A Taste of Heaven

by penny watson

  “We’ve come full circle,” Jonathan said. “From the most elemental part of food preparation—the killing and butchering of an animal—to the elevated and sophisticated presentation of a beautiful meal. I am impressed with what all of you have accomplished in five short days.”

  Jenny scrunched up her nose. “I’m trying to forget about the first part, Jonathan.”

  The other judges laughed, but Jonathan didn’t crack a smile.

  “I did, however, enjoy the second part. These dishes were just divine.”

  Mr. Smith stood next to the finalists and waved his ridiculous flag. Sophia had a fleeting thought about throwing it into a bonfire.

  “And now for the moment of truth. Who will be participating in the finals tomorrow? This is a double elimination. Judges, what do you think?”

  Sophia glanced down the line. Baldwin was tense. Kevin looked green. The hipster and his Filipino sidekick were obviously agitated. Helene had her serious face plastered on. Nathan bubbled with excitement. God bless Short Chubby Guy.

  The one person whose attitude shocked her the most was Elliott. After the last challenge, she had expected anxiety, hostility, distrust. But today he seemed utterly confident. Cocky.

  And Sophia?

  She wanted to win.

  Even if she refused the television show. Even if she never opened that bistro. She wanted to win to show everyone that she could. She could do this.

  And she wanted to win for Elliott.

  Jonathan stood at the table and raised his wine glass. “I would like to make a toast to the first partnership that finally . . . meshed.” He sipped his Zinfandel. “I wondered how long it would take. How long for two strangers to learn to complement each other on the plate? Was it possible to do in a week? I know chefs who have worked for years with partners and were never able to accomplish this feat. It’s tricky. That’s one of the reasons I agreed to judge for A Taste of Heaven. This premise fascinates me.”

  Tarquin also stood. “I agree with Chef Rutgers. There are many times in your culinary career you need to work as a team. It’s not always about you, your desires, your talent. Sometimes cooking requires compromise. And as we all know, a chef’s ego may not handle that too well.”

  That elicited quite a few chuckles from the table.

  Jenny the Blogger pushed her curls behind a shoulder. “I’m a firm believer in team work. My family is my team. I love to cook with my children. They are the first to point out my flaws. Gently.” She winked at the camera. “And they are also the first to pat me on the back when I do something creative and inspired. I love my team.”

  For the first time, Sophia actually felt connected to Jenny. That sentiment hadn’t been forced for the taping. It was genuine and sweet, and it made Sophia like the blogger a bit more.

  Sophia’s daughters were her team, too.

  Mr. Smith faced the eight finalists. “So, judges, who finally did it? Who meshed today? Let’s find out who our winner is, and then we can deal with the final pair.”

  Sophia felt like vomiting. She couldn’t control the tremor in her limbs.

  Elliott pressed his arm—hot and hairy and familiar—against her elbow and whispered, “Steady.”

  Chef Rutgers stepped in front of the contestants and swung his gaze from one end of the line to the other. He nodded slightly. Then he approached Elliott and held out his hand. “Chef Adamson. Congratulations.”

  Elliott bowed his head and released a long hiss of breath. A hiss filled with desperation and hope, fear of failure. Courage. And relief.

  He shook hands with Jonathan and his eyes flashed with triumph. Then he turned to Sophia and smiled.

  She grabbed onto his hand and wouldn’t let go.

  They’d done it! They made it into the finals!

  Jonathan continued. “I know this hasn’t been easy for you, Elliott. But you dazzled us today. The turkey butchering was damned impressive. The traditional Scottish preparation of the bird was brilliant. Packed with flavor. And Sophia.” He patted her knuckles. “Your sides paired perfectly with Elliott’s turkey. The honey-inspired recipes were delicious. You are a wonderful amateur cook.”

  “As well as a diplomatic and thoughtful partner,” Tarquin added. “Right, Elliott? She tamed the Beast.” He laughed.

  Elliott nodded. “I’m a lucky man. She was the perfect partner for me.”

  His eyes blazed at her and she felt light-headed.

  “Yes, you are lucky, Elliott. Good to know you recognize that.” Jenny didn’t look quite as impressed as the other judges. “I loved the stuffing and the beautiful salad. And your turkey was perfectly cooked . . . moist and delicious. Well done to the both of you.”

  Mr. Smith handed each of them a ticket. “Here are your tickets to the finals. You made it! Congratulations. You may go stand next to the garden.”

  Elliott and Sophia walked to the garden, still hand-in-hand, both trembling. The edge of the perennial border was buzzing with hummingbirds in the dusk. Elliott released her hand and crushed her in his arms.

  “Sophia. Sophia.” His voice was barely more than a whisper.

  She buried her face in his neck, warm and comforting. He smelled like honey. “We did it,” she answered softly.

  He pulled back and raked his gaze over her face. “Yes, we did. How about that?”

  The two of them laughed quietly. Afraid to make noise and breach this perfect moment.

  “Christ. I honestly can’t believe it. The damned blogger hates me.”

  “But she loved our meal today. They all did. We finally pulled it together.” Sophia shook her head, still feeling slightly bewildered.

  “I’ve never done this before,” Elliott said. “The give-and-take, the compromise . . . the listening. I wasn’t kidding when I said you were the perfect partner for me, Sophia. You were patient and understanding.”

  “We worked as a team, and you survived to tell the tale. How about that?” she teased.

  He chuckled. “Aye.”

  “So how do you feel?”

  “Honestly? Scared shitless.”

  She laughed. “Why?”

  “I’m used to being a monarch. In a kingdom of one. Just me. Alone. Allowing someone else to have input is completely foreign to me.”

  “We make a good team.” Sophia realized that statement was heavy with meaning, and she waited to see how Elliott would react.

  He nodded. “Aye, we do. I guess an old dog can learn some new tricks after all. Or maybe a beast.”

  Before she could answer, they heard shouting at the judges’ table.

  “Pomegranate syrup is the perfect complement for turkey.” Chef Johnson’s voice cracked as he argued his point.

  “Perhaps, if executed properly. But this lacked flavor and punch.” Tarquin raised a brow at the red-faced chef.

  They continued to quarrel, as the chefs defended their choices, their meals, their chance to remain in the competition. In the end, Brian and Herman were released. And sadly Helene and her partner Nathan, as well. Sophia was disappointed to see them go. She liked Helene and her French sensibilities, her sense of fair play.

  And that left Michael Baldwin and his struggling partner from North Carolina.

  If Michael was trying to establish a sexy lothario image, it certainly wasn’t working for Sophia. Yes, he was handsome in a classic way, flirtatious for the camera, and serious about the competition. But he lacked the passion for his cuisine that Elliott and Helene, and even Lin Lin shared. If she’d ever met Michael in the real world, she would have dismissed him right away. There was something about Chef Baldwin she didn’t trust. And yet the ornery Scot had won her over.

  They called the finalist pairs to the judging table and the cast and crew honored them with a round of applause. Elliott lifted Sophia’s hand above his head and the audience cheered “Beast!”

  How about that? The villain of the show had turned into Fan Favorite.

  Sophia was delighted.

  Chapter Sixteen
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br />   Sophia attempted to plump the flat, dejected pillow on her metal bed. She would be relieved to be home in a few days.

  Wouldn’t she?

  Of course she would. Back home. Back with the girls.

  Of course she would.

  A rap on the door startled her.

  He wouldn’t.

  She opened the door.

  He would.

  “Hello, sweet. Guess who?” Elliott lifted a bottle of cheap champagne and two plastic cups.

  “You have got to be kidding me. It’s late, Elliott. Go to bed. We have a big day tomorrow.”

  She started to shut her door, but his big booted foot jammed the way.

  “Oh, no, you don’t. We’re celebrating tonight. We made it to the finals. Come on, join me for just one glass of bubbly.” Elliott was certainly in a playful mood. That made her nervous.

  “Tomorrow is the final challenge. We both need to sleep.”

  “We’ll sleep. After.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “After . . . what?”

  “After we drink this shitty champagne.” He shot her an amused look.

  “Classy, Elliott. I like the plastic cups.”

  “Thank you, Sprite. I do what I can.” He poured the champagne and offered her a cup.

  “Shall we toast?” He held his glass close to her.

  “Okay. You have five minutes. I’m too old to drink and stay up all night. I need to be rested for the finals. You may be able to run around and butcher turkeys without a second thought, but I need my wits about me for tomorrow.” She took a sip and grimaced. “Dear God, this is awful.” She shook her head. “Anyway, Michael won’t just roll over and play dead. We’re going to have to bring our A-game to beat him.”

  “Bah!” Elliott waved a hand through the air. “Don’t insult me. That bastard is a burger-flipper.”

  “Hmm.” She took another sip, and then set the cup down on her dresser. “Do you want to tell me why you hate Chef Baldwin so much? What is your history?”

  “He’s an asshole.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  Elliott released a huge sigh. “A long time ago, I took a cooking workshop with a bunch of up-and-coming chefs. Baldwin was there.”

  “And?”

  “And he thought he was Mr. Hot Shit. Mr. American Chef. He’d just graduated from the CIA, and he was convinced he was the next best thing.”

  “I would imagine a lot of new chefs feel that way.”

  “True. But usually you need something to back that up. I won the Best New Chef award in the UK when I got out of school. I worked for various master chefs in Edinburgh before branching out on my own. Baldwin is one of those guys who thinks good looks and charisma will earn him respect. No one gives a shit about that. Maybe if you’re on TV. But in the kitchen, only one thing counts. Your cooking. The. End.”

  “This still doesn’t explain your deep hatred for the man.” Sophia took the empty plastic cup from Elliott’s hands and tossed it into the trash. “What did he do to you?”

  “He mocked Scottish food. He has no appreciation for anything outside of his little American world. It drove me crazy then. It drives me crazy now.”

  He stroked a rough finger down the side of Sophia’s cheek and she struggled not to shiver.

  “I understand that folks might not understand a culture outside of their own. But if you’re a modern-day chef, you show respect. Even if you don’t eat it. Even if you don’t cook it. You still show respect.”

  “You don’t respect his American cooking.”

  Elliott laughed. “That’s because he cooks diner food. I have a ton of respect for Chef Rutgers. He might be old school, but the man is extremely talented.”

  Elliott tugged on Sophia’s hand and pulled her down on the creaky bed.

  “What do you think you’re up to, Chef Adamson?” She suppressed a sigh as he kissed her neck.

  “Attempting to seduce my partner. She’s a prickly little thing.”

  He kissed her ear lobe.

  “Maybe she’s trying to keep this professional.”

  The bed creaked as he ran his lips over her collarbone. Sophia swayed.

  “Maybe she needs to lighten up.”

  “What are your intentions, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Elliott smirked. “You sound so very old-fashioned, sweet. All right. How about this—a fuck for good luck?”

  Sophia burst out laughing. “A good luck fuck?”

  Elliott nodded. “Yep. A good luck fuck.” The bed creaked again as he pinned her with his arms.

  “Are you insane?”

  “No, I’m horny. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  “That’s plainly evident.” His erection pulsed against her pajama pants which gave Sophia a little thrill.

  “Hasn’t anyone ever told you sex is a great stress-reliever?” he asked.

  Sophia giggled. The bed made a grating noise. “We cannot have sex in this bed, Elliott. Everyone in the entire dorm will know what we’re up to. This bed sounds like it’s about to fall apart.”

  Elliott made a few exploratory grinding motions, and the squeaking noises made both of them laugh.

  “Okay, the bed’s out.” He stood up and grabbed her hand. “We’ll do it against the wall. It worked out pretty nicely with the door episode.”

  “What?” Her eyes grew wide as Elliott Adamson pressed her against the wall.

  “Wrap your arms around my neck.”

  “Oh, no. No way.”

  “Do it, woman!”

  She laughed softly as he lifted her in his arms. So much for professional behavior. Her curiosity about sex with Elliott Adamson was about to be appeased.

  “Oh, yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.” He rocked against her pelvis. “Do you feel that, sweetheart? All that Scottish knob for you.”

  Sophia buried her face in Elliott’s neck and laughed until her stomach ached. “Well, to be honest, I was a little bit disappointed with the door episode.”

  He stopped rocking. “What? Why? I got your rockets off, didn’t I?”

  “We skipped too many bases. You skipped first base, and second base, and half of third base . . .”

  “What are you talking about? What bases?”

  “Oh, I forgot. You Scots probably don’t get the baseball analogy.”

  “Educate me, love.”

  “It must be an American thing. Using baseball as an analogy for sex. First base is . . . kissing.”

  “Snogging,” he said as he nuzzled her lips.

  “Um, yes. Second base is . . .” She blushed. Embarrassingly.

  Elliott lifted a brow. “Yesssssss?”

  “Um, copping a feel. You know. Under a woman’s blouse.”

  “A nice grope. Okay. What’s next?”

  “Third base. Sneaking into each other’s pants. So to speak.”

  “This dirty talk is getting me randy. I can’t wait to hear about the next base.”

  “A home run. It means—”

  “Ahhhhh. Let me guess. A shag for the win. Am I right?”

  She giggled. “Aye.”

  Elliott frowned. “I apologize for rushing the other night. And skipping these important bases. I’ll make sure to include them all today.”

  “Good idea. Skipping bases is frowned upon. What kind of baseball game is that?” She shot him a cheeky look.

  He growled at her.

  “You Americans are fucking obsessed with baseball.” Elliott kissed her.

  Oh! It was glorious. The brush of his beard, the softness of his lips. And his tongue, that sneaked into her mouth and got her hot and panting and breathless.

  He lowered her feet to the ground and they kissed and kissed and kissed until Sophia was convinced the most delicious thing on earth was Elliott and cheap champagne.

  “First base down,” he whispered.

  She shivered as he ran his tongue along the shell of her ear. He unbuttoned her pajama top and cupped her breasts. Gently squeezed and pinched a
nd finally sucked her nipples until her legs gave out and she slid down the wall onto the floor.

  He followed her down and devoured her. Licking and squeezing with the utmost enthusiasm. She had love-bites all over her chest.

  “Damn, you’re pretty, Sophia.” He kissed the tip of her nose and smiled at her drunken expression. “Second base down.”

  And after he slid off her pants, and his pants, they finally rounded third base for both parties. Hands crawling over skin, with gentle touches and secret discoveries. He bunched up his sweatshirt under her back, attempting to make her more comfortable. And when he slid home, nestled deep inside of her, she wished the game would go on forever.

  Who was this Sophia? The good little widow, the well-behaved doll, was scraping her nails along Elliott Adamson’s bollocks and making him groan with lust. She stroked them and squeezed them and kissed them until he begged her for mercy. Who was this woman?

  A woman unafraid. He made her that way.

  At least for one night.

  So she took his breath and his slickness and his touch. She took him into her body. She took her pleasure. In a most selfish way, quite unlike the old Sophia. And he gloried in it.

  His smile lit her up. She’d had casual sex before. For God’s sake, she was forty-seven years old. But this thing they were doing wasn’t a “good luck fuck.” This thing—with his indigo eyes, intense and watchful, gazing down at her—was something more than that.

  After he’d emptied himself into her with a shout and a collection of impressive Scottish expletives that were certainly heard all over the dorm, he carried her to the bed. Surprisingly, it didn’t collapse under their weight. He held her in his arms, and they slept. When the purple sunrise appeared outside, she discovered he was awake.

  “Winning day,” he said.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sophia knew something was wrong the minute she walked onto the set the next morning. Instead of an atmosphere of anticipation, the kitchen swarmed with worried-looking producers and frantic crew members. Lights flickered on and off, and half of the kitchen was shadowed in darkness.

  Elliott was tense. His impatience to get started was palpable.

  “What’s going on?” he snapped.