by Beth Bolden
The rules are as follows: there are seven weeks of competition. One pair is eliminated each week. Each week, each pair is to make one dish inspired by the theme of the week.
Landon is thinking to himself this seems kind of ridiculously straightforward when Alexis pauses and suddenly a mischievous smile blooms on her face and a feeling of dread settles deep and low in Landon’s gut. He recognizes that smile. He makes that smile when he’s about to seriously fuck someone over and enjoy every second of it.
Alexis explains further that each team will start with $50,000 in cash. There’s a few enthusiastic whoops. Landon stays silent because he has a feeling they won’t be keeping that kind of money. No, the money has some other purpose—probably something nefarious and he almost wants to tell Alexis she can keep it. After all, this show is called Wars for a reason.
Landon is right. While there is an overall “challenge” each week, there are also several challenges that teams can bid on to “gift” to other teams. Landon feels faint and also like he could use some clarification. “So like, to sabotage each other,” Landon states.
Alexis looks like a cat who’s just gotten into the cream. “Exactly.”
There’s buzzing in the room as the various competitors freak out a little. Landon definitely isn’t calm either. His cooking skills are negligible. That alone was going to make winning difficult. Add in more complications and suddenly winning looks impossible.
But someone has to win, right? There has to be a winner. Why shouldn’t it be him and Quentin?
Filming starts in a few days and two days after their meeting, Landon meets Quentin for a beer at a local bar to go over strategy for their first challenge. They’ve been texting rather nonstop, but Landon is missing Quentin. The bright clarity of Quentin’s blue eyes and the softness of his smile, specifically, but he doesn’t need to admit that. Landon decides that going over strategy is a perfectly viable reason to meet up.
Or at least that’s what Landon keeps telling himself as he sits in a booth, waiting for Quentin to show up.
Finally, Quentin slides in across from Landon. “This was a good idea,” he says with a dimpled grin. “I missed you.”
Landon didn’t even know he was anxious, but Quentin’s words calm him down. Quentin wants to see him just as much as he wants to see Quentin.
Landon slides the beer he ordered for Quentin across the worn wooden surface of the table. “I missed you more,” he retorts impudently.
Quentin takes a sip of his pint. “You excited about filming?”
Shrugging, Landon scratches the tabletop with a fingernail. “More terrified than excited, if I’m being honest,” he admits.
Quentin’s face goes soft. “It’ll be fine. I think that we’re going to fly right under everyone’s radar during the first challenge. The most obvious teams to go after will be the ones that look strong. Probably Blair and Alice. Or Reed and Diego.”
Landon has made an entire career out of being the underdog, so he’s good with this. Sometimes it’s better to not be too aggressive right out of the gate.
“I think Rory and Kimber too. She probably cooks for herself. All those athlete types do. Who do you think the weakest links are?” Landon already has an idea but he wants to see if Quentin’s on the same page.
Quentin frowns. “It’s okay,” Landon tells him with a reassuring smile. “It’s inevitable. There’s going to be weaker teams. It’s just good to know who they are going in.”
“Well, I’d probably say Ezra Gillingham and Vanessa Neill,” Quentin says slowly. “He does cook, obviously, but he’s mainly into mixing drinks these last few years. He might not be as sharp behind a stove. And she looks a bit, well, um, flighty?”
Landon’s own analysis was a lot more cutthroat than that, but it’s okay. Quentin’s going to cook well enough to keep them in the game and Landon is going to manipulate the game so they win.
“That was my thought too. He’s out of practice in the kitchen. Also, Paul Flannery.”
Quentin shakes his head right away. “No, he’s definitely going to be tough competition.”
Landon raises an eyebrow. “He runs that chain of restaurants. I’m betting he doesn’t spend much time in the kitchen.”
“He actually teaches at one of the most prestigious cooking schools in California. In Napa,” Quentin says. “I had a few classes with him.”
Well. Shit.
“And he’s good?” Landon thinks he already knows the answer, but when Quentin nods enthusiastically, Landon thinks it’s definitely time for them to have this conversation.
“Listen,” he says seriously, leaning forward and looking right into those spectacular eyes of Quentin’s. “I know you know you’re friends with Rory. And you know Paul Flannery and practically hero-worship Blair Paulson. But you’ve got to forget about all that. This is serious. This is for your bakery.”
A crease appears between Quentin’s brows. “You don’t think I can be tough enough?”
“I think you’re plenty tough,” Landon corrects gently. “I worry about you being ruthless enough.”
The cloud lifts off Quentin’s face. “That’s what I’ve got you for, though.”
“Yeah, but just like I have to learn how to cook, sometimes I might not be available to be cutthroat,” Landon explains softly. “We have to learn from each other. I think that might be the key to winning this.”
There’s a definite glint of something in Quentin’s eyes as he gazes over at Landon. “Then we’ll be the greatest team ever. The Dream Team.”
Landon smiles. “The Dream Team. You were paying attention.”
Quentin just shoots him a look like he’s crazy.
“I mean, I said that on our first day,” Landon explains. Maybe Quentin doesn’t remember.
“I most definitely remember that,” Quentin says. “It’s funny though, pretty much that entire day feels like a dream, from the moment you walked in, until we left that night. But I remember everything you said. In explicit detail.”
Landon doesn’t know whether to be pleased or embarrassed. Maybe both. He definitely is pleased at the explicit part. He’ll almost definitely have one hand around his cock later as he relives the sly curve of Quentin’s lips as he says that particular word.
Quentin leans forward a little. His eyes are gleaming in the dim light of the pub, teasing and just the tiniest bit sly. Landon begins to sweat and simultaneously wonder if his first kiss with Quentin Maxwell is going to take place in this rather dingy dive bar around the corner from his apartment.
His lips are dry and parched. He reaches for his pint, only to discover it’s empty.
“Another round?”
Landon lets out an exasperated sigh. “You’re a bad influence.”
“Only one more round though, or else I’m afraid I’ll do something I won’t quite regret,” Quentin teases as he slides out of the booth.
“Someday, Maxwell,” Landon calls as he walks away, “you’re gonna have to make good on those threats.”
Quentin glances back, and there’s pure sexual wickedness in his look. Landon shudders a little, every hair on his body rising.
As they drink their second round, their banter grows further charged, the air thickening between them, and Landon revises his theory that his first kiss might take place inside the bar.
It’s totally going to take place outside of this bar—Landon is absolutely sure. Quentin’s gaze seems permanently stuck on Landon’s face. On his lips.
When they head outside into the cool evening air, Landon’s blood is humming with anticipation. Quentin’s on his phone, requesting an Uber and Landon stands there waiting with him—waiting for far more than that, if he’s being really honest.
“You’re working tomorrow?” Landon asks. He’s typically a lot smoother than this, but something about Quentin makes him nervous. Like this might be the last time he’s ever faced with the possibility of a first kiss. It makes his palms sweat, so he stuffs his hands in his pockets and
tries to look chill and relaxed, kind of like how Quentin looks all the time.
“Yep.” Quentin is a saint and doesn’t even point out that he’s already said this.
Landon knows their time window is closing quickly, and Quentin’s not taken a step towards him yet. Landon shifts his weight from one foot to another. He’s normally against making the first move, but maybe desperate times call for desperate measures.
Later, he’ll think that everything happened so quickly, but it probably didn’t. Landon is just a chicken shit.
The car pulls up, and Quentin takes a step and then another and gathers Landon into his arms, giving him a firm, not-very-quick (especially considering the car is just idling there) hug. While their arms are still intertwined, Quentin leans down and brushes a sweet, soft kiss against the top of Landon’s head.
“See you later,” Quentin says, and before Landon can react, can snatch his arms—and lips—back, he’s sliding into the back of the car and Landon is pathetically and forlornly staring at the departing lights.
He pouts during the entire walk home until he collapses on his sofa and pulls his phone out.
There’s a single text from Quentin. Waiting will make it sweeter, don’t you think?
Landon lets out a grumbled expletive. Quentin’s not wrong, but that doesn’t mean Landon has suddenly discovered patience.
He leaves Quentin waiting for exactly three minutes. He was going to wait five, but he couldn’t quite manage it. Then he texts him back.
You’re plenty sweet enough.
Landon is really nervous. Far more nervous than he ever was before he performed on The Voice. It probably helped that he was a huge underdog—there’s no pressure when you aren’t expected to succeed. Probably it also helped that he actually knows how to sing, and he has no idea how to cook.
Each team has a tiny green room at the television studio, which is nice. What isn’t nice is that Quentin’s not even here yet. He’s still filming his intro package. And Landon has already looked over the room once, but even though it only took a few moments, he does it again because he’s bored and nervous and that’s not a good combination for him.
There’s a comfortable but rather worn brown leather sofa, but instead of sinking into its comforting depths, Landon is perched on the edge, afraid he might crease his button-up. In the corner is a mini fridge with cold drinks. A fruit basket perches on the top, and just as Landon requested, there’s a coffee pot and a really miserly selection of instant coffee that Landon had wrinkled his nose at. A tiny attached bathroom and lighted mirror and counter for makeup rounds out the small room.
Landon grimaces. There’s just not enough distractions in here. He’s tempted to go dig through his bag and find his phone that he stashed there when he arrived, but what would he even do? Check his email? Text Ian for the millionth time that this was a huge mistake and he and Quentin are going to be the first team eliminated? Redo his hair?
Landon taps his foot agitatedly against the edge of the veneered coffee table. He’s going to have to cook in about an hour. Like actual real food that people are going to eat.
Not just people. Judges.
Simone Lalit, who’s rather notorious in the restaurant world for being harsh.
Jasper McDonnell, who’s more notorious for being severe.
And Zach Emory, at whose restaurant in LA people wait months if not longer to score a reservation. Landon has already purposefully ignored how cute he is. Quentin is already enough of a distraction.
Landon feels the knot of nerves in his stomach wrench a little tighter.
That’s when the door opens, and Quentin walks in. He’s dressed in tight black jeans and he’s got on a crisp white chef’s jacket, with his last name embroidered in stark black font on the right-hand side.
Quentin’s hair is pulled back with a tight headband, little ringlets dangling along his neck as he nods and laughs, his eyes glowing fierce and blue. Landon swallows hard. Quentin looks like the love child of Mick Jagger and Julia Child, and that’s way hotter than he ever imagined it could be.
“You look beautiful,” Quentin says softly, his own hand reaching up to gently brush the hair that Landon labored over for an hour this morning. The products he generally uses stand up quite well under the heat of the stage lights, so he’s hoping the heat of the kitchen won’t be much difference.
He knows it’s silly to worry over something like wilted hair, but it’s a nice change to worry about something he actually has control over.
“I like it like this,” Quentin says. “It shows off your features. And they deserve to be shown off.” His fingers brush over Landon’s cheekbones. The pads of his fingers are rough with callouses but they glide over his skin like it’s the finest thing they’ve ever felt.
Landon blushes. So much for shifting his crush into a more manageable state. His heart is beating rapidly, and when Quentin’s hand brushes lower, his fingers ghosting over where it’s thumping in his chest, Landon knows Quentin must realize that he’s the cause. It would be embarrassing, but Landon wonders if he put his hands over Quentin’s heart, would he feel something very similar?
“Are you ready?” Quentin asks softly.
“No,” Landon answers honestly. “Not at all. But we might as well give it a shot.”
Quentin reaches down and threads his fingers through Landon’s and squeezes them tight. Landon thinks he can feel his erratic heartbeat in them. “Let’s do it then.”
Landon’s forgotten how quick things move when they actually get on set.
The Voice always moved through acts fairly rapidly, but there was still a stage to reset between each act. During Kitchen Wars, there’s no break. From the moment they hit the sound stage, it feels like there’s literally not a single moment for Landon to catch his breath.
One minute they’re being ushered to their respective stations, awaiting Alexis’ appearance to give the introduction, the next, there she is, and she’s talking and explaining the rules again.
Landon glances down the line and sees a similar shell-shocked expression on every celebrity’s face. The chefs are tougher nuts to crack—most seem fairly relaxed and confident. But it takes zero effort to pick out the people who don’t cook for a living.
Alexis moves on from explaining the basic rules to the individual rules for today’s contest.
“For this week,” she says coyly, like she’s unwrapping a gift that she knows she’ll particularly enjoy, “the celebrity contestants will be doing all the prep work, and the chef alone will be doing any and all cooking.”
Landon blanches. He reaches down without even thinking, beneath the stainless steel counter and finds Quentin’s hand, grasping it hard. No matter how much he paid attention in the knife skills lessons Quentin gave him, Landon is just plain not ready to have to do all the prep for a dish that will decide if they stay at the competition after this week.
He was really expecting—hoping, anyway—that Quentin would get to take the lead this week. Unfortunately, that is not looking to be the case.
Alexis continues. “You’ll all start with $50,000, to use for bidding on auction items. Placing in the top three guarantees you a payout so you can bolster up your reserves for the next week.
First place gets $5,000, second place $2,500, and third place $1,000. The team with the lowest judges’ score each week will be eliminated. And the last team left standing will get to keep their money.”
That’s when Alexis stops, her voice ringing through the soundstage and lets the finality of her last phrase sink in. She’s got a theatrical streak that Landon might appreciate if it wasn’t directed at him.
Landon really doesn’t want to be eliminated. He wants to stay in this competition and gain a wider audience for his music. He wants to remind the world that he’s not that one gay pop star who came in third place on The Voice a few years back. He also wants to spend the time with Quentin, and to build Quentin the bakery he wants so dearly with the money they could win.
It’s a lot of things to want without any concrete idea on how to go about getting them.
He grips Quentin’s hand harder, and feels it squeeze his own fingers back. It’s reassuring until Landon remembers that he’s the one doing all the prep work this week. It could be him that lets them down.
“This week’s auction is,” Alexis says, and then pauses dramatically to whip up a silver turreted lid from the table, “salt and pepper!”
There’s a single salt and pepper set sitting on the table. Landon is confused. Someone has to cook with salt and pepper? Aren’t they always supposed to cook with salt and pepper?
Landon glances over at Quentin, hoping he’ll be able to add some illumination onto the problem. But before he can murmur a question under his breath, Alexis starts talking again.
“One of the number one tenets of cooking,” Alexis says conversationally, as if they’re just hanging out, “is seasoning the food properly. However, whoever wins this auction will be the only team seasoning their food.”
Landon can feel Quentin tense up next to him. In fact, the air on the whole soundstage seems to tighten up. When Landon glances down the line, he can literally see the dread etched on every single chef’s face. The celebrities look undeterred, but Landon realizes they’re simply unaware of just how terrible a fate this auction item is.
The other issue is that Landon realizes he’s been so busy flirting with Quentin that they’ve barely covered auction planning. They’d discussed it once or twice, but mostly Landon had boasted they could make it through to the finale without spending any money on auction items.
Suddenly, Landon is thinking differently. He tries to nudge Quentin, but Quentin gives him a tiny little shake of the head, as if to say, “nope, we’ve got this.”
It feels terrifying, a bit like jumping off a cliff with only the wide open blue sea below, but Landon makes the conscious decision to trust Quentin. If he thinks they can do this without salt and pepper, then they can.
