Hot Shot: A Bad Boy Romance

by Sophie Brooks

  He straightened up. “Sorry, love. I don’t give private lessons. It really is time for you to bugger off.” His eyes swept over my face one last time, and then he left me there. Alone. In the dark. With my misery.

  Perhaps it was hearing the same parting phrase he’d used before that made the tears finally come. It was all too much. All the anxiousness I’d felt this morning before the competition had started. The uneasy feeling during the taping that my food wasn’t making the grade. Being kicked out in front of the others. It all caught up with me and I couldn’t help sobbing. It was just too much.

  I heard the door to the studio open, but I didn’t look. I didn’t want to watch him leave. Seeing that—it would be the final, visual proof that I’d blown my big chance. But the light spilling from the doorway remained in my peripheral vision much longer than it should have. Finally, I looked up.

  He was still standing there, his back to me. I froze, trying to keep my crying quiet. The last thing I needed right now was more yelling. He hovered there for a long minute, and I don’t think my heart beat during it. But then he stepped back inside and shut the door.

  Chapter Three

  CHEF BRYANT WENT to one of the industrial-sized refrigerators and rummaged around for a moment. He emerged with two long-neck bottles, pulled two stools up to an island in the middle of the kitchen, and sat down on one. Not sure what to think, I sat down on the other. It felt strange to sit here instead of working my ass off, rushing through a cooking challenge.

  “I was this bloody close to making it out the door,” Chef Bryant said, holding his fingers slightly apart before opening the bottles. He handed me one. “It’s a German-style wheat beer from Melbourne.”

  I wasn’t sure what was more surprising—that he was actually showing some kindness or that he drank beer. Both were mind-boggling, but I finally focused on the second one. “But you talk all the time about wine-food pairings. You’ve never mentioned beer on the show even once.”

  “I may be a chef, but I’m still a bloke. Blokes have balls, we belch, and we drink beer. Plus, I’m Australian.”

  Blinking back the last of the tears, I looked at the bottle. The beer was called Redback. I clinked it against his and broke into slight smile, thinking about his list of the three B’s: balls, belching, and beer. That summed up most men pretty accurately, but he was a hell of a lot different than any man I’d ever met. I took a long sip of the Redback. Wow. It was strong.

  “It’s good,” I said, though in truth I wasn’t much of a beer drinker.

  “I make them keep a couple six packs in the back of the fridge at all times.” He took a long swig and seemed to down about half of it. “So what’s with the waterworks? Had your heart set on six months in Paris?”

  “No,” I said, but that hadn’t come out quite right. “I mean, yes, that would’ve been great. But to me, winning meant getting a position as a head chef somewhere. I want to be the one creating new dishes, setting the menu. If I’d won this competition, I could’ve practically written my own ticket to anywhere in the U.S.”

  “You’ll get there someday. When you’re ready.”

  “I’m ready now.”

  “Then fly back to Nebraska and go for it. Nothing’s stopping you.”

  “Everybody stops me. They don’t take me seriously. They treat me like I’m a little girl,” I said. Just like you did, I thought.

  He set his beer down and took a hard look at me. “Well, you look like a little girl. But you’ll grow out of that. Most sheilas would kill to look younger than they are.”

  “It’s not much of a treat when you can’t get the job you want because of it.”

  “Look, in a few months, the episodes will air, and everyone will see how far you made it in the competition.”

  “They’ll see you telling me to run home to mummy and daddy and that you wouldn’t feed my lamb to a dead dingo.” It seriously must have been the beer that made me speak to him like that. This was a man who could reduce a stone statue to tears with his sharp tongue. But to my surprise, he laughed.

  “Yeah, well, everyone goes down in flames except for the last chef standing. That’s what the show’s about, love. They didn’t hire me hold your hand.”

  That might have been the understatement of the year. “I know,” I said.

  “Think of it this way. We get thousands, tens of thousands, of audition tapes each year. I don’t even look at them until they’ve narrowed it down to the top hundred. Think of how many people you beat out before the first episode. And you’ve had some phenomenal dishes in this competition. They’ll see the good and the bad.”

  “And they’ll see you handing my ass to me today.”

  “Yep. They’ll see that too.” He stood up and went back to the fridge, returning with two more beers. I took the bottle he offered even though my first one was only half empty.

  He sat back down and clinked his beer against mine again. “No one took me seriously when I started out, either.”

  “Really?” That was difficult to imagine. How hard could it have been for a strong, confident, good-looking man? Seemed like those piercing eyes, that strong jawline, and the perfectly windswept hair would’ve had people begging him to join their kitchens even before they witnessed his talent.

  “Really. They told me to go back to the outback and sheer sheep, not cook them. Every time I opened my mouth, they'd cringe at my accent. Figured all I was good for was throwing a couple of steaks on the barbie. Paris was the worst. Bunch of bloody snobs. They knew their stuff, but they sure were pricks about it.”

  I could imagine that. I knew it was a stereotype, but there was something to the caricature of the snooty French chef. “Where else did you study besides Paris?” I said, as if I didn’t know every inch of his professional biography. He’d studied with top chefs all over the world. He’d certainly paid his dues, and now he was reaping the rewards. Only in his mid-thirties, he was world famous, owned several phenomenal restaurants, and looked like a movie star. I’d read he made well over twenty million dollars a year from this show alone. What on earth was I doing drinking with a man like that?

  “London for a year. And Asia. That’s where I went first, when I was starting out.”

  “Where’d you study in Asia?”

  “China, Japan, Indonesia, Korea. Did stints all over. Learned a lot about presentation.”

  That made sense. His restaurants often included dishes with a strong Asian influence. “Did they take you seriously there?”

  He was quiet for a moment, lost in thought. “It was more like they didn’t know what to make of me. This was a good fifteen years ago. Their chefs weren’t as used to foreigners coming to study their techniques, and I didn’t speak a word of any of their languages. And I was twice as tall as most of them. Sometimes I felt like a giant in their midst. A big, clumsy giant among all these graceful, skilled little chefs. But I kept my eyes opened. I learned.”

  “Sounds like a good experience overall, though.”

  “It was. I learned a fuck load. But it was also bloody lonely. It’s hard, not being able to speak the language. All I did was cook, drink, and watch TV.” He expression turned inward, and I knew he was remembering his time there. It did sound rather lonely. Hell, I’d felt that way more than once since arriving here in Hollywood, and I was in my own country surrounded by people who spoke my language.

  Then, as I watched, his rugged face broke into a reluctant grin. “What?” I said.

  He smile was crooked, secretive. And downright sexy. He took a huge swig of beer. “Nothing,” he said.

  “Your face doesn’t look like it’s nothing,” I said. Again, I was amazed that I was speaking like this to Bryant the Tyrant. Was I actually calling him out? Maybe it was the strong Australian beer giving me courage. “Come on, tell me.”

  “All right, but remember, you asked. I was thinking about this one crazy TV show over there.”

  “I thought you didn’t speak the language.”

  “
It was a cooking show. Not much language was needed to follow along.” Now he laughed, still wearing a sexy grin.

  “Seriously, what was up with that show?”

  “Okay, okay. There was a main chef, no idea who he was, but each show he’d cook several dishes with his assistants. The assistants were young, beautiful women. They wore these frilly little white aprons.”

  “Okay … and?”

  “And that’s all they wore.”

  “Really?” I said, trying to keep the shock out of my voice and sound like a worldly adult. “Was it on the the Asian version of Showtime?”

  “No, just regular channels. Late at night, though. As a young man, it made quite an impression on me.”

  “That’s really all they wore? On national TV?” And I’d thought what happened to me today was embarrassing.

  “Yep, just an apron. They assisted the chef as if it were the most normal thing in the world to be half naked in front of him.” He paused, still lost in memories. “I think that’s why I found it so damn hot. It wasn’t just the glimpses of tits and ass. It was that they acted like it was so normal. And so did the chef. Nowadays, you can see the most explicit stuff you’d ever want to see online. And somehow that show with the partially-clad sheilas was more erotic because they were unapologetic in what they were doing. It used to turn me on so fucking much.”

  “It sounds like it,” I said. This conversation probably should have made me uncomfortable, but somehow it didn’t. I liked hearing him talk about personal things. It made him seem more like a real man, not an aloof celebrity. And, I had to admit, I liked hearing what turned him on. His smile was more knowing, more sexy. His eyes sparkled.

  He chuckled. “Sometimes, when the contestants are making dumb-ass mistakes, I imagine them naked underneath their aprons to keep from boxing their ears with two pot lids.”

  Now a small laugh escaped me. “If what I’ve seen this past month is you reining in your temper, that’s a truly frightening prospect.” And then I thought of something that made my breathing speed up. “Wait—did you ever picture me naked with just an apron on?”

  “Absolutely.” He seemed unembarrassed by this admission. Maybe I was supposed to be the one who was embarrassed.

  Then it hit me. “You mean I made you mad enough you had to picture me like that to keep from biting my head off?”

  This seemed to amuse him. “You’re a funny sort of girl. Most women would be more pissed about a bloke picturing them naked than about him thinking they’d screwed up in the kitchen.”

  “But I didn’t screw up until today.”

  “What about those steaks you overcooked two weeks ago? You turned three hundred dollars worth of choice cuts into charcoal.”

  My hand tightened around my beer. Normally, I was a pretty easygoing person, but now Chef Bryant was getting to me again. Maybe it was the fact that I’d already seen him do his worst. He could still be scary as hell, but I’d seen it up close and survived it. Or maybe it was the fact that even when he was being a jerk, he still looked sexy as sin, sending little jolts of excitement through my body. “It wasn’t charcoal. It was perfectly good steak fired medium.”

  “Which is absolute garbage if the customer asked for rare. Face it, love, you’re inconsistent with meat.”

  I sighed. I should have known better. There was no arguing with him. Few people even tried. He was watching me now, still with the ghost of a smile on his face. “What?” I said.

  “Just revisiting the visual,” he said smugly.

  I gaped at him. Somehow, even though he’d brought up the topic of that bizarre television show, this was the first time he’d been openly flirtatious. If that’s what this was. He was watching me in a way that made me hyperaware of my body. That sensation, aided no doubt by the beer, was not entirely unpleasant.

  “You remind me a little of those girls,” he said.

  “Hey!” That snapped me out of it. When I was in the kitchen, I was the chef, not the scantily clad eye-candy. I opened my mouth to tell him that, but he seemed to be following my train of thought.

  “No offense. I just meant you’ve got the right look for that sort of thing. First time I saw you, I thought you looked like a little China doll.”

  Oh. I knew what he meant then. I have dark hair, dark eyes, and my natural skin tone is a little more tan than the average Kansan’s. I sometimes got mistaken for being part Asian or Latino. But I wasn’t either, as far as I knew. My mom said that there was some Native American blood on her side of the family. That was why she’d named me after an Indian tribe.

  Chef Bryant set his bottle down, apparently finished with it. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I’m just saying you’d look good like that.”

  “Good enough for a private lesson?” The minute I spoke the words, I was mortified. I seriously didn’t know where they’d come from. Part of me wanted to take it back, but another part of me held steady, wanting to see how he’d respond. It was crazy, I know. I’d just offered to take my clothes off for one of the most famous men in Hollywood. A man known for dating models.

  He was staring at me as if I’d lost my mind. Would he laugh in my face and kick me out for real this time? Or was he actually considering my offer? I’m not sure which possibility scared me more. But one thing was certain. Crazy or not, this was the only chance I’d ever have with the man I’d dreamed about for years.

  Finally, he spoke. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m completely serious,” I said, doing that thing where words were leaving my lips without passing through my brain first.

  He looked at me, his eyes staring deep into mine, perhaps trying to figure out what on Earth I was thinking. That made two of us.

  “Then hell yeah,” he said.

  Chapter Four

  I PACED AROUND the small restroom at the back of the set, wondering what the hell I’d done. Was I out of my mind? Had I really offered to strip down for Chef Bryant and participate in a half-naked cooking lesson? That was insane. Even more insane than quitting my job and appearing on a reality cooking show. And look how that had turned out.

  A quick glimpse in the mirror at my tear-stained face took temporary precedence over other concerns. I was a mess. At least fixing myself up was something I could do without triggering a crisis of conscience. Quickly, I tiptoed out and grabbed my purse and suitcase. Chef Bryant was setting things up at the meat station and didn’t see me.

  Back in the restroom, I washed my face and redid my makeup, going a little heavy on the eyeliner and mascara. May as well vamp it up if I was going to dress like some sort of kitchen concubine.

  I stripped off all my clothes, doing it quickly without allowing myself to think too much. However, I did spare a brief moment to be thankful that every part of me that should be shaved was.

  The first apron I tried on was comically huge. The lower half wrapped all the way around behind me, which covered my ass completely. That would’ve been nice, but the top part of the apron was so large it gaped down practically to my waist. Even when I adjusted the strap that went around my neck, it was still much too big. It covered my breasts about as well as a tent would.

  Two other aprons in the pile I’d grabbed on the way back to the restroom were the same way. The last one was a child’s apron—it said so on the label. Holding my breath, I tried it on.

  If I’d been clothed underneath, I would have said it was a perfect fit. But in light of the present situation, I twisted and turned, looking in the mirror, trying to see how much of me was bared.

  My breasts were mostly covered. Sure, you could see a little side boob, and some cleavage if I bent over, but it wasn’t too blatant. Really, it wasn’t much worse than a low-cut blouse. But the back was where the problem was. The sides of the apron only wrapped partway behind me. I could feel a five inch gap back there, showcasing my butt cheeks. I supposed that was what I’d agreed to, but still, it freaked me out.

  Then again, I could be careful to never turn my back
to him. Maybe the point of this indecent proposal was for me to prove my dedication to cooking by showing my willingness to do this, not necessarily to provide a free peep show. Besides, think of what I’d be gaining. A private cooking lesson with a world-famous chef. A world-famous chef I’d dreamed about for my entire adult life, in fact.

  I took one last look in mirror. Could I really do this? The thing was … I was starting to think that maybe I could. At this point, I didn’t have much to lose. Due to the events earlier today, my pride and self-worth were already at personal lows, so they couldn’t drop much further. And if there was anything I could do to regain some confidence in the kitchen, I probably should try it. Plus, spending more time with the man I’d had a crush on for years, even under such dubious circumstances, seemed a much better alternative than walking out the door and never seeing him again.

  I tied the apron in the back, trying to make a big floppy bow that would hopefully cover part of my ass. Then I dug out my tallest heels from my suitcase. I was so short that I always had a pair of high heels nearby. I didn’t normally wear them in the kitchen, but I’d worn them during the initial interviews.

  Steeling myself, I walked out of the restroom, head held high. I was determined to pretend that this was a normal situation and that I was dressed in my usual chef’s whites. Hell, the apron was actually white. Unfortunately, I was pretty sure that every part of my uncovered skin was bright red. The mirror had shown me that my face certainly was.

  My first shock was that the kitchen was lit up. Well, the big stage lights weren’t on, but all the regular overhead lights were. I faltered for a moment. I sure would’ve preferred the relative darkness we’d shared before. But I supposed that was impossible. We certainly wouldn’t have been able to cook that way.

  Chef Bryant was at the meat station, a couple of pans on burners before him and several prime cuts on the counter next to the stovetop. He looked up at the sound of my shoes clicking on the concrete floor.