Heat 1 (Heat: Master Chefs #1)

by Kailin Gow

  “Thank you. You like it?”

  “Love it.” He bit his lip and looked at me with a hungry gleam in his eye.

  “Great. Ready for the grand tour?”

  “Sure. Where do we start? The Eiffel Tower? The arc of triumphe? The champion Elysée.”

  I frowned. Was he toying with me or was he really that bad with French. “Actually,” I said, “I thought we’d start with something a little less well known.”

  “Great. All that clichéd shit looked like a bore anyhow. So where do you want to take me?”

  “Follow me.” We hailed a taxi and hurried into the first one that stopped. “Notre Dame,” I told the driver.

  “Notre Dame? Like the church.”

  “For starters.”

  But when we arrived in front of the great cathedral I led Bobby down the street away from it.

  “I thought we were going…”

  “Did you know that the Romans had a great influence on the architecture of Paris?” We arrived at the Crypt Archaeologique du Parvis de Notre Dame and entered the dark passages to Paris’ past. “This was once the center of Lutetia, an ancient Roman city.”

  He nodded as he looked around him then let out a long whistle as we explored further. “Okay, so I’m duly impressed.”

  It was cool, at times almost cold in the ancient passages, and Bobby gallantly offered me his jacket.

  “Thanks, but what about you?”

  “I’m fine. I’m hot blooded.” Grinning, he wrapped his arm around my shoulder and warmed me further.

  I was amazed at how quickly I felt comfortable around him. I relaxed, much more than I would have thought and I already looked forward to spending more time with him.

  After two hours exploring the past life of Paris, we made our way to the Roman baths at Cluny. Again he was impressed, and I was pleased.

  “I didn’t know you were such a history buff,” I said.

  “Yeah, I kind of like that stuff. You know, you seem to really have a handle on the city,” he said as we left. “You must be a quick learner if you’ve only been here six months.”

  I nodded. “While the Eiffel Tower and le Louvre are all good and well, I wanted to know more. I wanted to see the underbelly of the great city of light. I knew many Parisians didn’t bother coming this way much, almost like they took it for granted.” It was a shame because it was really all quite spectacular.

  “Hey, a little lunch would be good just about now,” he suddenly said while his hand rubbed his empty stomach.

  I directed him to la rue des Martyrs in the 9th arrondissement. “The bestest, freshest, tastiest food around.”

  “The market? I thought you’d bring me to some fancy bistro or something.”

  “This will be even better than that.” I picked up a fresh baguette, some rich, creamy cheese and small bottle of red wine. At a fresh produce vendor, I chose a red ripe tomato, a small head of baby lettuce and a bunch of juicy red grapes.

  “I like the way you think.” Bobby held out his arm for me to slide the bag of produce onto.

  Another cab ride and we arrived at le quai St. Bernard. The quai on the left bank was alive and festive with music and dancing. It was the perfect place to spend such a splendid Saturday afternoon.

  “You're awfully quiet,” I said when we found a picnic table by the water. “Are you disappointed with your tour so far?”

  He turned to me with eyes so serene, I was taken aback. For the last half hour I’d thought I’d lost him. He’d retreated into a far and distant place within himself, hardly talking and seemingly barely interested in the things I pointed out along the way.

  Reaching across the table, he took my hand in his and brought my fingers to his lips. “I never thought I’d enjoy a day of shopping and picnicking as much as I’m enjoying this day. I’ve always had this image of what Paris was; always the same iconic landmarks. But this… I feel like I’m in the heart of Paris, and I’m sharing it with someone who truly loves the city.”

  “Good,” I said softly. I broke off a chunk of baguette and handed it to him then unwrapped the cheese and uncorked the wine.

  Lunch was a simple, but lovely affair and after we’d finished the baguette and cheese topped with lettuce and thinly sliced tomatoes, we munched on grapes and sipped our wine. The music was the backdrop to our afternoon. At times it was soft and melodious as dancers waltzed their way across the makeshift dance floor. At other times it became rhythmic and exotic, carrying the dancers across the floor with footwork so fast, it was difficult to make out what they were really doing.

  “Want to give it a try?” Bobby said.

  “Dancing?”

  “Sure.”

  Was he serious?

  He stood.

  I guess he was.

  Pulling me into his arms, he held my waist with one hand, and my hand with the other. The music started; a moderately paced salsa. I wasn’t that great a dancer, but Bobby led me around the dance floor with surprising ease.

  “You really can dance.”

  He twirled me around, then pulled me tightly against his chest. “I do all right.”

  By the time the music ended, I was hot and flustered. It was a hot and sexy dance, one that was akin to making love upright.

  “You're light on your feet,” he said, still holding me close.

  “The music’s over. You can let go now.”

  “Do I have to?”

  I swallowed and whatever went down my throat seemed to go straight through my body all the way down to my panties. What was he doing to me?

  “We should probably continue with our tour.”

  He nodded, but still held me against his chest. I never wanted to leave. I wanted to stay there, my breasts pressed up against him, my hand in his, his breath warming my face. Only when dancers dove into a feisty and energetic quick step did we finally leave the floor.

  Hand in hand we strolled along the waterfront in silence.

  “What’s next on your agenda?” Bobby finally said.

  “I thought we’d hit the museums.”

  “Le Louvre?”

  “Actually, I had a few other museums in mind, namely le Musée du Moyen Age, and, if we have time, le Musée du Quai Branly.”

  “Lead the way, my fair lady.”

  But as it turned out le Musée du Moyen Age turned out to be enough for that afternoon. We were both tired and hungry by the time we walked out.

  “How ‘bout dinner?” he offered. “It’s on me.”

  It was romantic. The kind of romance I’d read about in a book Soeur Marcelle had smuggled into the convent. The kind of romance I thought had long gone extinct. The kind of romance I’d never even imagined.

  Bobby had taken the reins, hailed a cab and called out the name of a restaurant I’d never heard of. “I know of only one place here in Paris, but I’m sure you’ll love it. A l’Amandine.”

  “Doesn’t Errol…”

  “Yes. Errol King owns it.” He set his hand on my knee. “And I hear the blanquette de veau is exquisite.”

  I’d heard the very same thing. My mouth watered at the very thought of eating Errol King’s cuisine. It was far beyond anything I could afford, and I was pretty sure Bobby couldn’t very well afford it either. Then again, he knew the owner.

  The moment we stepped inside, the scents, the tantalizing aromas and the modern but elegant décor pulled us in, lulled us, seduced us. After telling the maitre’d who he was, we were seated at a quiet table for two in a discreet recess of the restaurant. It was all so cozy and all the more romantic.

  “Do you mind if I order?” Bobby said.

  The young, brash man seemed too mature before my very eyes. “Okay.”

  After ordering a fine bottle of red wine, he glanced at the menu and said, “Deux soupe aux truffles en croute. Then we’ll have le rouget en ecailles de pommes de terre. And for dessert… Let’s see. La tarte tatin.”

  The waiter nodded and left us.

  “That’s quite an impres
sive choice. I didn’t know Errol was a student of Paul Bocuse.”

  “Who?”

  I laughed into my linen napkin. “Only one of the most renowned and highly respected chefs in all of France, if not the entire culinary world. He has an innovative approach to everything he does.”

  Bobby grinned. He was toying with me, I was sure of it. Of course he knew who Paul Bocuse was. Everyone at the institute knew him.

  Our soups arrived. Two large bowls topped with a dome crust. We cut an opening into the crust and savored the flavorful soup.

  “Heaven,” he said.

  I wanted to echo his sentiment, but settled on, “It really is the best soup I’ve ever had.”

  “It’s tasting food like this, this blend of flavors, the knowledge of such unique techniques that hooked me.” Bobby scooped up another spoonful. “I mean, back home.” He shrugged and seemed uncomfortable for the first time. “Hey, I’m good on the grill. I can sauté some heavy duty vegetables. I can even manage a pretty decent soufflé, but… Hell, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to come up with dishes like this.”

  “Are you doubting yourself?”

  With a shrug, he looked at the contents of his spoon. “Look at that. So perfect. So perfectly seasoned. So perfectly balanced. And this crust. So perfectly golden.”

  “Give yourself a chance, Bobby. You’ve just started at the institute. I have no doubt you’ll fly through your classes and before long, you’ll be opening a restaurant to rival Errol King’s.”

  His eyes left his spoon and met mine. There were questions in those deep pools of blue, maybe even a bit of fear. Was the cockiness he’d greeted me with just a front? A hard exterior he’d put up to protect the fragile interior? A shell to ward off failure?

  I didn’t question him; not during that dinner, nor the ride home that night. It was only the following morning when we met and took a taxi to Bois de Boulogne that I brought it up.

  “It mustn’t be easy being the younger brother of a talent like Taryn Cummings, never mind the brother-in-law of Errol King.”

  He stared out the window as we passed through the narrow streets of Paris. “Let’s just say the bar is high.”

  “I guess I should be thankful for that. No one ever pressured me into this. It was simply what I fell in love with.”

  “Taryn opened the door for me at the institute. It’s largely due to her good word that I was able to get a scholarship and get in. But sometimes, when I feel the weight of expectation, from her, from Errol and from my mother, I wish I’d simply been left to find my way on my own.”

  I set my hand over his. “Then maybe we wouldn’t have met.”

  Squeezing my fingers, he chuckled. “In that case, I’ll work harder to live up to the Cummings name.”

  We arrived at the nearly nine hundred hectares of rolling hills, drizzling waterfalls and manmade grottoes a half hour later. It was a lazy morning, one that invited a slow and unhurried stroll around Lac Inferieur.

  “So, does this off the beaten path tour of Paris include dinner at your place?”

  “I hadn’t really put that on the itinerary.”

  “How else am I going to find out what a great chef you are?”

  We found a vacant park bench and sat down. A variety of ducks, geese and other birds immediately headed our way looking for an easy meal.

  “I’m not quite a chef yet,” I said. “I may be a technician, but I haven’t quite mastered everything I need to in order to become a veritable chef.”

  “All right. So I’ll taste the creations of a technician. I’m cool with that.”

  “I guess I could clear some time on my schedule to make you dinner. Let’s say, Thursday.”

  Nodding, we stared straight ahead, as if this upcoming private dinner loomed over us. Bobby stretched his legs out in front of him and tilted his head back.

  Pouting, I continued to stare at the water in front of me. He was bored stiff, I thought. I’m supposed to bring him on a tour of one of the most exciting cities in the world, if not the most exciting city, and here we were staring at a duck pond.

  I tried to think fast, tried to find something more exciting to show him. He’d ditch me as a mentor if I continued this way.

  “There are some great flea markets at Belleville. We could go do a little shopping.”

  “Sure,” he said without opening his eyes. “Sounds good.”

  No, it didn’t. He still sounded bored stiff.

  “Or maybe a stroll of Caulaincourt.”

  “Yeah, whatever you say. It’s all good to me.”

  Pulling in a long and exasperated breath, I crossed my arms over my chest. This wasn’t going well at all. My long, exasperated breath came out in a huff and Bobby finally looked at me.

  “What’s up? Aren’t you enjoying this? You look bored,” he said.

  “I look bored? You're the one who is practically sleeping right in front of me.”

  “I’m not sleeping. I’m taking in the sun. This is great.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. What do you think?”

  “I think I’m disappointing you and I’m trying like crazy to find something to do that will interest you.”

  He swung his arm around my shoulder and pulled me closer. “I’ve lived in New York all my life. Sure I’ve made a few trips to Central Park a few times, and once a year my mom would bring us to the Adirondacks for a week away from the city, but my life has mainly been hectic, always running, always hurrying. Cabs, traffic, the constant blare of horns, not to mention sirens. And the smog. This…” He breathed in deeply and gave me an affectionate squeeze. “This is more than perfect, Lilly. This is the perfect calm that I needed after such a hectic week.”

  Beaming, I pushed away from him and looked into his eyes, looking for any trace of dishonesty, but all I saw was a young man, happy and relaxed.

  I was relieved and finally breathed with ease, until a thin veil of dark clouds obscured the autumn sun and tiny raindrops fell in a light mist.

  “We’d better get going if we don’t want to get caught under that more menacing cloud.” The one that seemed to be coming fast.

  At a swift pace, we walked past le Jardin de Bagatelle, but not long after, I realized I was a bit lost.

  “Do you know how to get us out of here?” Bobby said.

  I stopped to look around and tried to situate myself. “I only came once, with Soeur Pierrette and Soeur Agathe. I just followed them around and didn’t really pay that much attention to where we were going.”

  I knew the park was big and had even been advised to take along a map if ever I returned, but I’d stubbornly assumed my innate sense of direction would prevail. It failed me miserably, and by the time we found someone who could direct us back to where we could grab a taxi, we were soaked to the bone.

  Giggling, we hopped into a cab and tried to shake off as much water as we could, much to the chagrin of the driver who glared at us through his rearview mirror.”

  “Je vous dépose…?”

  “Oh, oui. Milles pardons. Le Passage Vivienne pres du Palais Royal, s’il vous plait.”

  “Tres bien.” He drove off without offering us the slightest hint of a smile.

  Nonetheless, Bobby and I clung to one another giggling the whole way. At our destination we paid our fare and got out and I led him to the area’s version of a mall. “This is a covered passage,” I said. “A great place to go on a rainy day. We can walk all the way to la rue Cadet without getting wet.”

  Wandering through the passage, we stopped at various vendors, trying on silly hats at one and throwing silky scarves around our necks at the next. We grabbed fresh croissants at a kiosk then sat down for a hot cup of coffee when we realized we were still wet and chilled.

  It’s only later, when I finally got back to my apartment, took a hot shower and slipped into my flannel pajamas that I realized just how fond I’d become of Bobby Cummings.

  My student.

  Yes, student.


  Any and all attraction to him was highly inappropriate.

  Yet, when I arrived at my class Monday morning, the first thing I did was check to see when Bobby had my class.

  The last class of the afternoon. It would be a long day. But, as it turned out, it was a long week. Every day, students surrounded us and kept us from barely saying a word to one another. Our exchanges were strictly student/teacher, strictly based on the lesson of the day.

  I longed for Thursday to come around.

  Our dinner date.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been so nervous. Not only did I feel the pressure to cook a gastronomical meal, but entertaining a man in my home… It was so foreign to me. As I took out all the necessary ingredients and lined them up on the counter in the order in which I needed each, the phone rang.

  “Allo.”

  “Lilly, it’s me, Bobby.”

  My heart sank. If he was calling me at this late hour instead of heading to my place, it couldn’t be good. “What’s up?”

  “I hate having to call you at the last minute like this…”

  Tears burned their way to my eyes and I had to blink repeatedly to keep them from spilling over my cheek.

  “I can’t make it tonight,” he finished.

  The past days filed quickly through my head; hardly talking to one another, barely a glance. He’d lost interest, whatever interest there may have been, it was gone.

  “Oh, okay. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Taryn called me at the last minute and insisted we get together to go over my first weeks at the institute.”

  “That’s fine. I understand.” But I didn’t. Surely his sister could meet with him another day. “Thanks for calling ahead to let me know. Bye, Bobby.” I hung up before he could say anything more. I was livid.

  I guess my lack of experience with men made it that much harder. I knew men played with women’s emotions. I knew men could be fickle.

  Ha! Never mind all that. I pushed myself to make a great dinner. I wasn’t about to let all this good, fresh food go to waste. But in the end, I sat alone at the table with barely the appetite to enjoy my meal.

  The next morning, as I prepared the day’s lesson in my office, I was still angry about Bobby’s rejection, and I dreaded my next class with him with more apprehension than ever. Should I just ignore him? Play it cool, like he’d never mattered?