In the Raw

by Eileen Griffin

  In the Raw

  By Nikka Michaels and Eileen Griffin

  If you can’t take the heat…

  James Lassiter has had a crush on fellow culinary student Ethan Martin for three years, but has never had the guts to make a move. Putting himself out there is hard, especially when under the thumb–and wallet–of his overbearing parents. Now that bad boy chef Ethan–who is always vying with Jamie for best in class–is struggling with the pastry course, Jamie suddenly has a reason to reach out.

  Ethan doesn’t mean to be an ass–okay, so mostly he does–but even though he’s secretly hot for Jamie, he sure as hell doesn’t want help with pastry. Ever since his dad walked out, Ethan has been the one to hold things together and he’s done fine on his own. Except that he can’t get his cake to rise.

  Jamie could be the answer to what Ethan’s been missing his whole life–someone to depend on. But with the two competing for the same scholarship, things suddenly get too hot to handle. And if Jamie finds the strength to go for what he wants, he isn’t about to settle for what he needs.

  83,000 words

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the foodies of the world, one of them my cowriter, Eileen Griffin.

  We were lucky enough to be able to combine food and romance and it was the best decision ever.

  ~Nikka Michaels

  This book is dedicated to Nikka Michaels, who casually asked me once, “Hey. How would you like to work

  on a small, novella-size prequel with me?” Not once have I ever regretted answering,

  “Sure. It sounds like fun.” Thank you, Nik, for always being the one

  person who understands me, even when I spam you with purple unicorns and questionable gifs,

  and for sharing your baby with me.

  ~Eileen Griffin

  Acknowledgments

  A huge shout-out of appreciation goes to our betas, Team Swordfight, for helping us make Ethan and Jamie’s story the best it can be. Without you there wouldn’t be ass dimples for us to all drool over. A special thank-you to Alissa and Angela, and the entire Carina family, for believing in us and this story and for making this process so much smoother. And lastly, much love for the M/M community who have always been supportive and made us both feel instantly at home. ~Nikka and Eileen

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

  About the Author

  Carina Press BPA

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Ethan

  “Eggs. Baker’s sugar. Cream of tartar? What the hell is cream of tartar?” I set my tray on the floor and scanned my ingredient list, then squinted at hundreds of small plastic containers with red lids. Everything on the classroom pantry shelves looked the same—red lid, white powder. Why did pastry chefs need so many different ingredients? When I glanced at my watch I cursed again. Why did I have to be late on a day when my long ingredient list was going to get me in trouble? As much as I wanted it to, getting to class five minutes before it started did not qualify as getting here early.

  “It increases the volume of egg whites and helps them stiffen. Just make sure you don’t add too much or it’ll end up rock hard.”

  My hand jerked and knocked over a stack of containers as the low male voice affected my body. Something was definitely hard and it wasn’t the egg whites in my recipe.

  I froze as an arm brushed against my shoulder and long fingers pointed at a container on the shelf. I didn’t have to see his face to know who it was. One of my favorite fantasies involved pinning him against the back wall of the storage room as I ground against him. Unfortunately, when I turned around I was alone with a now throbbing reminder of unwanted attraction to the guy I’d quietly ogled the past three years.

  Reaching down, I adjusted myself before I turned to reenter the classroom. Get your shit together, asshole, and focus on not failing out of culinary school.

  I grabbed my tray off the floor, adjusted my apron to cover my erection and jogged to the last available station, skidding to a stop. My hands shook, almost knocking over the damned cream of tartar in my rush to get everything set out. It was the second time this week I’d been running late instead of getting there early enough to set out my ingredients like a good little student. I had no desire to be “asked” to lead a demonstration for the class on separating eggs. Again. Showing up late was embarrassing as hell and sure to land me on Chef’s shit list.

  The shuffling and low murmurs ceased as our instructor, Chef Boulanger, entered the room. His impeccably starched chef’s jacket, blinding white and spotless, stood out amongst the room full of students wearing black jackets.

  “Proper technique is required when making angel food cake.” Chef’s heavily accented voice droned on as the class repeated, “Clean hands, clean tools, clean workspace.” He patrolled the aisles between the rows of stainless-steel workstations, inspecting the ingredients we had each gathered for our mise en place.

  I looked over my shoulder to check on my younger sister, Claire. We were a year apart in age and school but she’d kicked ass and doubled up on her course load so she could graduate early. It was bad enough having one of us in school. With the two of us going at the same time, the tuition was eating us alive. She had a job at a local restaurant while I worked at the Institute’s restaurant whenever I could pick up a shift. It still made for a tight budget, but we held our own most months.

  Her dark head bent down as she conferred with her station partner. James Lassiter, the golden boy of our program and the star of my storage room fantasy. He raised his head and caught me staring at him. The noise and low voices of the people around us faded into a muffled rumble. He wasn’t my usual type at all. He was always quiet, polite and dressed like a model from a J. Crew catalog.

  I’d heard the rumors like everyone else over the past three years. Lassiter was a rich kid whose dad was a bigwig at a corporation specializing in cranking out soulless chain restaurants. I’d had a few classes with him but I’d never talked to him beyond polite conversation in passing. But most people didn’t
talk to me anyway. They talked to my outgoing and much friendlier sister instead.

  Anyone in our class I’d seen smile at or show any interest in Golden Boy was politely shot down. Something about him had intrigued me since I’d first seen him on our first day of class during freshman year, though I wasn’t sure if he was into guys or not.

  “Monsieur Martin, you are missing a crucial ingredient.” My instructor’s voice snapped me out of my appraisal of Lassiter. I looked down at my tray of ingredients, cursing the pastry class for the fiftieth time. Cooking I could do without effort. But baking? Having to follow precise recipes and instructions was a major pain in the ass for someone like me who winged it. Baking was technical. Cooking was art. Sure, cooking involved recipes too, but it allowed for improvisation. Or forgotten ingredients. And I’d forgotten the stupid egg white stiffening shit. Again.

  “Can anyone tell me what Monsieur Martin needs to complete his mise?”

  “Cream of tartar,” twenty voices echoed.

  I took the plastic container he set down on my tray with a muffled thank-you.

  “Commence baking. I will check in on each one of you to work on your technique.”

  A snicker to my left made me look over my shoulder. “Nice move, Martin. Maybe you might also want to use cake flour instead of all-purpose flour before you make a complete ass out of yourself and get kicked out of the program. Wait, it would be best for everyone. Keep the flour and pretend I didn’t say anything. Why don’t you leave this program for the real talent?”

  Reed Jackson. Number one asshole in the program. He was all smiles and compliments whenever the professors’ eyes and ears were on him. Once their backs were turned, he was a grade-A dickhead. I had kicked his ass in our last savory rotation and I’d been on his shit list ever since.

  I gave him my best eat-shit-and-die grin while casually scratching my eyebrow with my middle finger. “Thanks, Reed. I’ll get right on it. Oh, look. Your peaks are a little limp. The rumor is you have a recurring problem. Better luck next time.”

  He shot me an evil glare but I didn’t have time to deal with his bullshit today. Instead I quickly swapped out my flour and made my way back to my station.

  My head whipped around when I heard Claire shriek as her egg whites went flying. Her mixer whirred and screeched, cranked up way too high.

  She laughed as Lassiter helped her tame the mess of flying sugar. The smile he shot back at her went straight to my groin. The good feeling rapidly disappeared when he gently wiped a smear of sugar off her face, smiling fondly. She giggled in response. Claire never giggled. My eyes narrowed. She liked Lassiter. I felt my stomach knot. Claire had always been too busy to date, so I’d never had to worry about her liking a guy before.

  “Monsieur Martin, are you planning on making your cake anytime soon, or...?”

  “Shit,” I grunted.

  Chef Boulanger chuckled. “Angel food cake, Monsieur Martin. Sans merde.”

  I hurriedly dumped the ingredients into the bowl. Ogling Golden Boy had distracted me more than usual and I rushed to catch up with the rest of the class.

  Come on, Martin. Pay attention and don’t fuck this up.

  When my cake batter congealed into a hardened lump in my bowl instead of the light, fluffy mixture it was supposed to be, I cursed. Sitting on my station was a bag of salt, not sugar like the recipe called for. I’d made the world’s saltiest angel food doorstop. Cooking I could do. Baking? Baking might very well be the first and only subject I’d fail.

  Chapter Two

  Jamie

  “Monsieur Lassiter, your egg whites are perfect as always,” Chef Boulanger murmured as he leaned over my shoulder to inspect the stiff white peaks in the mixing bowl.

  “Thank you, Chef. Claire and I are working hard to get them right.” I beamed at my partner as Chef moved on.

  I was lucky to be paired up with Claire Martin. I glanced over her shoulder to where her brother, Ethan, worked at his station with intense focus. His dark, spiky hair always looked like he’d just rolled out of bed and his hastily buttoned chef’s coat looked like he’d rushed to get to class.

  I gently folded the egg whites with a spatula, watching the way the fabric of his chef’s pants stretched tight across his perfect ass as he bent over to grab another bowl from the shelf under his prep table.

  I froze when I realized Reed had caught me fixating on Ethan’s every move. God help me if my ultra-conservative parents ever found out I was attracted to men.

  “Okay, Jamie?” Claire asked.

  I nodded, covertly glancing over at her brother again.

  Martin didn’t care what anyone thought about him, except what the instructors had to say. His maverick style of cooking was something a lot of the other students tried to imitate, but no one could come close to his natural ease in the kitchen. He made complex techniques effortless and we’d been neck and neck in class rankings since the first day of school. Until now. Baking was definitely not his forte. While I didn’t find it difficult, I also didn’t find it nearly as interesting as cooking. I simply followed the recipes, using my intuition to tweak my technique or the ingredients when it was needed. Baking was simple compared to trying to decide whether or not Ethan would kick my ass if I dared to hit on him.

  The nasally voice of Reed Jackson interrupted my thoughts. “How do you make everything this perfect, Jamie? I need to find a station closer to yours next time so I can observe the master at work.”

  “I had an excellent partner, Jackson. Claire’s a natural at this pastry rotation. Aren’t you, Claire?” Annoyed, I turned and focused my attention back on my partner.

  “Sure, sure. Claire’s a great assistant. You’ll need dedicated sous chefs working under you when you get your own restaurant. I, on the other hand, will need chefs like you when I open my own chain of restaurants across the Pacific Northwest. Your dad set quite the standard for those of us wanting to break into the commercial side of the business. I don’t suppose you know whether his company is offering an internship this summer?” Reed looked down at our egg white mixture, but the insinuation was clear. He wanted me to get him a place in my father’s company.

  I forced a smile on my face and shook my head. “My dad rarely talks about business with me. I’d put in a call to Human Resources if I were you.” And leave me the hell alone.

  His eyes narrowed, but he nodded and smiled. “Great advice, Jamie. I’ll have to check. So, any specific plans for after graduation? Are you staying stateside or are you planning on trying your luck abroad with the scholarship?”

  I glanced over Reed’s shoulder at Ethan, who watched the entire exchange. He seemed suddenly very interested in Reed’s invasion of his sister’s prep station space and the topic of post-graduation.

  I’d never kept it a secret I came from money. How could I? My family was well known in the Seattle area. I needed this scholarship to get away from my parents. If I won, I could jump-start my own career without any of their influence or favors.

  I looked away from Ethan and reached for our tube pans. “I’ve entered the scholarship competition. Who wouldn’t want to have the chance to work overseas with world-famous chefs? It would be hard to pass up an opportunity to build a reputation. If I don’t get it, I guess we’ll see what happens.”

  I paused and shifted our bowl closer to Claire and farther away from Reed. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I need to finish this cake with my partner, who will be excellent at whatever she chooses to do in the future.”

  When he finally wandered off, Claire rolled her eyes and made a face as she tilted her head in Reed’s direction. I laughed as she poured the batter into the pans and stuck them in the oven.

  “He’s such a weaselly little shit,” she snickered as soon as he was out of earshot. “Like he cares what you’re going to do? And who wouldn’t try for the s
cholarship? I mean, you’d be stupid not to. I bet everyone in our class enters the competition whether they have a chance in hell to win it or not.”

  I smiled and started to clean up our station. “Yeah, but he’s Reed. He thinks everyone is his buddy if they’ve got something he wants. Obviously he thinks I can get him a job for the summer. He’s going to be disappointed when it doesn’t work out for him.”

  Claire shrugged. “He’s a leech. But what do I know? I’m just a girl. We don’t cook, you know. Our only function is to assist men like him.”

  “Yes, you’re a girl. And you’re a million times better a chef than Reed could ever hope to be.”

  “Aww, thanks, Jamie. I entered too, even though my grades aren’t as good this year. E applied for it too, but his grades are better than mine so I’m pretty sure he has a good shot at it.” She cocked her head at Ethan, who was cleaning up his station alone. When he lifted his head, I shot him a friendly smile. He immediately looked straight down and immersed himself in cleaning. Ethan Martin didn’t notice me or want me. I sighed and resigned myself to another semester of being ignored by everyone who didn’t want something from me. It wasn’t like I’d know what to do with Ethan if he had responded. My relative inexperience with relationships and the stress of possibly being outed to my parents were enough to keep me in the closet.

  When our timer went off thirty-five minutes later, I wiped the last of the flour off our station. I whistled at our perfect light-golden-colored cake when I pulled it from the oven, setting it gently on the cooling rack.

  I heard Ethan curse colorfully as he pulled his cake from the smoking oven. Another pastry assignment had bitten the dust in his hands. He tossed the pan onto the cooling rack with a frustrated grunt and ripped off his chef’s jacket, tossing it on his station.

  “This is total bullshit. I know I didn’t turn my oven up to five hundred degrees.”

  I shouldn’t stare. He might notice. But now that he’d stripped down to a snug black T-shirt, I could see the rainbow of ink covering his arms. My fingers clenched as I wondered how much of his skin was covered in the colorful designs.