’s already grinning with his arms crossed over his broad chest.
“Done. The food processor is hers.”
I gasp.
The audience gasps.
Basil and Saffron gasp.
Hell, the closest cameraman gasps.
By the time we’ve all recovered, Colby has come to stand closer to me than ever. I can smell his sweat from cooking under the hot lights. I want to lean into him, to wrap my arms around him and keep him this close for always.
But all he does is gaze down at me with those brilliant blue eyes, so full of warmth now, and smile. “It’s for a worthy cause,” he says, speaking to the judges but with eyes only for me.
Then he spins and heads toward the audience seating, sinking into a chair.
I stare between him and his food processor sitting on my mess of a counter, uncomprehending.
What the hell just happened?
“Well,” Basil says, voice strand with excitement, “are you going to accept your rival’s offer or not? Because the clock is ticking.”
The clock. Right. Looking up at it, I see that I’ve got just enough time — now that I have Colby’s food processor.
Thank you, I mouth silently to him before throwing fresh hunks of cheese into the processor’s bowl.
He settles back in his chair, smiling so big now. With both sets of fingers, he creates a heart shape in the middle of his chest.
I melt.
Then tell myself I can’t melt. Not yet. Not before my cheese does.
But later?
I’m going to be hotter for Colby than my fondue. Even if yesterday wasn’t a misunderstanding. Even if it’s just for tonight.
I need to know what it feels like to be in his arms, to feel his skin against mine.
And although I know I don’t have to, I want to thank him for the sacrifice he just made for me. Well, for Mom, but I’m pretty sure that’s not who he was thinking of when he plunked his food processor down on my counter.
Colby
For all that I’ve got riding on this competition, forfeiting my chances was the easiest decision I’ve ever made.
Because Brie? She’s totally worth it.
If I’ve got her, I’ve got everything.
I lean forward in my seat, elbows on my knees, and watch my girl defy all the laws of time and space to get her cheese sauce entry done in time. She’s practically doing four things at any one moment, hands flying above her cook space like a busy flock of birds.
She’s so beautiful, and I can see from the way she cooks that she’s talented too. Brie has shown more confidence for the entirety of this competition than most of the other contestants that I’ve observed. There’s no hesitation in her body, no question on her face as she hauls ass to get her fondue finished.
I think of my Croque Madames cooling at my cook space, almost complete. I know my sandwiches are damn good — but from the way Brie handles herself, I wouldn’t be surprised if she beat me out, given the chance.
A camera dives in for a close-up of me, blocking Brie from my view. Saffron and Basil accompany it. I try not to straight-up growl at them in my frustration at not being able to see my girl in the final minutes of the competition.
“How do you feel about having stepped out of the competition to assist Brie?” Saffron says.
“Pretty damn good,” I say shortly. Maybe if I give them what they want, but not too much of it, they’ll go away.
“Do you know her outside of this competition?” Basil asks, genuinely curious.
I shake my head. “We ran into each other in the hotel yesterday, but we didn’t spend more than a few minutes together.” Thanks to Gretchen, I grumble silently, wondering if she’s in the audience.
I spin around in my seat, and sure enough there she is in the middle of the crowd. She makes eye contact, scowls, then looks quickly away.
I guess I got through to her after all.
“Then why did you do it?” Saffron asks, cutting through my thoughts. “Why sacrifice your chances for the benefit of a stranger — and a rival?”
Whipping back around, my answer is out of my mouth before my mind has caught up. “Because I love her.” I stab a finger at Brie. “I’m going to marry that girl, if she’ll have me.”
Saffron and Basil’s shock mirrors my own.
And then I start grinning like a damn fool. Because I mean every word. Brie is mine and mine alone, if she consents. I’m not going to let any other guy get his hands on her. I’m going to mak
e my love for her official at the soonest possible opportunity.
Basil’s mouth is dangling open. “But . . . you just said —“
“I know what I said,” I snap, hating that he’s questioning my love for Brie, “and I stand by it, every syllable.”
“So you’re a man that believes in love at first sight?” Saffron says, eyes glowing.
I think for a moment. “You know, I don’t think I was before. But now that I’ve met Brie, she’s changed that.”
“Well, that’s a first for this competition, Basil,” she says, turning to him. “A real romance.”
“I hope it’s not too cheesy for your taste,” he quips.
Saffron opens her mouth to respond, but the audience suddenly drowns her out. Everyone’s counting down from ten. Eyes flying to the clock, I see there are only seconds left for the competitors.
Brie hasn’t slowed down, but she’s focused and calm. When the buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the competitors’ cook time, her eyes laser straight in on me, a triumphant smile spreading over that gorgeous face.
I can tell just from that look — she did it. She beat the odds and fucking nailed her fondue.
My chest fills with pride and happiness and so much respect for this woman that I’ve only just met but somehow already know is my future.
Basil and Saffron direct the cooks to step away from their stations while they begin assessing the entires. Exhausted, the competitors move to claim the empty seats reserved for them near the audience.
Except Brie.
She runs straight to me, eyes dancing, face more dazzling than the brightest star. Standing, I open my arms to her and she throws herself into them.
Nothing has ever felt so right.
I clutch her close, feeling how fast her heart is beating, knowing that mine is racing at a similar clip. Because I have her. She’s here, in my arms, my fingers buried in her blonde hair.
She pulls away to look up at me. “Thank you,” she says, breathless, “so much.”