by Allie Burton
Her stomach contents congealed, creating a heavy, sticky, sickly mess.
“Bring me the wine.” Her throat was raw.
All the practicing she’d done the last couple of days had been therapeutic, but a waste of time. There was no way to prepare. She should’ve been more specific in her challenge.
In the cook-off each chef needed to use her instincts…and whatever the producer put in a mystery basket.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Using the key under the mat at the house, Michael let himself in and waited for his sister to return. He needed to know how she’d fared with Isabel. How Isabel had reacted to the mystery-basket challenge.
Fidgeting, he couldn’t sit still, so he roamed around his childhood home. He’d seen the main living areas during Sunday dinners, so he shuffled down the hall. The master bedroom mixed old with new. His parents’ king-sized bed centered the room with a new comforter and decorative pillows. The dresser and nightstand were the same. On top was an assortment of Danielle’s and Luke’s toiletries and personal items.
Strange. None of his dad’s Old Spice or his Mom’s medications.
Bri’s room had been repainted and housed new furniture. Bright white-and-pink-painted wood. So unlike his sister’s old dark bed and dresser. Skiing posters and awards hung on the walls. The small desk was cluttered with books and papers. A photo of her, Luke, and Danielle sat on the nightstand. All three beaming.
Michael’s knees knocked together, crossing the hall. His shaking legs couldn’t stop the curiosity tugging him toward the third bedroom. His old room.
He paused at the doorway and sucked in a sharp breath.
His room hadn’t changed. It was as if he’d been away on a short trip, or a day at school, not gone for a decade. Blue curtains hung from the window facing the backyard. The bed was made up with a matching bedspread and flannel-covered pillows. His desk held trophies and mementos from his childhood. A hammock strung across one corner of the room.
“I didn’t change anything.” Danielle startled him as she brushed past him and entered his room. “Hoping you’d return home.”
The jolt of her statement sent a shockwave through him. “I said I never would.” His hard, flat tone didn’t express his turbulent emotions. Anger, anxiety, and apprehension.
She swiveled around in the center of the room to punctuate her statement. “But you have.”
He had returned to Castle Ridge. He’d accepted the fact and believed in his reasoning. “I’ll never live in this house again.” Vehemence spewed out of his mouth. He hated the reminders and only tolerated Sunday dinners for her and Bri. “Even when you, Luke, and Bri move to your bed-and-breakfast, I won’t live here.”
“Why? What did this house ever do to you?”
“It wasn’t the house. It was Dad.” The agonized confession slipped out. Michael’s lungs pinched depriving him of oxygen. He’d never meant to tell his sister.
Her expression wasn’t shocked or upset. More curious. “I always wondered what happened between you two.”
His need to protect clashed with his new open-and-honest policy. Didn’t she have the right to know the truth about their father? He edged to the hammock, and tested its weight. Sinking into the remembered coziness, he studied his sister. Could she handle the truth?
“You always sat in the hammock when you were upset.” She scooted in next to him, her warm body pressed against his in a comforting gesture.
Danielle had grown and matured. She’d dealt with controversy and had overcome so much to make a good home for herself and her daughter. Luke being back in their lives completed the package. She was strong and independent and accepting of others.
The pain in his chest radiated outwards, aching in his arms and in his legs and in his head. Twisting the ropes of the hammock together, he realized he needed to tell her. For her good and for his own. “Dad hated the fact I wanted to be a chef. He called me effeminate, worried out loud I was gay, made fun of me.”
The ache morphed into heat. The heat of shame remembering. He’d stood there and took the insults. Rarely defending. Because what would be the point of arguing? His father had his opinions and no one was going to change them.
She rubbed his arm, kneading her knuckles into him, which demonstrated her agitation. “I’m so sorry, Michael. I didn’t know.”
“I didn’t want you to know.” It would’ve only embarrassed him more. He raised his scarred hand. “Dad spilled boiling water on me once.”
Her sharp intake of breath betrayed her shock.
“He said it was an accident.” Michael wanted to believe it was a mistake, he wanted her to believe. “I set out to prove to Dad I could be a successful chef. A heterosexual chef.”
“You’ve done both.” She took his scarred hand in hers.
Coming home had made him realize he didn’t have to prove anything to his father, or to anyone else. Well, except Isabel.
“The thing is…” His voice hitched. “The thing is…I hurt other people in the process.”
“Like Parker.” His sister’s knowing expression told him he’d misjudged her naïveté. She understood a lot about people.
“And Isabel.” His heart cracked, even though hope pulsed. “And now you.”
Danielle squeezed his hand. “You’re not hurting me.”
“I’ve ruined your image of Dad.”
“I knew Dad wasn’t perfect. Nobody is perfect.” Her sincere smile soothed him. “Not even my favorite big brother.”
* * *
Moving through the empty restaurant kitchen, Isabel was welcomed by the scent of grease and spices. She was coming home, except for the silent hoods, the pristine counters, and the empty kitchen on a Saturday afternoon. She’d missed The Heights after being gone over a week. Missed the scents and the sounds and the people. Missed Michael.
Her ribcage tightened, pressing against her heart. Missed him and wanted to confront him, and yet was afraid to face him.
Afraid to face everyone, knowing they’d seen the video of her and Michael fooling around in the lodge laundry room. Automatically, her face flamed, as it had been doing for days every time she thought of the video. She had to control her reaction. She had to use her fury to be better, sharper, and more focused. To win.
She’d made a mistake, but she hadn’t been the one filming or releasing the sex tape on the internet. That was all him. She refused to be cowed.
The envelope of information had included a layout of how the stage would be set up in the dining room, where the frozen and refrigerated products would be kept, and who the judges would be including Parker, Shey Webber, and Florence Hines. When Isabel had read the last name on the list she’d fanned herself with the pages. She’d always considered Florence Hines a role model, and had decided to become a chef because of her.
Marching around the pass where she and Michael had worked side-by-side, Isabel pulled back her shoulders, getting ready to face the stage where she’d have to act unaffected by the video release, the presence of the famous judge, and Michael. She needed to pull off one of the best dishes of her life.
Using surprise ingredients.
The mystery basket competition was fair. Neither one of them would have any advanced notice, and the ingredients included would be the same. She’d have to think fast and be quick on her toes.
Entering the dining room, the spotlights hit her face and she blinked, trying to see through the glare. The heat from the harsh beams caused perspiration to form on her upper lip. So much for her carefully-made-up face.
Using her hand to shield the light, she checked out the stage that would either prove her cooking abilities or signal her demise. No, she refused to think negatively.
A few technical people moved around, checking cameras and lighting. The restaurant was closed for the night, and the dining tables had been moved, and chairs set in rows for an audience. So, a live audience on TV, and a live audience in person too.
Two free-standing counters were po
sitioned center stage. On top, lay a set of bowls, cutting board, food processor, and measuring cups and spoons. Her personal set of knives were set on the counter on the right. Directly behind the two stations were identical ovens and stoves with pots and pans hanging from above. To the right, was a large refrigerator on wheels, and to the left, metal shelves stocked with fresh produce, spices, and other non-perishable ingredients.
None of these items hinted at what would be in the mystery basket.
A desk with three chairs sat off to the side with a large sign in front. A logo with the words Kitchen Catastrophe Cook-Off Challenge.
She stumbled to a halt. The word challenge told the world she’d been the idiot who’d challenged the great Chef Michael Marstrand. She closed her eyes and groaned.
“Isabel.” Danielle ambled into the dining room and wrapped her up in a big hug. “You’re going to do fabulous.”
“I should be rooting for Uncle Michael, but I want you to win.” Bri stepped forward and hugged her too. “Go girl power.”
Luke sauntered in behind them with a sardonic grin. “Good luck.”
Dressed in resort wear, Chef Françoise kissed both Isabel’s cheeks. “I would never miss this.”
Maria and Tony and Earl and Bob and Susan each came up to her and shook her hand, patted her back, or said good luck. The entire kitchen staff rooted for her. The entire town.
Tears threatened Isabel. Happy tears. She sniffled. She couldn’t let these people down.
“You look beautiful.” Dax gave her a big, brotherly hug.
Over his shoulder, she spotted Michael standing at the edge of the lights, partially hidden in shadow. He watched her with an intensity of making a roux, sending a shiver across her skin. Part desirous and part foreboding.
He was a masterful chef, used to cooking in front of audiences, while she was only a sous chef.
Stop. She needed to stop thinking that way. She had rightness on her side. He’d made a fool of her for his own benefit. She would humiliate him in the kitchen arena as he’d humiliated her in the bedroom-slash-laundry room arena.
Dax moved to take a chair in the front row next to Danielle, Bri, and Luke. Michael stepped forward.
He wore a black chef’s coat with the Kitchen Catastrophe Cook-Off Challenge logo embroidered on one side, and Chef Michael embroidered on the other. His chin and cheeks had a roughly unshaven appearance, the one saying sexy and rugged. But his gray orbs appeared dim and tired.
Sympathy tugged. She shook it off. She would not appear weak.
“Good luck, Isabel.” His tongue rolled over her name, the deepness sending an enticing message. He sounded sincere.
“I don’t need luck. Or any help.” Don’t crumble like a cookie. Act professional. She shoved out her hand, trying to stop the trembling. “I plan to win on my own merit. I deserve the head chef position.”
Michael took her hand, wrapping his large fingers around it. He didn’t move their hands up and down in a formal handshake. He held hers tightly—a hug for hands. Warmth streamed from her fingers, through her upper arm, to her chest and heart.
“You do.” Emotion flashed in his eyes before he dipped his head.
He’d always said she was a great cook, complimented her on her work ethic and presentation. “I plan to prove it to the world tonight.”
“Good for you.” He cheered her on, giving her pause.
“You’re not going to let me win, are you?” Her anger, which had been put on a back burner, flared to life. “I can win on my own merit. I don’t need help from you. I don’t need to cheat and lie and hide cameras in places without telling people to get what I want.”
He grabbed her arm in a forceful grip. “I didn’t do that.”
She arched a brow.
“Okay, I did do those things, but I was not responsible for putting the camera in the laundry room. I swear I didn’t know about it.”
“Either way, you benefitted from the release of the video.” She couldn’t even utter the word sex tape. “You have evidence for your lawsuit you’re not gay, and you have willing female partners.”
“Partner.” He bit the word short.
She jerked her head down in angry acknowledgement. Yes, she’d been his only partner in town. “Until you get out of Castle Ridge and return to your Hollywood lifestyle and your adoring female fans, who might be even more interested in you after seeing that…that video.”
His fingers dug into her skin. “I’ve tried to suppress the video, but I can’t promise people will never see it again.” His sorrowful expression hinted at innocence and pain.
Had the video messed up his life as much as hers?
She couldn’t sympathize. “I don’t want to hear your excuses.” She yanked her arm out of his grip. “I hate what you’ve done to me.”
His gray eyes widened with shock, and his mouth dipped into an agonized frown. “Please, listen—”
“Places, everyone!” A man with a mini-bullhorn shouted. “People in the audience, you must stay quiet unless there’s an applause cue card.” The man strolled up to her and introduced himself as the director and producer of the challenge.
“What happened to Jorge?” She questioned the new producer, Thomas.
“Jorge was ordered back to L.A. to address the major problems Kitchen Catastrophe was having. Don’t expect him back.”
“Good news.”
“That’s what the network executives think.” The new producer waved someone over. “This is the master of ceremonies. He’ll be emceeing and facilitating the challenge.”
Another famous person to watch her implosion or explosion. “Hi.”
“Good luck. Michael’s told me about you—”
Thomas gave the signal. “We’re going live in ten…”
Her chest clutched. What had Michael told the emcee about her? She regarded him, standing behind his station. His casualness indicated his confidence. He was used to lights and cameras and celebrities. She was not.
Her internal pep-talk faded from memory.
“Ten.”
She remembered another countdown on another night. The night of their perfect kiss.
“Nine.”
Hurrying to her place, she shoved her arms in the special chef’s coat. She noted her name, Chef Isabel, was as large as Michael’s embroidered name. She probably didn’t deserve the same status. He was famous. She was not.
Her stature diminished with her confidence. She wished she’d worn heels.
“Eight.”
With shaky hands, she unwrapped her personal knife kit, feeling each sharp tip dig into her palm. Michael did the same thing with his knives. Knives made of the highest quality and sharpened to a razor’s edge.
“Seven.”
Her gaze strayed to the judges’ table. Parker sat stiff and upright next to the woman whose father owned the competing resort. The resort that had rejected her resume. Next to her, sat Florence Hines, who was probably friends with Michael. Her hopes shredded, as if they’d been run through the food processor. Her nerves jangled.
“Six.”
She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She’d been told picturing the audience naked was a good practice. Except they’d seen her naked.
“Five.” The director pointed at the camera.
Between the stabs in her head, the jangling nerves, and her sweaty palms, she found it difficult to concentrate. Black spots appeared in front of her. She felt nauseous. Throwing up on national television would not be a good thing.
The director used his fingers to count out the rest of time. Four fingers up, three fingers, two, one. He pointed at the emcee to go live.
The green light above the camera blinked on. Stayed on.
Isabel knew, because she couldn’t take her eyes off the light. If she focused, she wouldn’t throw up, and she wouldn’t faint.
The emcee introduced the judges. She heard applause through the buzzing in her ears. The emcee explained how the challenge would work and how t
hey would be scored. She barely listened. He introduced Chef Michael with his television pedigree and long list of accomplishments.
His sexy-swaggering grin beamed in front of the camera. He seemed so calm and professional, at ease. He’d accomplished so much since leaving the small town of Castle Ridge, and she was proud of him.
Her lips stiffened in a frown. She was the exact opposite. Not calm. Not professional. Not at ease.
“And to my right is Chef Isabel O’Donnell.”
She forced her lips upward, unsure if she smiled or grimaced. Her head spun faster. She couldn’t focus on her very short introduction.
Two large baskets were wheeled in. The lids lifted. The contents explained.
The explanation garbled in her head. She should be thinking and planning. Instead, she heard nothing. Saw nothing.
The start bell rang.
Her panicked thoughts kept her glued to the spot. Her chaotic brain refused to give the command for her arms and legs to work. Even with her scheme to extract revenge against Michael, she was unable to move.
* * *
Michael’s mind ran through the ingredients in the basket as they were announced. Half his mind on what he could make in the limited time featuring the mystery ingredients, the other half on Isabel standing beside him, hating him.
She’d asked him not to let her win. Indecision sliced with a jagged edge. Should he go for the win because his new business needed the publicity, or should he listen to his heart and let her win? Fumble a dish or forget one of the mystery ingredients?
She wanted to win on her own merit. If she realized he’d lost on purpose she’d reject him and his offer. And even before the outcome of the competition his risk was high. He knew she blamed him for the sex tape. He hadn’t realized she’d thought he’d plotted the entire thing from the mad sex in the laundry room, to the hidden camera, to the copying and releasing of the video.
The bell rang and he sized her up. She didn’t lurch toward her basket or make any kind of movement. She was a pillar of salt, unmoving and unknowing. Her pale skin actually was the color of salt, white. Her gaze glued to the tiny, green light on the camera. She was in shock.
