Duffy stepped forward. Because he had no other choice, he picked up a box from the table and opened it. Light glittered off his gold tooth as he held his ingredient. “Canadian bacon.”
Jolene picked next, pulling half of a watermelon from her box. Ashton’s pulse jump-started. She made a grilled watermelon salad that had earned her an award in culinary school. It would knock the judges’ socks off.
Guilt nipped at her as she decided to steal it away from Jolene. Jolene’s flawless face fell as she picked up another box to replace the watermelon and received cream of mushroom soup.
Ashton battled to keep her face neutral. She had three people to get through in order to keep this ingredient. If she looked too cocky, someone would steal it in the name of competition.
Neither Jin nor Anthony even glanced twice at her watermelon. She was nearly home free.
She should have known better. As Morgan stepped forward, the last chef to choose, she walked straight to Ashton and ripped the watermelon from her hands. The smile on Morgan’s face was vindictive.
Ashton forced a cool expression; she wasn’t about to let Morgan know she’d gotten to her. With her back straight, she took the only remaining box on the first table. Her heart plunged to her knees as she held up the bottle of mango chutney. For Morgan and the cameras, she smiled as bright as her lips would allow.
They played four more rounds of the game, until Ashton surveyed her final results: sweet potatoes, mango chutney, bananas, pepperoni, and corn meal. Not her ideal set of ingredients, but she could work with it.
Back at his marker, Ty said, “Chefs, you will have one hour to make your three-course meal. Time starts now.”
Ashton took off running.
When the challenge had been announced, she’d known immediately she wanted to do an amuse-bouche, a one-bite appetizer. She decided to dice a sweet potato, banana, and some pepperoni and make a “salsa” with it. She would make a corncake with the cornmeal, and then layer it with the chutney and salsa.
As she made her amuse-bouche, ideas raced through her mind for the next two courses. Something with shrimp for the second course, since her mandatory ingredients paired well with shellfish. For the third course, she came up with a cornbread for a sweet-and-savory dessert.
She realized too late that she should have started her cornbread first. As she was plating her other two dishes, waiting for the cornbread to come out of the oven, Ty called the five-minute mark.
She quickly finished plating and then went to the ovens. The timer read six minutes. She only had three left.
Her foot tapped the floor as panic choked her. The bread wasn’t going to be finished. But if she didn’t get it on the dish, she would automatically lose and be eliminated. When one minute remained in the challenge, she opened the oven door and pulled out the loaf.
She was not getting eliminated over cornbread.
Ashton raced back to her station and held her breath as she cut a piece of the cornbread. Her relief was audible when she saw the middle was cooked, if only slightly crumbly. She managed to get the bread on a plate just as the timer buzzed.
Sweat dripping from her temples, she stepped away from the table.
Before she had time to fully catch her breath, she was in a line with the other chefs to present her dishes to the judges. Then, they were sent to the Wreck Room to wait.
“That sucked,” Anthony declared as he flopped in a chair. “Someone hand me a beer.”
“It was hard,” Jolene agreed. “I had cream of mushroom soup. It’s full of fat and preservatives.” She shuddered. “I can’t believe people eat soup out of a can when it’s so easy to make from scratch.”
Ashton happened to agree with her, and was relieved she hadn’t ended up with the canned soup. Duffy seemed pleased with his dishes, probably because he’d gotten to make Canadian-bacon-filled dumplings. Morgan smirked with her usual confidence, which everyone else ignored.
The wait was surprisingly short. Only a half hour later, Sally brought them back to the kitchen. Three chairs were set in the safe zone, and three flames were set up on the table.
Her heart rate caught a now-familiar pace as she faced the three judges.
“Tonight,” Ty said, “our top three chefs are…”
She wanted to scream at his long pause.
“…Duffy, Morgan, and Ashton.”
Ashton’s legs of Jell-O nearly buckled.
“Duffy, you combined these ingredients as if you cooked with them every night,” Ty said.
“And you looked like you were having a blast doing it,” Andrea added. “You were fun to watch.” Andrea and Claude had the luxury of watching the chefs from a screening room next door.
The judges moved on to Morgan while Duffy preened.
Ty started the critique. “Morgan, you’ve had a tough time the last few challenges, but today proved you belong here.”
For the first time, Ashton thought she saw a genuine smile on Morgan’s lips.
“You had one of our most difficult pairings: watermelon and ketchup,” Claude chimed in. “But you still managed to put out three wonderful dishes. Your chilled watermelon soup with a tomato coulis and conch cracker was sublime. Nice work.”
“I agree with Claude about your dishes, Morgan,” Andrea said. “But I still need you to work on your presence in front of the camera. You always look very angry—”
Duffy snickered.
“And the audience responds to that. If you don’t look like you’re having fun, no one will want to make your dishes at home.”
Ashton could almost feel Morgan’s grin fall off her face.
Then, it was her turn.
“Ashton,” Ty said, “all the judges agree your cornbread was one of the highlights of the challenge.”
Now it was her turn to preen. She managed not to jump with excitement.
Claude and Andrea also praised her. Besides the cornbread, Claude had especially liked the shrimp she had battered in cornmeal and fried.
When it was time to announce the winner, Ashton tensed as she waited.
“Tonight’s winner is…Ashton.”
Applause rang out in the kitchen. She closed her eyes for a moment to take in this feeling, better than anything she’d ever experienced.
When she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was Ty, his hands still clapping, his eyes tender.
Andrea announced her prize. “Ashton, as the winner of today’s challenge, you will get a one-on-one cooking lesson from our very own head judge, celebrity chef Ty Cates.”
One-on-one? As in completely alone? She whipped her gaze to Ty, who suddenly found the other side of the kitchen interesting.
“Ashton, Morgan, and Duffy, you can take a seat in the safe zone,” Andrea said.
As they sat, Morgan whispered to her, “Gee, what a surprise. Did you win that challenge on your back, or did you do it standing up?”
“Get a life,” Ashton hissed.
“Maybe Chef Cates likes half-baked cornbread,” Morgan continued to muse. “Or maybe it was just a good excuse to get you alone.”
“Three judges picked me as the winner,” Ashton said, reminding herself as well as Morgan. Ty couldn’t have given her preferential treatment; Andrea and Claude had equal say. She shook off the offensive accusation, not about to let Morgan spoil her good mood.
The only thing that could dampen her delight was seeing Jolene on the chopping block. Even though she was serious competition, Ashton didn’t want her go home this early.
As Jolene had predicted, her downfall was the cream of mushroom soup.
“You didn’t incorporate it into any of your dishes,” Ty critiqued. “It was an afterthought. On two of the dishes, you only used it as a garnish.”
Anthony had a similar problem, but his was with butternut squash.
“You don’t use it very much, do you?” Claude asked.
Anthony shook his head. “I’ve never been a fan.”
“Jin, we enjoyed your first two cou
rses,” Ty said. “But making soy ice cream out of the lox was just a bad decision.”
Ty walked the length among the three chefs several times to delay the moment. Finally, he stopped in front of Anthony. As he put out the flame, he said, “Anthony, you can’t take the heat. Get out of the kitchen.” Afterward, Ashton gave Anthony a hug and her cell number to keep in touch. She’d miss having him in the house; his calming presence had helped overpower Morgan’s sourness. And it didn’t hurt that he made killer pasta for midnight snacks.
When Sally dragged Anthony away for an exit interview, Ashton glanced at her watch, amazed at how quickly the day was progressing. They actually had the chance of making it out of the studio before dark.
“Ashton.”
Her spine tingled at Ty’s voice. She turned to look at him.
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” She stared at him, wanting to say something, but her mind was blank.
He cleared his throat. “Looks like we’re going to get out of here early today.”
“Looks like.” Could she sound any dumber?
“So how about that cooking lesson?”
“Ty, we don’t have—”
“Tonight good for you?”
Her mind flashed to the possibilities. The two of them, alone, whip cream readily accessible. But then she looked around the room, at the cameras and screens and wires and lights. Not such a sexy setting. She would be just fine.
“Tonight will work,” she told him.
“Great. I’ll have my driver pick you up at seven. He’ll take you back to my apartment.”
She dropped her head forward. “Your…”
She couldn’t finish the sentence and he was already gone.
Oh, boy.
Nothing was going to happen.
The mantra became a chant in her head all afternoon and on the car ride to Ty’s apartment. She’d snuck out of the brownstone, as if she had to hide where she was going. Ridiculous, since any of the chefs could have won the prize. She wasn’t doing anything wrong.
But if Duffy or Jin had been the chef to win, they probably wouldn’t have worn a black wraparound dress that created curves, or a padded bra that turned B-cups into C-cups.
No, the men wouldn’t have, but what about the women? What if Jolene had been the one to win? Perfect Jolene, with her perfect hair and perfect skin and perfect body. Perfect, beauty-queen Jolene. Her pulse picked up pace. Calm down, Ashton, she chided herself. It didn’t really matter what anyone wore, since this was nothing more than a cooking lesson.
But she was very glad that Jolene hadn’t won.
The car stopped in front of a building in trendy TriBeCa. The driver opened the door and walked her into the building. “Mel,” he said, “this is Mr. Cates’s guest. He’s expecting her.”
“Right this way, miss.” The doorman led her to the elevator and pushed the seventeenth floor. “Have a nice night.”
She shook the whole way.
When the elevator doors opened, Ty stood waiting. He looked great in dark jeans and a blue and white pinstriped shirt.
She took a slow step off the elevator. This is not a date, she reminded herself.
“Welcome, Ashton,” Ty said in a soft, sultry drawl. He held out a hand.
Maybe he’d intended a handshake, but for some reason she found herself taking it and holding on. Strangely, she couldn’t feel any cuts or scars, as if he hadn’t held a knife in a while. His skin was too smooth for a chef, the opposite of hers.
“You look lovely.” He seemed just as reluctant to let go of her hand.
She could feel her skin heat even as she begged her body not to respond. She didn’t want him to think she’d dressed for him. Even though she clearly had.
“Let me show you the place,” he said.
Ty’s apartment was not what she’d expected; it just didn’t seem to fit him. The walls were stark white, like a hospital. The purple, squared couch was so low it looked uncomfortable, and the three-legged coffee table seemed to be an architectural anomaly. In fact, the space was just plain stark, as if the designer had taken the minimalist approach to the nth degree.
Ty Cates, the one on Page Six, would fit in this apartment, as long as he had a blond model on either side of that horrid couch. But the Ty she was coming to know belonged somewhere else, like the cover of a Pottery Barn catalog.
She wandered over to a steel and glass side table covered with frames. The first shot showed a young Ty in a cap and gown between a man and a woman. He looked so much like both of them, they had to be his parents. She picked up a picture of a young girl, about seven, with her arm around a boy who looked a few years older. “Who’s this?”
He took the frame from her. “Maryanne and Lucas. My niece and nephew.”
“Do they ever visit you?” He shook his head. “Between the kids and the restaurant, Ruby’s only made it out once since I moved here. But my parents usually come for a week every year.”
“You’re lucky you have such a close family.” She pictured her own apartment, where she displayed only two photographs: one of her grandmother and one of her, Chloe, and Jenna on the day the restaurant opened. She couldn’t even remember if she had a picture of her parents.
“Do you want to see the rest of the place?” He gestured to a doorway.
Probably, she decided, the bedroom. A room she definitely did not need to see. “How about the kitchen?”
The kitchen was on the far wall opposite the bedroom. It opened to the loft, with a huge, granite island in the middle. All the appliances were a matching stainless steel, which she loved. She also approved of the backsplash, one by one tiles in shades of burgundy, deep blue, eggplant, and burnt sienna.
“Now, this I like,” she said, running her hand across the smooth countertop.
Ty nodded. “This was the one place I wouldn’t let the decorator touch. She actually wanted to put in an electric, flat-top range because she didn’t like ‘bumps’ in appliances.” He said “bumps” in a high-pitched tone, as if to mimic the decorator’s voice.
“You actually let her live after making a comment like that?” Ashton joked.
“I considered turning her over to the food police, but it just seemed easier to ban her from the kitchen.” He opened a built-in wine cooler. “What would you like to drink?”
“You choose.”
He grabbed a bottle of white and set it on the counter.
“Very nice,” she murmured, looking at the label. She ordered the wine for her restaurant, so she knew this bottle’s cost was in the triple digits.
“So, Ashton,” Ty started as he used a corkscrew to open the bottle. “How’d you get into cooking? Was it your dad’s influence?”
“Hardly.” She waited until he poured a glass and she took a sip. “My dad may know every obscure ingredient in existence and has eaten in the best restaurants around the world, but he wouldn’t deign to enter the kitchen. He considers that my mom’s job, although God knows why, since he’s never had anything nice to say about her meals. I actually learned to cook from my grandmother.”
“I take it you’re close.”
“Were close. She passed away a year ago.” Just talking about it made her chest ache. “I spent more time at her house than my own growing up. My dad—” Ashton cut herself off. She so didn’t want to go there tonight. “Let’s just say my dad isn’t the easiest person to get along with. Nana owned a neighborhood tea shop, and she’d let me help make the sandwiches and mini-quiches and spinach pies. When she died, she left me her house to turn into a restaurant.”
The world blurred as waves of nostalgia hit her. She felt a wet drop on her hand and then another. She quickly turned her back to Ty and wiped away the tears.
“Hey.” Arms enfolded her from behind. “It’s okay.”
“I’m sorry,” she said on a sniffle. She wanted to sink through the floor from embarrassment.
“It’s okay,” he repeated into her ear.
She let
herself lean back against his chest. “I still miss her. She was the one person I could talk to, the only one who understood what it was like to live with my father. I could always count on her, no matter what, to be on my side.”
“I bet you have a lot of people on your side.”
Ashton thought about it. “My partners, Jenna and Chloe. Jenna and I have been friends since we were little. Chloe and I met in culinary school, but I feel like I’ve known her forever. It’s different with them, though. I have to be…strong. I convinced them to invest all their money, so I can’t fall apart just because the restaurant is doing poorly—” She stopped abruptly and put a hand over her mouth. What was with the verbal diarrhea? Her financial trouble was none of Ty’s business.
She stepped out of his arms, and felt only a slight pang at the loss of his warm, comforting embrace.
“This is a cooking lesson, isn’t it?” she asked, forcing her voice back to normal. She didn’t wait for an answer. “Then, let’s get cooking.”
Chapter Eleven
When Ty had moved up North, he’d had to get used to a whole new breed of females. Southern women still believed in chivalry, still thought men should hold open doors, kill spiders, and always provide a shoulder to cry on. Northern women, he’d found, were independent to the extreme. They didn’t let men see them cry, they could kill spiders themselves, and old-fashioned romance gave them the “icks.”
Scarlett O’Hara, Ashton was not. She epitomized a lady of the North.
And it was making him damned frustrated.
“It’s okay to let people hold you, comfort you,” he told her. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “It doesn’t make you weak.” He didn’t know what emotion she needed to let out more: grief over the death of her grandmother or rage over the fact that her father was an unsupportive asshole.
She glared at him, all trace of tears gone from her face. “I came here to cook, not take part in a therapy session.”
“Fine. We’ll cook.” He grabbed his wineglass, downed the rest of it, and then poured another. Since staying sane was apparently off the table, he figured he might as well get drunk.
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