by Kelly Cain
“God no. I barely want to work in Dad’s restaurant. Declan loves working there. He’s a good chef, but probably not made for owning a restaurant. Knox has that mix of talent and follow-through, just like Dad.” He looks at the competition. “Looks like they’re finishing up. I better go back to our table.”
A few minutes later, Wyatt returns and sits down.
Mama asks, “How was it?”
Wyatt glances at me, then back to Mama. “Knox is a good chef.”
I shove his shoulder, but my lips twitch, holding back a grin. “Et tu, Wyatt?”
“Sorry, Rowan. I actually like the guy.”
I full-on grin at Wyatt. “Good job, brother. I’m sure you worked well together.”
Before he can respond, the director cuts for a break between setups. We’re up next against the Ortiz family.
I’d assumed that we’d have Weston and Wyatt would sit, but they surprise us by sitting Mama and giving us Knox. You’d think I’d relish the idea of bossing Knox around, but I don’t. I don’t want him anywhere near my food.
Me, Wyatt, and Knox enter the kitchen and I take a few deep, calming breaths.
Dean Ellerson comes near and smiles, acknowledging me for the first time. Chef Buccola and Knox nod at each other. And it’s more than a nod; it’s almost as if the chef knows Knox. Or maybe I’m being paranoid because I think the Everheart-fix is always in.
Knox turns to me. “Well, Amber, what are we making this fine morning?”
“That’s Chef to you.”
“My mistake.”
I look at Wyatt because I don’t plan on using Knox. I don’t trust him to not sabotage us even though we’re not in direct competition this round. If Wyatt can do all the vegetable chopping for the jambalaya, I can handle making it plus the greens. Picking and washing the greens will be time consuming though. I wonder if Knox even knows how.
“Knox.”
“Yes, Chef.”
“Can you pick and wash the collards please?”
“Yes, Chef.”
He gets the greens out of the refrigerator and takes them over to the sink.
I turn to Wyatt and sigh. “Onion, bell pepper, celery.”
He nods and heads to the fridge.
I put a large stock pot on the heat, adding chicken stock, ham hocks, and salt pork.
I get everything else ready for the jambalaya because I can’t do anything until Wyatt finishes chopping the holy trinity. I slice the andouille sausage, and chop some tomato and garlic. While I’m chopping, I cut up some onions and jalapenos for the greens.
Knox waves me over to where he’s picking the collards. The camera follows me.
“Chef, how many times do you want these washed?”
“Five, please.” I assess what he’s done so far. Satisfied, I go back to what I was doing. I have a feeling he wanted to say more, but it wasn’t suited for television.
I pour oil into a Dutch oven. “How long until I get that trinity, Wyatt?”
“Three minutes, Chef.”
We can’t afford for me to stand around for three minutes, so I take the shrimp out of the refrigerator and go to the sink to peel and devein. Unfortunately, that puts me right next to Knox.
“Almost done?”
“Five times, Chef? No, I’m not almost done. I have a suggestion for the greens though.”
I quirk an eyebrow because surely I must have heard wrong.
“I think you should fry some bacon instead of using the salt pork.”
“Oh, do you now? Anything else?” I put on a gigantic smile in case the camera’s watching us instead of the Ortiz family. I guess he doesn’t realize I use bacon grease when layering the greens with the onions, jalapeno, and spices.
Knox doesn’t catch my tone. “Actually, yes. They’d be better if you sautéed them instead of boiling. You know, like kale.”
“I do know.” The absolute nerve of this guy. He thinks he can make soul food better than I can.
When I go back to my boiling pot, I think about what Knox said. I’ve been making greens forever. People love them. But what if he’s right? He’s the better chef.
Wyatt brings over the chopped veggies, so I forget about Knox and his stupid advice, and start the jambalaya.
When all is said and done, we get the meal out just before lunch and I’ve cooked the best greens of my life.
Lillie’s Jambalaya
2 pounds shrimp, peeled and deveined
1 tbsp Creole seasoning
1 pound andouille sausage, chopped
1/4 cup oil
1/2 cup chopped celery
1/2 cup chopped green bell peppers
1/2 cup chopped onions
1 tsp salt
1/2 tsp freshly ground black pepper
1/2 tsp cayenne pepper
4 cloves garlic, chopped
2 tomatoes, chopped
4 bay leaves
2 tsp Worcestershire
1-1/2 cups long-grain rice
3-1/2 cups chicken stock
1 bunch green onions, sliced thin
Season shrimp with Creole seasoning and set aside. In a Dutch oven, heat oil on medium heat. Add sausage, celery, bell pepper, and onion. Cook until softened, stirring often. Add garlic, tomatoes, bay leaves, Worcestershire, salt and peppers. Stir in rice and broth. Bring to a simmer, cover and reduce heat to low. Cook about 20 minutes until rice is tender. Stir in shrimp, cover and cook for 10 additional minutes. Remove from heat and let sit 15 minutes before serving. Garnish with green onions.
Yield: 6 servings
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Does Knox have a plan?
We have lunch on set so I don’t get a chance to talk with Mike. He and the Dolter sister left, but not together. The other families are all seated at their tables, eating and chatting. I don’t look at the Everheart table.
Mama seems to be doing fine and even taking her medicine in front of me and Wyatt, something I’ve never seen her do.
“Any idea what the next challenge is? You’ve watched the show.”
I’d asked her to watch as well, but somehow, she never found the time. Wyatt either.
“There are several challenges they’ve done in the past that we haven’t done yet. If we make it to the finals, it’ll be to design a restaurant and menu including bar service. That’s been the same through the seasons. They want to see what you’ll do with their prize.”
Mama taps her chin, deep in thought. “I suppose you’ve already been working on that.”
I think back to my handwritten menu lying on my desk at home with Knox’s notes. I thought he was trying to improve what I had, but he’d only scribbled in notes of encouragement until I took the pencil from him. I don’t tell Mama about it though.
“I have some general ideas but we need to make it out of this round first. Some challenges left are: a unique twist on an American favorite or Sunday brunch.” I think about a family favorite as another challenge, but I hope to God they don’t give us that one. “There’s also secret ingredients, but I guess we did that already.”
Wyatt pulls his phone out of his bag, the vibration loud at our quiet table. His face lights up, so we know who it is. He gets up from the table, phone in hand, without a backward glance.
“That boy has it bad.” Mama takes a sip of her water, looking at Wyatt’s retreating back.
“I still can’t believe how on board you and Daddy are. He’s barely out of college.”
“I like Hannah. And she’s good for him. Plus, they promised a long engagement. Now if we could get you on track in that department.” She glances around.
I frown because she appears to be peering at the Everheart table but that can’t be right. Even if Knox and I didn’t have problems, she hated them before I even knew they existed.
“Who are you looking at, Mama?”
“Who me? Nobody. Where’s your new handsome friend, Mike?”
“Mama, we’re right in the middle of a competition. Get your head in the game
.”
She narrows her eyes, staring lasers through me.
“Uh, ma’am.”
Lillie smirks, reminding me who I’m talking to. My mother has sacrificed too much for her children to be disrespected. She will light this place on fire before allowing us too much trash talking. A little is okay, but we know how far to go.
When lunch is coming to a close, Wyatt returns to the table. I roll my eyes and head to the bathroom before facing our long afternoon.
Knox is waiting for me again as I leave.
“Dude, seriously. Am I going to have to report you for being a bathroom creeper?”
He has the gall to look abashed. “At least I didn’t go inside. It seems to be the only time I can get you alone. Do you have plans tonight? I need to talk to you.”
I blink.
Cocky Knox returns. He crosses his arms and widens his stance, smirking all the while. “Ever since the first day we met, I’ve affected you the same way. Speechless again, Amber?”
That gets me in gear. “Ever since the first day we met, I’ve had to stop and ponder how I could be so unlucky.”
He leans in, and his breath heats my face, smelling of Starburst candy. “If you meet me later, I’ll tell you exactly what I thought the first time we met.”
I look into his eyes. Topaz again. The same color as the first time I ever saw him. And I’ve only seen them this color a couple of times since; I haven’t been able to figure out what that means.
There’s a struggle going on within me. My mind races to all possibilities of why he would want me alone. Most of them aren’t good, but when I respond, there’s only one word I utter. “Okay.”
The smirk is gone, and his eyes twinkle. “I’m in room 1520. Come when you’re ready.”
He circles back to the set and I lean against the wall, biting the inside of my cheek. I’m not sure what just happened. Either I’ve just walked into the biggest trap he’s set for me yet. Or…I have a date with fucking Knox Everheart.
*
The second competition of the day is one I don’t see coming. It hasn’t been employed on previous seasons.
Lee says, “Families. For this next competition, the judges will pick what you will cook.”
Aaron adds his two cents. “Townsend and Ortiz families, you’re up first.”
I lean against the counter next to Mama and Wyatt and listen to the presenters. There’s a bit of a Knox-toned ringing in my ear, making it difficult to concentrate. Did he plan this? Does he want me off my game?
Aaron and Lee build the drama, playing with the camera, along with us and the Ortiz family. I refocus so that I don’t miss anything. Knox plays dirty and he always wins. I can’t let him win this time. They finally get around to telling us what we’re making.
Lee says, “Chefs. Both families will make butternut squash agnolotti with a sage brown butter sauce, roasted asparagus with whipped ricotta and honey, and an almond cake with pears and crème anglaise.”
Aaron chimes in, “You have ninety minutes.”
I hold on to my stomach, trying to still the butterflies raging within. What fresh hell is this? I thought I’d imagined the exchange between Knox and Chef Buccola before, chalking it up to my overactive paranoia. I’m famous for it actually, but not this time. The fix is in. Knox knows I suck at pasta. I’ve never been able to make it perfectly like he does.
We huddle on the other side of the kitchen, whispering. “Mama, you have to make the pasta. I can’t.”
“Baby, I’ve never made pasta from scratch in my life.”
I glance at Wyatt.
“Don’t look at me. I can handle the asparagus and get the squash ready.”
Mama grabs my hands and looks me in the eyes. “Pull yourself together. The cameras are watching. All you can do is your best. I’ll get the cake going but I need directions.”
She’s right. Even if I’ve been set up to fail, I still have to do what I did all through school—my best, whether I win or lose. My best is all I can do.
I write out instructions for the almond cake as quickly as possible, and then get started on the pasta dough. It’ll need to rest at least thirty minutes so I don’t have a lot of wiggle room.
Knox making pasta is a thing of beauty. His long fingers knead the dough with care and precision, handling it like a pianist tickling the ivories. He knows just how long to work the dough and his pasta is perfect every single time. His technique is downright sexy, and he knows it.
I try to capture my memories of Knox with the pasta dough and attempt my own creation. I haven’t made it since school where I failed more times than I succeeded. When it comes to pasta, I can’t quite get out of my head. I mix the eggs in and work the dough until it feels right. When I move to get a bowl from across the kitchen, Knox is standing against the wall near his table. He tries to convey something in his look, but I have no idea what it is nor do I have the time to entertain any more of his foolery. No more distractions from Knox Asshat Everheart.
While the dough rests, I start the filling. As promised, Wyatt has chopped the butternut squash, shallots, and onions. I toss them with oil, thyme, and red pepper flakes, then stick them in the oven.
Mama is where I head next to see how she’s doing with the cake. She already has it ready for the pan and the batter looks perfect. I stick my pinky in and taste just to make sure. “Really good, Mama.”
She nods and pours it into the pan, then puts it in the oven.
I check the time. Good, just enough time for the cake to cook and cool before splitting it and adding the pears.
Wyatt has peeled the asparagus and is in the process of puffing some wild rice.
I nod at Mama and she picks up the ricotta and some heavy cream to whip it for Wyatt’s dish.
The squash has another fifteen minutes, so I leave the crème anglaise for Mama and work on caramelizing the pears and making the sage cream sauce. I finish up right as the timer goes off on the squash. While the squash mixture is cooling, I set to work on the pasta dough.
Knox rolls the dough by hand, the thin sheets flowing like waterfalls in his capable hands. I’ll use a machine. When I pull the dough out of the bowl and onto the counter, my hands begin to shake and tears prick the back of my eyes. I run it through the machine but it’s not elastic, not in the least resilient.
Mama must see my plight because she comes over to help me and working together, we’re able to run it through the machine enough to pass. I finish the pasta dish and top with the sauce, but I don’t need to taste it to know it’s tough. Mama’s cake is perfect and Wyatt’s vegetables are fine as well. My agnolotti is the only disappointment. I can only hope that the Ortiz family, with their Puerto Rican specialties, had the same trouble.
*
I’m a classically trained chef. I went to a distinguished four-year university specializing in the culinary arts, not fifty miles from here. I run a restaurant, albeit my mother’s, but still. I run it, lunch and dinner, daily. How the fuck did I forget about the pasta dough window test?
Hope of a new restaurant big enough to serve our rapidly growing customers. A kitchen large enough to expand our menu. Being able to keep Sue. All of it is speeding out of my grasp. And it’s all my fault. I have no idea why I thought I could do this anyway.
I need a drink. I tear out of my room and head to the elevators, vodka Sprite calling my name. I’m so far from the middle of the hotel that I have time to run all the events of this afternoon through my mind several times by the time I get there. Instead of punching the down button, I pass the elevator banks and head over to three doors on the right, and take a deep breath and knock.
When he opens the door, his face is haggard and weary. Knox knows I’ve come for a confrontation.
I point my shaky finger into his chest, backing him into his room. “This is all your fault. You planned this from the beginning.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, standing tall. “Why do you think I have some grand master plan to destroy
your life? What have I ever done?”
“I know you tampered with my oven and ruined my baked Alaska.” I hold out my hand, folding one finger down. “You also hid my knives more times than I can count. I can check off a bunch more.”
“Yeah, really? Childish college pranks nearly a decade ago. And don’t act like you were innocent. I had yeast up my ass and Blake and I couldn’t go into our bathroom for nearly a week.” He rakes his long fingers through his black curls. “He hated being my roommate because of you.”
Yeah, I recall exactly what Blake thought of me. I remember what Knox said too. “Poor little rich boy. Your friend made you sad. Your golden toilet broke. Here, let me play you a concerto on my tiny violin.” I move my fingers together, bulging my eyes, my voice rising as I continue. “Stop deflecting. You and Buccola are in on something together.”
He opens his mouth, then slams it shut, eyes wide.
“Oh my God. I’m right.” I slap a hand across my mouth.
“You’re not right. It’s not what you think.”
There’s a loud knock at the door.
Knox walks over and looks through the peephole. “May I help you?”
“Hotel security.”
He opens the door, and a burly man in a suit is standing on the other side of the threshold. “We’ve had complaints of screaming coming from this room.”
Oh my goodness. This is the single most embarrassing day of my life. I walk over to the window and concentrate on the people milling about on the sidewalk below, ignoring the conversation Knox is having with hotel security.
When Knox closes the door, I take a breath and head toward it. Hopefully the security guy has made it onto the elevator before I get there. I need that drink more than ever now.
“Rowan, don’t go. Let me try to explain.” His hand hovers over my arm, but he doesn’t touch me. Thankfully. I’m not sure he wouldn’t draw back a nub.
“It’s probably best I go now. I can’t be responsible for what happens next. And I definitely can’t afford to be reported to the show especially after what happened today. I can only hope the hotel doesn’t know it was me in here.”
He moves away from the door but pleads with his eyes. They’re aquamarine, and now I’m confused. They should be ice blue. Why is he so focused? “Please.”