Hands flew over mouths. Gags filled the air. People stood, some rushing to the bathroom looking green, others frozen in place as if they didn’t know what to do.
Across the table, the three judges held various expressions. Claude was shaking his head with disgust, Ty had an amused smile, and Andrea looked panicked. She rushed around the table to stand beside the chefs.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Andrea said, holding up a hand to quiet the gags. “I deeply apologize for this incident. We will have the potpie plates cleared immediately. If you’ll just bear with us—”
“You expect us to finish the meal?” a man screeched. “What other carcasses do you intend to feed us?”
“I can assure you this was an isolated incident,” Andrea said. She turned toward Sally and hissed, “Stop the cameras.”
Sally looked around as if she didn’t hear Andrea. She also didn’t give the order to cut.
“If you’d feel more comfortable,” Andrea tried again, “we can have each chef explain in detail the ingredients he or she used so we can be assured it’s strictly vegetarian.”
“I wouldn’t eat anything they put in front of me,” another woman yelled. Insults aimed at the chefs filled the room, echoing off the vaulted ceilings.
Lance’s face had turned red, but Ashton suspected anger was the culprit, not embarrassment. Her suspicions were confirmed when he exploded.
“Who the hell cares, you whiny granolas? Why don’t you munch on some weeds, and go tie-dye a T-shirt. Give our food to people who have taste buds more sophisticated than a fucking rabbit.”
The room fell silent.
Then Janet picked up her plate with Lance’s half-eaten potpie and walked across the room. When she reached a few feet of Lance, she pulled back her arm and propelled the plate forward like a catapult.
The plate fell away after a few inches, but the food continued flying—right into Lance’s face.
The floodgates opened. Food began flying across the table at the chefs.
Ashton lowered her head and covered it with her arms. She could feel herself being pelted with a roll, Jolene’s salad hanging from her hair, and something wet and squishy—Jin’s matzo ball?—hit her arm.
As she considered running for safety, she felt a tap on her shoulder. Carefully, she lifted her head and peeked with one eye.
Ty stood in front of her.
Relieved, she lowered her arms and straightened her back. “Can you believe—”
She didn’t have a chance to finish. A sly smile rose to his lips as Ty raised his hand. That’s when she noticed a serving spoon of risotto in his grip. She didn’t have time to defend herself before he dumped it over her head.
As the sticky rice ran down the side of her face, a laugh bubbled within her. She curled her lips into a grin as she darted to the table.
Ty must have sensed what was coming because he raced in the opposite direction.
She grabbed a handful of her mushroom ragout—now cooled to lukewarm—and took off after him.
As she chased him around the table, chaos surrounded them. Food was flying everywhere. The chefs had gone from covering themselves defensively to joining in. Lettuce, eggplant, matzo balls, and tofu whizzed around the room, aimed nowhere in particular.
No one was safe, not even the judges. Claude had dropped under the table and covered his salon-perfect hair with a napkin, but Andrea still stood, nearly frozen, dripping with sauce, broth, and vegetables from the top of her bleached hair to her Jimmy Choos.
Ashton’s attention remained focused on Ty, and as she caught up to him, he tripped over a chair that had been knocked to the ground. He fell on his side and then rolled over on his back. Gleefully, she dropped the mushroom ragout right on his face.
He rubbed his eyes with his fingers, clearing away mushroom. The thick stew covered his face like a mask, only the whites of his eyes visible. She stood over him, arms raised in victory.
Suddenly, a hard body bumped her from behind. She barely had time to brace herself before she fell forward—and landed on top of Ty.
He took her weight with only a grunt—although she swore she saw the whites of his eyes widen in panic.
They lay chest to chest, legs to legs. “Sorry,” she whispered. But for some reason, she couldn’t make herself get up. The noise, which moments ago had been as loud as a circus, seemed to disappear. She looked down at his face covered in her mushroom ragout, and the only thought that coursed through her head was that she’d come up with the ultimate taste combination—her food and Ty.
She had to know. She lowered her head, her eyelids fluttered shut, and then…
“Ashton!” Ty’s voice was sharp.
Her eyes flew open.
“Cameras.” His voice sounded strangled.
She turned her head, and sure enough, Clint stood over them, the camera on his shoulder.
Ashton jumped to her feet and backed away.
As the sound guy, Billy, gave Ty a hand up, four security guards rushed the room. Janet Hayes had to physically be pulled off Lance, but soon the chefs were back in the kitchen.
Fifteen subdued minutes later, Ty—with a freshly scrubbed face—entered the room with a grim expression.
“We’ve been asked to leave the Carlisle and never come back,” he told them. “We’re returning to the set.”
“But you didn’t taste my dessert,” Duffy protested.
Ty glared at him, and the big man backed down.
Before they left, Sally came in with garbage bags and they removed as much of their soiled clothes as decently possible.
The ride back to the studio was completely silent. No radio, no Sally belting out instructions, no Morgan and her usual poison. When they arrived back at the studio, they silently took turns in the bathroom, cleaning up, and pristine chef jackets magically appeared.
Sally told them to wait in the Wreck Room while the judges conferred.
“What do you think will happen?” Anthony asked to no one in particular.
Duffy shrugged. “They can’t eliminate someone when they didn’t even taste everyone’s dish.”
“Maybe they’ll come up with another challenge,” Ashton said. “Since we’re banned from the Carlisle and probably from PALS, too.”
Morgan’s eyes rolled upward. “Oh, please. You know what’s going to happen. The culinary genius over here,” she said, pointing to Lance, “is going home.”
Lance shot off the chair and toward Morgan, and she bounded to her feet to stand off with him. The sight was comical—Lance towered over six feet and Morgan just barely passed five.
Someone should probably step between them. But everyone apparently wanted to see how it would end.
The conclusion was not as climactic as hoped for. Sally poked her head in the room and snapped a command to come in the kitchen.
Ashton’s blood pressure rose when she walked in and saw seven flames burning. Ty stood by the table, the other judges nowhere in sight.
His jaw was tight and his tone somber as he directed each of the chefs to take a place in front of a flame.
Intellectually, she knew there was absolutely no reason she would get sent home, but Ashton hadn’t prepared herself for the panic she felt at being on the chopping block. She held her hands tightly to her sides, praying no one could see how badly she was shaking.
The cameras began to roll.
“Today was an experience that is unlike anything we have ever had happen in the history of The Next Celebrity Chef.” Ty stared down each of them. “It was an embarrassment for the show, and embarrassing for you as chefs.” He paused for effect. “We did not taste all the dishes, so we cannot fairly judge them. But, we can judge your behavior, and that is why you are all up for elimination.”
Had his eyes stayed on hers longer when he said “behavior”? Because he was the one who’d dragged her into the food fight.
“Ultimately,” he continued, “it was the actions of one chef that led to the disaster.” He stepped in f
ront of Lance and placed the cover on his flame. “Lance, you can’t take the heat—or make a vegetarian meal. Get out of the kitchen.”
“Cut!” Sally yelled. “Beautiful. Lance, we want to film your exit first, then your interview. After, we’ll be filming the rest of the interviews, and the police would like to take reports from each of you as well.”
Lance stumbled, his face etched with shock, as Sally led him out the door. Even though she wouldn’t have admitted it, Ashton agreed with Morgan that Lance was the obvious choice for elimination.
…
It was well past ten when Ashton finally left the studio. Everyone had been exhausted, and as each chef had finished his or her interviews, first from Sally, and then by the police, they’d headed back to the brownstone.
Ashton had been the unlucky last person up, so she was the last to leave. Sally offered to have the van drop her back at the brownstone, but Ashton declined. The temperature outside was a lovely seventy-eight degrees, and she’d been stuck indoors all day.
She had just stepped onto the sidewalk when she heard her name called. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Ty jogging to her. “You’re not walking home by yourself, are you?” he asked.
“It’s only two and a half blocks.”
“That’s more than enough time for something to happen.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
“I have a car and a driver. Let me take you back to the brownstone.”
“No, thanks. I need the fresh air.” She picked up her tired feet and started down the street.
He fell into step beside her. “I’ll walk with you, then.”
“You don’t have—”
He cut her off. “I’m not letting you walk alone,” he said.
She fell silent.
“Aren’t you going to apologize for the mushroom bath you gave me?” he asked a half block later.
She swung her head toward him. “Me apologize? You started it.”
He shrugged sheepishly. “So I did. But you fell on me.”
“Somebody pushed me!”
“Sure they did.” He chuckled.
“They did!” she exclaimed.
“It had nothing to do with wanting to rub yourself all over me?”
“Oh, my God.” She sighed. “You have the biggest ego I’ve ever seen, and I once interned for Gordon Ramsey. I fell on you because I was pushed. I wasn’t trying to tease you or feel you up or do anything else your giant head comes up with.”
He grabbed her arm. “Then you weren’t going to kiss me?”
She froze. “No.”
“Liar.”
She tilted her head at the brownstone behind them. “This is me. Good night.”
He wouldn’t let go. “It’s okay to admit it. You were going to kiss me.”
“No,” she denied. She knew her cheeks had turned a humiliating red, but she couldn’t let him win. “Believe me, when I want to do something, I do it.”
“Oh, really?” His eyebrow raised.
“Absolutely.”
“If we’re playing by those rules…”
And before she knew what was happening, he grasped her face between his palms and covered her lips with his.
The kiss was brief; just warm, soft lips against hers. Then, he lifted his mouth the merest inch and looked into her eyes, questioning.
She gave him her answer. Parting her lips, she raised herself on the balls of her feet and locked her mouth against him.
All the anticipation, the attraction between them, exploded. Their mouths and tongues melded. Ty moved his hands from her jaw to her shoulders and back up to her neck, as if he couldn’t touch her enough.
Her hands were just as active. They ran up his strong, muscular biceps, down his washboard abs, and around his waist to his back. Her fingers found the bottom edge of his dress shirt and crawled beneath to touch his hot skin.
She felt drunk off his taste. If she could’ve found a way to bottle and sell it, she’d be the richest woman alive.
When his lips traveled her jawline and met the pulsing point at her neck—a particularly sensitive spot for her—her knees almost buckled.
A car alarm piercing the silent night startled them apart.
And just like that, Ashton remembered where she was and whom she was with.
“That shouldn’t have happened.” Her voice sounded annoyingly shaky.
Ty looked as dazed as she felt. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down before he answered. “You’re right. This is a mistake.”
They stared at each other, as if they each expected something more to be said. But finally, Ashton broke the silence. “I should go in. Good night.”
“Good night, Ashton.”
She turned away before she said or did anything else stupid.
Chapter Ten
Ashton had two days to forget the kiss she’d shared with Ty. The hiatus between filming should have given her time to relax; unfortunately, the wonderful world of marketing had other plans.
She was booked nearly every minute of those two days. First, she was interviewed on The View. She’d taught Whoopi Goldberg how to make the world’s best mashed sweet potatoes. Then, she’d had a whirlwind of interviews for print media. The whole experience reminded her of speed dating—ten minutes for each magazine or newspaper to get to know her.
In terms of publicity for her and—hopefully—the restaurant, she couldn’t have asked for more. But even during the small amount of down time, she couldn’t escape. Whenever she flipped on the television, she was faced with an advertisement for the show. Advanced copies of their Entertainment Weekly issue had arrived, and she knew some of the other chefs were keeping their copy as a souvenir. Hers had gone straight into the trash.
A nagging thought kept finding its way into her brain. Was this the life she could expect if she won? She was finally starting to understand the comments Ty had made about not having time to cook. She forced that thought into the trash, too.
Tomorrow they’d be filming the next challenge. Ashton decided to go to bed extra-early so she wasn’t completely exhausted. She had just turned out the light when her cell phone rang. Her mind immediately flew to a problem at the restaurant. She grabbed the phone and flipped it open without looking at the caller ID.
“What’s wrong?” she demanded.
There was a pause. “Ashton?”
With a sigh, she sat up and flipped on the light. “Yeah, Mom.”
“Imagine my surprise when three of my friends called to say they saw you on The View this morning. Why didn’t you tell us you were doing television? Your father was hurt you didn’t inform him.”
“Why would I? So he could tell me it’s a lousy decision and that I’m a terrible chef with no possibility of winning? I’ve heard that song and dance before, Mom. I didn’t need the repeat performance.”
Her mother tsked. “He means well. You just take it too seriously.”
“And you never take it seriously enough,” she shot back. She clenched her fingers around the phone until it hurt. Why did she bother? Her mother had never defended her as a child and she wasn’t going to now. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I was planning to, but the schedule here is hectic.”
“I understand, sweetie.”
Of course she did. Because if she didn’t, then it might start an argument—and her mother didn’t argue.
Ashton’s brief stint in anger management had helped to diminish her anger at her mother; unfortunately, it had only turned those feelings into indifference. Too many times, her mother had looked the other way while Ashton suffered from her father’s cruel tongue. If there was one person in this world who should have protected Ashton, it was her mother. How was she supposed to forgive her?
Drudging up the past left an ache in her chest, so she pushed it out of her brain. “You didn’t catch the premiere episode of The Next Celebrity Chef?” It was doubtful, since the call was from her mother, not her father.
“No, but our neighbor
’s son is going to show me how to watch it on the computer.”
Great.
“And,” she continued, “I’ll be watching the next episode. Sunday, right? Did you win?”
“I can’t discuss the episode.” She winced, thinking about the embarrassing food fight that would air. “And yes, it’s on Sunday.”
“Your father and I will be watching,” she promised. “We’ll call you after.”
Ashton hung up the phone, her stomach aching painfully. She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. All of a sudden, everything was real. She couldn’t hide, couldn’t pretend this wasn’t happening. And if she fell on her face, the world would see. So would her father. So would Ty.
She didn’t sleep that night.
After the last disastrous challenge, the studio was more subdued than usual. The crew silently set up, the chefs lingered by the catering cart; even Sally’s voice was four decibels lower than a megaphone.
Ashton tried not to look for Ty, but her eyes kept scanning the room for a glimpse. Finally, she saw him push open the doors to the studio. She took a step toward him, hoping to talk to him before filming started. She needed to make clear their kiss had been a one-time occurrence. Otherwise, it would be on her mind during the challenge. And she didn’t need any more distractions.
“Chefs.” Sally clapped her hand against her clipboard before Ashton could reach Ty. “Let’s get started. After the disaster we had with PALS, we decided to nix the original challenge scheduled for today and do something a little more low-key. Take your marks.”
The chefs and Ty moved to their spots and Sally called, “Action.”
“Chefs must be knowledgeable in a variety of food,” Ty said. “And they need to know how to pair even the most unconventional ingredients. In your third challenge, you will receive surprise ingredients. You must make a three-course meal using every mystery ingredient in each course.”
He stepped over to one of the tables and picked up a box. “We’ll be playing a game of White Elephant in order to pick your surprise ingredients. For those of you who don’t know how to play, you have the choice to pick a box or steal someone else’s ingredient. We’ll play five rounds, so you’ll each end up with five ingredients. Duffy, you start.”
Some Like It Spicy Page 11
