by Mindy Klasky
Unaware of his speculation, she was busy telling the judges she wasn’t sure if they were interested in something savory or sweet, so she’d brought them a little bit of both worlds. She’d baked sourdough bread with a starter she’d kept going for seven years. She’d made a compound butter with blue cheese, and she’d infused honey with juniper berries. She ended with individual pots of chocolate, cooked long and low with cream and only a hint of sugar, until it was the consistency of pudding.
Josh wouldn’t miss chocolate if it dropped off the face of the earth forever. But he couldn’t help imagining what he could do with Ashley’s creation, how he could dip his fingers in that chocolate cream and paint his name across the flat belly he’d barely glimpsed through her shirt. How he’d get rid of that bra quickly enough, and make the chocolate really interesting…
He shook his head and watched the judges finish their taste test. Of course, they loved it. They tried each of the toppings separately, then they added the honey to the cheese, the honey to the chocolate. They oohed and aahed like they’d never had bread before.
Morton called for a commercial break. Wake Up delivered its bottom-of-the-hour summary of weather and traffic. A reporter called in from a water main break downtown, standing in the November chill with utility crews scrambling behind her.
Josh didn’t waste his time paying any attention to all that. Instead, he stayed focused on the judges, on the three slips of paper that were passed from on high down to Bill Morton. Morton opened them and skimmed over the contents like he was sitting in some courthouse, reading a jury’s verdict before the defendant was sentenced.
The intern dashed around backstage, getting all twenty contestants onto the crowded set. She frantically called for silence, then scurried off-stage, just as a producer counted down the return from commercial.
Josh heard Morton’s prepared speech—how hard it had been to make a decision, how wonderful all the food had been. He listened to ten names being called—five men and five women. He heard Ashley Harris’ name, felt her smile knife him somewhere deep beneath his ribs. Hell, maybe it was lower than that.
He didn’t have time to tell his cock to mind its manners. Instead, he heard his own name called, followed immediately by the whoosh of disappointment from the contestants who hadn’t been chosen. He saw the red light on the camera, knew exactly where to look as Morton crossed the stage to shake his hand, along with everyone else who was moving on to Round 3.
The judges came around to mingle with all the cooks. The producer called, “And we’re out.” Josh accepted congratulations from people, shook hands, posed for photos. But the entire time, he kept one strand of his awareness tied to the woman in the green silk blouse. The woman with the hazel eyes. The woman who was now one of the competitors he had to beat, to crush in no uncertain terms so he could build the restaurant of his dreams.
Right after he grabbed a picture with her to satisfy Angel that he deserved another recipe from the family trove.
CHAPTER 2
Josh cut through the clubhouse on his way to the locker room, his gym bag banging against his hip. He was going to hit the weight room for an hour or so, talk to one of the trainers about a new set of stretches for his right biceps. Maybe even take in a massage.
There wasn’t anything else to do off season. Not related to baseball anyway. This was the time of year when most of the guys kicked back, when they ate what they wanted without thinking about weighing in, when they slacked off on the killer regimens that would kick in with spring training.
Case in point: the four guys hanging around a table, kicking in poker chips and looking like they’d been there for a couple of hours already, even though it was only the middle of the afternoon.
Drew Marshall looked up from his cards. “Well, if it isn’t Julia Child herself!” The shortstop leered. “Who does wear the apron in the great battle of the sexes?”
Josh flipped him the bird before he helped himself to a fistful of popcorn from a nearby bowl.
Nick Durban twisted in his seat. “What’s the name of that show?” he asked, actually sounding like he was interested. “Wake Up Battle of the Sexes?” he asked, like he was trying to remember. “Eggs versus Sausage?” He clutched his crotch, in case there could be any doubt of his meaning.
“Asshole,” Josh said amicably, popping the top on a soda.
“No,” said DJ Thomas. “I’m pretty sure it was Cook versus Cock.”
The guys exploded into laughter amid ample speculation that Josh was missing the necessary equipment to support his team. He hooked a chair with his foot and pulled it up to the table, leaning back on two legs as he opined, “You’re just jealous. Good food, hot women, a chance to stand in the spotlight…”
“Seriously,” Zach Ormond said, looking up from his own poker hand. The catcher had retired last season, more intent on marrying the owner’s granddaughter than spending time nursing his aching knees behind home plate. It seemed like he spent more time than ever around the clubhouse now, though, helping out with a million managerial tasks. “How does the contest work?”
“They draw the whole thing out,” Josh said. “On Friday, we present an appetizer. They cut the field down to five men and five women for the next round. Two weeks later, we bring in our main courses. One man and one woman move on, bringing in dessert two weeks after that. There’s one winner over all.”
“Sounds like a hell of a lot of work,” Marshall said.
“You know the saying—if a job is worth doing, it’s worth doing well…” Josh managed to hit the perfect tone, sanctimonious as hell, and he was rewarded by a shower of popcorn.
Ormond collapsed his cards into a single stack, placing them face-down on the table as he added a stack of chips to the pot. “Maybe I should call that TV station. See if any of those judges can help us out here.”
“What’s up?” Josh asked as the other guys anted up. Marshall was bluffing. He always scratched behind his ear when he was getting ready to lie.
“That restaurant space we’re renovating, up on the West Concourse.”
“The fancy one?”
Ormond nodded, but his explanation was put on hold while the guys played out the rest of the hand. A full house for him, kings high. Three of a kind for Durban. Shit from Marshall; the shortstop had nothing. At least Thomas had the good sense to fold.
Ormond raked in the chips. As he collected all the cards, he said, “Yeah. Well, it was going to be fancy, fine French cuisine. The chef decided he was too important to cook in a ballpark. Backed out of the deal last week. He’s claiming we can’t give him the kitchen layout he needs, but it’s all bullshit.”
General agreement from the guys, along with Marshall saying, “What the fuck do we want with French food anyway? Doesn’t exactly make sense in a ballpark.”
“Some pa-tay with that?” Durban asked, tightening his lips and shoving his nose in the air.
Ormond shrugged. “It was something Anna wanted to try. Bringing in a different group of fans, maybe.”
Josh almost laughed at how quickly the guys fell over themselves, trying to assure the former catcher that the idea was a good one, a great one, probably the best restaurant idea any of them had ever seen. Ormond might be just one of the guys when he was taking their money at the poker table, but there wasn’t a guy on the team crazy enough to challenge his fiancée’s choices—on or off the field, dealing with a restaurant or anything else.
Josh had always thought a fancy French place was pretty stupid, himself, but who was he to say anything? “Sure,” he said, willing to back the conversation away from what the owner’s granddaughter thought about the restaurant business. “Why don’t you call the station? Maybe one of the judges can consult.”
Durban picked up the five cards Ormond had dealt him. He shuffled them around, finding some order that made sense to his shrewd eyes, before he said, “Maybe you can tie into the whole contest? Offer a contract to the winning cook? Let the winner have the restaurant sp
ace for a year or something, while you find someone else to take the lease long-term?”
Ormond nodded over his own hand before he tossed in his ante. “And that, gentlemen, is why we call him the Professor.”
“Screw you,” Durban said.
“No,” Ormond protested. “It really is a good idea. It’ll get the space filled before Opening Day and give us a chance to figure out what we want to do long-term.” He tossed his cards onto the table and scooped up his winnings.
“Wait a second,” Marshall protested. “You have to give us a chance to win that back!”
“Some other time,” Ormond said. “Unlike you reprobates, I actually have work to do.” He headed toward the door, ignoring the guys’ protests.
“Shit,” Marshall complained, but he wasted little time before he turned to Josh. “So? You going to take his place? Or just stand there pulling your dick and thinking about what you’re going to do with the restaurant?”
Another flip of the bird shut up the shortstop. But Josh scooped up Ormond’s cards and made a show of shuffling them into a winning order. He’d known the Wake Up show could be worthwhile… But if it came with an actual restaurant space attached? Even for a year?
He kept one eye on the cards, even as he worked through his grandmother’s recipe file in his mind. An appetizer… Something sure to be a winner… Something that could be served here at Rockets Field once he owned the ballpark restaurant… Angel had to have something perfect in that leather file of hers. And all he had to do was prove that he’d moved things forward a square with Ashley Harris.
He tossed three chips into the pot and settled down for some serious thinking.
~~~
Ashley set her knife on the counter, content with the chiffonade she’d just made of sorrel. Breathing deeply of the lemony herb, she sprinkled the finely-minced flecks on top of her lobster pasta. She wiped a stray drop of cream sauce from the shallow bowl as she placed it on the counter for Carrie to grab.
“Chef,” the server said as she scooped up the bowl. “Table Three would like to pay respects if you’ve got a second.”
Ashley glanced around the kitchen. Monday nights were usually slow, but things had been busier than usual. According to Carrie and a couple of the other waiters, the customers were talking about Wake Up Wake County. One of them had even asked about her rosemary honey, wondering if he could get it for the hard breadsticks that graced the Mangia tables.
Dustin looked up from the salad station. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll keep an eye on things here.”
“I’ll just be a minute,” she said before she stripped off her apron.
Her chef whites gleamed beneath. She patted her hair to make sure her French twist was still in place, and she made her way through the swinging doors to the dining room.
A quick survey showed that everything was going well for the night. Carrie was setting lobster pasta down in front of a solo diner. Groups of two and four were scattered around the dining room. Mr. Throckmorton sat at one of the booths in the back, surrounded by some of his buddies from the country club. He grinned at Ashley from across the room and raised his Maker’s Mark in greeting.
She crossed her arms over her chest and made her way over to Table Three. Lamb chops with balsamic reduction, she recalled, with broccoli rabe and angel hair pasta. Solo diner, unless they’d ordered an extra plate.
She was right about the meal; she never forgot an order. No extra plate, though.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked, her annoyance peaking as she barely resisted the urge to check that all her buttons were done. After all, the man was her competitor. Had he just come in to Mangia to spy on how she cooked?
Josh Cantor raised his wine glass. It was one of the restaurant’s fine crystal goblets; he was drinking from one of the back pages of the wine list. She glanced at the label on the bottle that rested on its silver coaster. The Barbera D’Alba. Correction: he was drinking from the last page of the wine list. But the guy had good taste, she had to admit that.
“My compliments to the chef,” he said.
Everyone was staring at them. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a handful of cell phones pointed in their direction, and she heard a few whispers in the crowd—his name, her name, Who Wears the Apron.
“Thank you,” she said tightly. “But really, why are you here?”
“Scouting out the competition,” he admitted. “Can you join me for a glass of wine?”
She was absolutely certain he was having a laugh at her expense, with that dimple in his cheek and the slightly dangerous look from his broken nose. As she stood there, trying to figure out a civil reply, he reached to the next table and retrieved an empty glass. Standard stemware, but he didn’t seem to notice as he poured a healthy portion.
“Where are my manners?” he asked rhetorically, climbing to his feet. He circled to the empty chair at his table and pulled it free. “Please,” he said with a gesture that might have been chivalrous, if he weren’t so damned cocky.
“What’s this?” came a booming question behind Ashley. She jumped, even as she identified her boss’s voice. “Shouldn’t you be back in the kitchen, Ashley?”
She bristled at Throckmorton’s tone; he sounded like he was remonstrating with a small child Before she could get too out of sorts, she reminded herself that she had fresh sorrel back in the kitchen—in late November. Mangia’s owner might be a pain in the ass, but he knew how to stock a kitchen. And the Master Plan required her to put up with his control for just a while longer.
Before Ashley could respond, Josh offered a hand across his table. “Josh Cantor,” he said, shaking with Throckmorton smoothly. “I was just complimenting your chef on her work. In fact, I’d be honored if you took my picture with her.”
Smiling easily, he handed his cell phone to Throckmorton. Ashley could see Mangia’s owner run a quick adding machine tape in his head—lamb chops, the barbera, dessert yet to come—and comparing the results to a few more minutes of her time spent in the front of house. “Of course,” Throckmorton said.
Ashley gritted her teeth and went to stand beside her competitor. To her surprise, he passed her the full glass of wine. “Smile for the camera,” he murmured, directing a grin toward their ersatz photographer.
Ashley obeyed, even following suit when Josh took a sip and raised an eyebrow to encourage her to do the same. Throckmorton edged around the table to hand back the phone, managing to trap Ashley against his side as he did so.
“An excellent meal,” Josh said blandly, slipping his phone into his pocket.
Throckmorton took advantage of the compliment to put his arm around Ashley’s waist. He squeezed appreciatively, and she contemplated how hard she’d have to step on his foot to break every one of his toes. Shattering her boss’s foot, though, was the surest way to be thrown out of a kitchen with fresh lobster and organic lamb. She’d miss those entrees, if she had to take a job at a burger joint. Master Plan, she recited like a mantra. Master Plan.
As if Throckmorton knew the thoughts she was weighing, he raised his arm and squeezed again, catching a healthy fistful of breast. “We’d be lost without our Ashley.”
Lobster and lamb be damned. “Our Ashley” threw an elbow as expertly as someone shucking an oyster. She took a little pleasure out of the woof of air from Throckmorton’s lungs as she took a safe step away. But the shimmering image of the Master Plan kept her from saying what she really thought of her boss’s grimy hands.
The flare of amusement in Josh’s eyes only heated her temper. “I really should be getting back to the kitchen,” she said through set teeth.
“Of course,” Josh said, inclining his head graciously. She set her goblet down on the table and took a step toward the kitchen.
But her boss interrupted her retreat. Glancing toward his country club buddies, he projected more loudly than before. “Really,” Throckmorton said. “I’m sure they can manage things back there a few minutes more. Tell us mor
e about this cooking contest you two are doing.” And right in front of God and everyone, he put his hand on her ass, forcing her back to Josh’s table.
Screw the Master Plan.
“Excuse me,” Ashley said to Josh. She reached for his glass of water, which the attentive Carrie had kept filled. “May I?”
He gestured with the same long-fingered hand she’d shaken in the station’s green room, the one that had ignited little fires beneath her breastbone with its strength and control. “Be my guest,” Josh said.
She grabbed the glass tightly, fully aware of the droplets that had condensed on its surface, of the ice cubes that clinked as she lifted it. She took a full step forward to keep the spacing right and pivoted on her heel with the sort of precision she usually saved for grabbing a sauté pan off the fire. One flick of her wrist, a careful thrust forward, and Throckmorton’s crotch was dripping in icy water.
“You bitch!” he roared, grabbing for a napkin and catching the entire white tablecloth by mistake. Josh grabbed for both wine glasses, saving them from a crash to the floor. Her own quick reflexes spared the bottle. The rest of the tableware, though, was a loss—silver, plates, lamb bones, a votive candle that sputtered out against the wooden floor.
The echo of the crash faded into absolute silence. A vein pulsed beside Throckmorton’s eye, and his face turned the color of the barbera. “You’re fired!” he shouted.
“Huh,” Ashley said. “And I thought I quit.” She tried to hide her trembling hand by the precision with which she returned the empty water glass to the bare table. Before she could figure out what to do next, Josh passed her one of the goblets. She clinked rims with him and drained the wine in the glass.
It wasn’t fair to the barbera. A wine that fine should be sipped. But sometimes a girl did what a girl had to do. She set the empty goblet on the table and turned on her heel, heading straight to the front door.
