by Amanda Usen
Surrounded by his warmth, she felt safe and secure. What was the harm in telling him? Her game plan was set, ingredients requisitioned and waiting for her in the kitchen. She didn’t want anything separating them, not after what they had shared tonight, not when it felt so right to be with him. She snuggled closer. “I’m going to do a play on Duck, Duck, Goose with five-spiced duck leg, seared duck breast, and foie gras dumplings. I’ll drizzle the sauce in a circle and garnish the plate with miniature vegetables. Do you think it would be overkill to put a poached quail egg on top?”
A sharp breath shuddered out of his chest, and his body stiffened. She raised her head. His eyes were dark, his expression hooded. She started to pull away from him, but he held on, giving her a brief hug. “Nope, go for the egg. I think that sounds amazing, and I can’t wait to see you make it happen tomorrow.”
She searched his expression for evidence of insincerity or criticism but could detect no clue to his thoughts. Slowly, she settled beside him again, wishing she had kept her plans to herself. He pulled the covers up around them and closed his eyes. When she turned her back, he spooned her, but not quite as close as he had before. Or maybe she was imagining the distance between them.
Her heart began to race, making sleep impossible. Was Asian-inspired duck overplayed? Did he think her idea was stupid, but hadn’t wanted to hurt her feelings? Or worse—did he love the dish and plan to steal her idea and use it himself? That didn’t make sense. Not only would they look like copy cats if they plated the same dish, her mouth had watered when he described his rack of lamb. A straight-up favorite like that would make the judges drool, too.
She’d be stupid to take a risk on a whimsical, played-out duck dish when he was bringing the big guns to the table. Shit. She needed to win, but judging by what Jack had told her about his dish, the competition was already over. No wonder he was sleeping like a baby. He had her beat before they even got into the kitchen.
She slipped out of bed, feeling sick when she saw the clock. She had five hours to come up with something better than duck. The school coolers, freezers, and storage rooms were well-stocked, and the competing students had free run of them. If Jack thought seducing her ideas out of her would give him an edge, he was going to get a big surprise. She wasn’t beaten yet. She picked up the clock and set the alarm for him. In a couple hours, she would show him the true meaning of creativity, and she didn’t want him to be late.
Silently, she gathered her clothes, shoes, and purse. She dressed in the hall and waited until she was outside to put her shoes on. As she walked back to campus, her shoes rubbed painful blisters on her heels, but by the time she reached her dorm room, she had a new plan. A better plan.
Jackson Calabrese didn’t stand a chance.
Chapter Two
What the hell was Lila doing with those pork ribs? She was supposed to be cooking duck, but he hadn’t seen her anywhere near one this morning. She had to know ribs wouldn’t get done in time. They only had three hours left.
He tried to catch her attention, but she ignored him. In fact, she hadn’t said a word to him at all. Was she feeling shy about last night? Maybe the pressure was getting to her and she wanted to stay focused on her menu. Since she’d crept out before he woke up, she could at least throw him a bone…or a smile. Hell, he’d be happy if she just looked at him.
As if to grant his wish, she turned.
The cold glare she leveled at him felt like a punch in the gut. He sucked in a quick breath, then shut his mouth and returned her narrow-eyed stare. Clearly, she wasn’t happy to see him.
As soon as she’d shared her game plan with him last night, he’d come to terms with losing. Her concept was brilliant, and duck was easy to cook. Oddly, he hadn’t been as upset at the prospect of losing as he thought he would be. She was right. He didn’t need the money. As far as his father’s approval, well, finally getting his dad to acknowledge Jack was a chef in his own right didn’t seem to matter last night. Being with Lila had eased something inside him he hadn’t known was tight enough to snap. She’d made him feel so good nothing else had seemed important. Hell, he’d showed up this morning partly to be her cheering section.
With a last venomous glare over her shoulder, Lila covered her ribs with foil and shoved them in the oven, snapping Jack out of his fog. Clearly, she wasn’t cooking a duck, but what did that mean?
He went cold then hot. She’d lied to him. She’d come up with that Duck, Duck, Goose dish on the spur of the moment, hiding her true plan for her menu. Holy shit, if she could come up with something that good off the top of her head, what was she going to put on the plate for the judges? His lamb was going to look like a lame duck next to her rib dish, whatever it was.
Frustrated fury sent him stalking toward the walk-in cooler. Since everyone had gotten their ingredients during the first hour of the competition, he could cool off where no one could see him. Once inside the chilly space, he pressed his hands to his face. His rage burned hotter when he thought about how many times his eyes had strayed over to her station this morning.
She had totally blown his concentration. An hour had elapsed, and all he’d done was clean a rack of lamb and get hard thinking about her body under that shapeless uniform. She had twisted her long red-gold hair into a braid and stuffed it under her hat, but it didn’t stop him from picturing how it had looked spread over his pillow last night. Even when her blue eyes had shot daggers at him, he’d noticed how pretty they were.
He sagged against a shelf then jerked forward as his shoulder touched something wet and squishy. He turned to see what it was then snorted when he saw a tray of defrosted ducks. This particular walk-in cooler was stocked to the gills. Naturally he’d run into a visual reminder of his idiocy. If Lila had seduced him in order to distract him, her plan had worked like a charm. Now he doubted the sob story about her finances, too. However, not everything she’d said had been a lie. She’d flat-out told him she planned to kick his ass today. She had just fudged the details on how she was going to do it.
His gaze wandered to the duck again, and an idea occurred to him. Did he have time to cook it? He looked at his watch. Yes, barely. Lila Grant might be creative, but he’d grown up in kitchens, trying to impress his father. Very few chefs could match his speed. He could do it, but he was going to have to really fly.
Galvanized by his shredded pride, he began to gather ingredients at warp speed, thrilled it was so easy to find everything he needed. She’d made a fool out of him in more ways than he wanted to count, but he was going to teach her a lesson. He’d take her fictitious recipes and turn them into reality, and when he won the competition, she’d regret messing with a Calabrese.
…
Lila was falling apart.
Her hastily cobbled together strategy had unexpected pitfalls, such as the temperamental smoker and the dull blade on the spice grinder. Her smoked dry rub was finally finished, but she had lost precious time. The clock ticked faster and faster, but she felt like she dragged more every minute. Conversely, everyone else in the kitchen was accelerating, especially Jack. She hadn’t dared look directly at him except for the one time their eyes had locked. With one look, he’d set her body on fire, replacing her urgent desire to get her menu prepped with an entirely different need. Even without looking, she couldn’t help but be peripherally aware of him, working with a single-minded focus that filled her with envy. If she didn’t pick up the pace, she was toast.
She checked on her ribs, glanced at the clock, and nearly burst into tears. She turned the temperature up a few degrees and forced herself to focus. She couldn’t do anything about the ribs. If she turned the heat any higher, the meat would turn into leather. She’d have to let them cook until the last minute, at least that way they’d be hot, and rely on her sides to carry the dish.
She grabbed a pen and made a list, something she should have done three hours ago. Now she only had an hour left, and it was going to take a miracle to pull off a win. She turned back to the
stove, determined to find her zone.
With ten minutes left, she crossed her fingers and opened the oven. She peeled the foil away from the pan and stuck a fork into the slab. Her heart sank. No miracle. They needed another hour, at least.
“If you’re not plating now, you should be.” The judge’s warning silenced the busy kitchen, and everyone moved faster.
Lila hurried back to her station. She used tongs to pull the slab out of the pan and then cut it into sections. She arranged the ribs into an artful pile on each plate, adding judicious scoops of truffled macaroni and cheese and a colorful baked bean medley that was more bacon than bean. Then she added the final touch, a bright green garnish of fried collard greens.
She stood back to take a final look. Something wasn’t right. The ribs were tough, of course, but hopefully the judges were into chewy. What was missing?
“Two minutes.” The judges voice exploded in her head. Panic rose, threatening to choke her, as she finally realized what she had forgotten.
The sauce.
Even with the dry rub, the ribs needed something more. She grabbed her pan, burned her hand, and cursed. The cooking liquid was a thin, oily mess, and she didn’t have enough time to skim it or reduce it. She didn’t even have time to slurry it with cornstarch. She had to make a choice, and she had to make it now–no sauce or bad sauce?
Her ribs were looking drier every second. She grabbed a ladle and poured.
She just made it. The lead judge called time just as she stepped away from her last plate. She stood back, feeling sweat pour down her back, and watched the cooking liquid slide over the ribs and land on the plate, forming unappetizing pools of pale orange grease. Unless the judges arrived at her station right now, it was going to congeal on the plate.
No such luck. They were talking to Jackson, who looked cool as a cucumber mojito and absolutely delighted with his offering. As well he should be, the bastard. Even though she was sick to death of food and everything to do with it, the thought of his rack of lamb made her stomach rumble.
The judges blocked her view of his table, but she was sure his food looked great and tasted even better, the perfect showcase of classic techniques, just as he had intended. She stared at the hot mess on her plates, bitterly regretting every decision she had made since the graduation party last night. It was small consolation that she’d finished her culinary degree before jumping into bed with someone who could ruin her. She wasn’t going to win this competition, but at least they couldn’t take her diploma away from her. As soon as this nightmare was over, she was going to get in the car and drive as far away from Jack Calabrese as a tank of gas could take her. There was no way she was going to stick around and let him lord his win over her.
“What do you have for us today, Mr. Calabrese?” the judge asked.
Lila gritted her teeth, barely restraining an eye roll. Naturally, she had to stand here and listen to the judges praise Jack’s food while waiting for them to rip hers apart. If they could even chew it, that is. Really, could it get any worse? When Jack looked up and met her gaze, heat flashed through her, and she knew it could. An answering spark flashed in his eyes, and she felt herself respond. After everything he had done to her, how could she possibly still want him?
She closed her eyes in humiliation, and when she opened them again, the judges had shifted position. His plates were clearly visible. Not a rack of lamb in sight.
“I call it Duck, Duck, Goose,” Jack said clearly, looking right at her.
Chapter Three
Lila leaned over the table of rich businessmen and attempted to display her tray of bite-sized smoked salmon scones without exposing too much cleavage or toppling off her too-high heels. So far, so good, but the night was young, and she had a lot of hors d’oeuvres to pass around.
“Delilah Grant, is that you? You look…delicious.”
Her polite smile froze on her lips as her eyes focused on the source of that familiar voice, smooth as honey, stroking across her nerves like coarse sandpaper. Wintergreen eyes raked her from head to toe, sending her blood pressure skyrocketing and making her cheeks burn.
Her nipples began to tingle and her breasts swelled in the tight top, shooting pleasure through her center and starting a chain reaction that spread through her lower body. Her response to Jack had always been extreme, but this was ridiculous. He was a liar and a cheat. She shouldn’t be attracted to him at all, but her body couldn’t care less about morality. It only remembered pleasure. Six months had passed since graduation. Apparently, it was going to take longer to dull the memories.
He leaned back in his chair, gaze lingering on her breasts. “I never thought I’d see you working in the front of the house, although I have to say a French maid getup suits you way better than a chef coat.”
She felt the heat in her cheeks spread over her neck and chest. Naturally, the supercilious bastard assumed she’d given up cooking for cocktailing. “One of the servers quit, so I’m working doubles this week.” And she’d been horrified to discover the servers raked in twice what the chefs made. Of course, if life were fair, she wouldn’t be working at a catering company that used sex as a sales hook in the first place. She wouldn’t be standing half-naked in front of Jackson Calabrese letting him ogle her goodies. And she definitely wouldn’t be offering him a tray of her best hors d’oeuvres—she’d be smashing them into his smirking face. If life were fair, New York would be big enough for the both of them. But life wasn’t fair, and nobody knew that better than she did.
She bared her teeth in a brief grin. “We aren’t all born with silver spoons in our mouths, Jackson. Some of us have bills to pay, remember?” Bills that wouldn’t be so bad if he hadn’t sandbagged her the night before the school competition. But she couldn’t afford to think about that now. If she did, she might remember how willingly she had fed him the information he needed to win, and then she really would begin throwing food. Or knives. Of all the nights for Jack to show up at a bachelor party catered by Personal Chef, it had to be when she was on the floor with her boobs hanging out instead of when she was in the kitchen, safely invisible.
Belatedly, she realized every man at the table had probably been born licking a silver spoon, too. “My apologies, gentlemen. Mr. Calabrese brings out my worst side.” She bent lower, showing off the hors d’oeuvres—and her boobs—to better advantage, hoping to distract them from the foot in her mouth.
She was pretty sure she heard one of the men murmur, “Lucky Jack.”
Jackson took a scone and popped it into his mouth. He chewed, giving her a nod of appreciation, and she resented the surge of pleasure that shot through her. She knew the salmon scones were amazing. Buttery, smoked salmon-flecked pastry topped with sweet-tart caramelized onion and fennel crème fraiche couldn’t be anything but fantastic. She’d tinkered for weeks to perfect every item on tonight’s menu, just as she did for every client. Having Jackson Calabrese in attendance tonight didn’t make her any more or less glad she paid attention to details.
Once Jackson had shown his approval, the other men wanted scones too, and she couldn’t get away from the table. She felt Jack’s gaze sweep her body again. He’d already gotten a good look at her breasts, which were barely contained in the ridiculously low-cut top, and now his lips curved as he examined the lacy apron wrapped around her skinnier-than-it-used-to-be waist. Was he doing a mental before-and-after comparison? If so, she was glad she had lost twenty pounds rather than gained them since the night she had abandoned sanity and allowed herself to believe Jack wanted her for more than her competition menu.
His voice was low as he spoke under the chorus of delighted exclamations over the scones. “You know, Delilah, it’s been a long time. I’d love to get together and do some catching up.”
She felt his words strike sparks deep within her, and she cursed him, then cursed herself for her weakness. Hell no, they weren’t going to do any catching up. What was the point? Kitchen jocks like Jack wanted cheerleaders, not competition. Un
less, as she had so painfully learned, the competition was willing to do his homework for him. Then he was willing to make a one-night exception. She wasn’t falling for his line again. She had bared so much more than her body to him that night. She had bared her heart. And he had served it up to the judges with all the appropriate garnishes.
She made her voice breathy and soft. “You want to do some catching up with me?”
He nodded, a wary light entering his gaze at her simpering tone.
“People in hell want ice water, too.” She rose to her full height, glad for the first time she was wearing heels. The other men at the table hooted, and she gave them her brightest smile. “Can I get you gentlemen anything else?”
She took a step back as Jack stood and reached into his pocket. She didn’t trust the wicked gleam in his eyes any more than he must have trusted her fake-sweet voice. She heard paper crinkle, and her heart began to pound. If there was one thing she knew about Jackson Calabrese, it was that he didn’t like to lose.
“In that case, get me a glass of water, sweetheart,” he said as he tucked a folded bill into her tiny apron pocket. “And keep the change.”
She felt her stomach turn a full revolution as he put her neatly in her place. Hired help. Second-class citizen. Runner-up. She wasn’t going to gain the upper hand in this situation and they both knew it. She shouldn’t have even tried. Bile rose in her throat, and she swallowed hard, pasting a smile on her face.
“Coming right up, Mr. Calabrese.” If sarcasm were a weapon, the tone of her voice would have annihilated him, but he just winked and snagged the last scone from her tray. She walked to the bar—the open bar, and he damn well knew it—and snatched the bill from her pocket. She opened it, and then crumpled it in her fist.
The bastard had stuffed a hundred dollar bill in her apron.
Fury put the steel back in her spine, and she asked the bartender for a glass of water. If she didn’t need this job, she’d march right back over to that table and dump it on Jack’s head. Since she couldn’t afford to make grand gestures like his, she took the water and flagged down another server.
