Too Hot to Touch

by Louisa Edwards

  Eva Jansen didn’t jump. She gave Danny one last languid smile, and when she caught Max watching out of the corner of his eye, she winked at him for good measure. Then she uncoiled herself from the table in a sinuous rush, moving back to center stage.

  “Of course. Contestants, are you ready? I believe it’s Mr. Slater’s turn to ask another question.”

  “This one’s for the fans,” he said. “Or, you know, anyone who’s been stuck in the grocery store checkout line long enough to see the gossip rags. So, it was widely reported that I threw a Titanic-themed dinner party—the actual historical ship, not the movie. Although Kate came, and once I got her liquored up, we did a ten-minute speed-through of the entire story that nearly killed half the guests with laughter. Apparently, I’m no Leo DiCaprio.”

  “I assume there’s a question included somewhere in this press release,” Claire said without looking up from the notes she was making.

  “Yeah, of course,” Kane said, sinking down in his chair a little. “Anyway, there were lots of stories and pictures on the costumes people wore, and some of the more outrageous stunts we pulled … but not one reporter mentioned the menu I slaved over for three weeks. So I figure this is my chance to tell the world about the feast I cooked. What did I serve?”

  Winslow nearly knocked Max over as he lunged for the buzzer. “Oh, I have so got this one bagged,” he announced brightly. “Hi, Kane. Loved the last album.”

  That earned him a thumbs-up and a “Cheers!” from Kane, and a glower from Claire Durand. Clearing his throat, Win said, “Okay. Tragically, I wasn’t at the party, myself, but word on the street is you replicated the final meal served aboard the doomed ship Titanic, down to the last detail. Which means you served oysters for the first course, followed by consommé Olga and cream of barley soup. The third course was … fish, right? So, poached salmon with a mousseline sauce and cucumbers. After fish comes meat, so that was filet mignon Lili, sautéed chicken à la lyonnaise, and vegetables with marrow sauce. Fifth course: lamb with mint sauce, roast duckling with apples, beef sirloin with Château potatoes … and this is where I always mess up. Peas? Yeah. Green peas, creamed carrots, boiled rice, and potatoes both boiled and parmentier. Now!” Win did half of an aborted touchdown dance, body jerking like a rag doll.

  “This is awesome,” Slater said, grinning. “Keep going! You’re halfway there.”

  “Right, five courses down, five to go. Damn. Okay, after all that meat must have come the…” He screwed his face up in concentration. “Palate cleanser! In this case, Punch Romaine, which, I looked that up, and it sounds like the definition of awesome.”

  “Highly recommended,” Slater agreed, nodding.

  “Course seven, roasted squab and watercress; course eight, cold asparagus vinaigrette; course nine, pâté de foie gras and celery,” Win continued, getting into a rhythm and bobbing his upper body along with the menu recitation. “And last but not least, dessert. Oh Lord, let’s see if I can remember.”

  The crowd, which had been fairly quiet up until now, gave an encouraging round of applause punctuated by loud clanging. Max shaded his eyes to peer beyond the floodlights and saw that several groups of hopefuls had brought big pots and wooden spoons to bang on them with.

  Obviously energized by the surge of excitement from the crowd, Win said all in a rush, “Waldorf pudding, peaches in Chartreuse jelly, chocolate and vanilla éclairs, and, and, and…”

  Come on, come on, Max thought, clenching his fists tight at his sides.

  “And French ice cream!” Win concluded triumphantly, a rush of blood turning his cheeks the color of milk chocolate.

  “That’s right!” Slater added his enthusiastic clapping to the roar of the crowd while the rest of the team took turns squeezing the breath out of Win.

  The score is tied. Max realized with a spurt of joy. Just gotta keep it up and get into the lead …

  He didn’t stop to wonder when he’d started caring about winning this thing.

  Chapter 16

  Jules could only think of one single day in her life that had been worse than today. And that one had involved her mother tossing Jules out on her ass in the snow.

  To know that she was the one her team relied on for this challenge—and to freeze up … it was hideous. It felt like a panic attack, only worse, because it was endless, but low-key enough that she wasn’t about to pass out.

  At this point, passing out would be a relief.

  Get it together, she lectured herself as Winslow made his spectacular response to Kane Slater’s Titanic question. So what if your personal life is a hot mess? This is business. This is the culinary competition you’ve been working toward for months. This is war!

  “You’re the comeback kids,” Devon Sparks observed. “Let’s see if you can keep it going. As some of you may know, I recently started an after-school program to teach kids how to cook. Yeah, we talk about making healthy food choices, how to read nutritional labels, all that jazz, but what everyone really likes are the days we get into the kitchen and get our hands dirty. Those are the days I’m peppered with all sorts of interesting questions—no one comes up with better stumpers than an eight-year-old. Like this one! What makes an apple smell like an apple?”

  Jules snapped to attention. She knew that!

  She reached for the buzzer but before she could make contact, the other team buzzed in.

  As the officious-looking team leader answered with a long-winded explanation of ester chemicals, and how they were a combination of acid and alcohol molecules like ethyl acetate, the one that gives apples their characteristic tart, sweet scent, Jules struggled not to deflate.

  Beside her, Danny jostled hard into her, then suddenly he was gone, and Max was standing in his place and Danny was swearing under his breath on Max’s other side.

  Quirking his mouth into a smile only slightly more strained than usual, Max said, “Don’t sweat it! You’re back in the game, that’s what counts. You’ll get the next one, for sure.”

  Despite everything, all the dangerous hopes and unrestrained vulnerabilities between them—Jules actually felt better just having him beside her.

  I’m so screwed.

  “Another point to the team from Ristorante D’Este,” announced Eva Jansen to the crowd. “Which means they’ve pulled back into the lead. This one might be a photo finish, folks. Anything could happen!” She cast a sidelong glance across the stage to someone at Jules’s table. “Who thought the qualifiers would be such a thrill a minute?”

  “Thank you for that status update, Eva,” Claire Durand said briskly. “My next question is concerning sauces. Specifically le fond brun, the brown sauce, what we call in France a mother sauce because it is the foundation for so many more. I would like you to take us through the standard preparation of a basic brown sauce, then name three classical variations on the sauce, and what they entail.”

  Jules and Max reached for the buzzer at the same time, their hands colliding on top of it and mashing it down for a long, loud moment.

  Blinking, she turned to him, heart pounding. “I know this one.”

  “So do I. For real, this time,” Max promised. “Let me take it. We’ve got one last question after this, and it’s Slater’s. There’s no way I’ll get that right, but you studied him. You answer that one and then we’ll get the extra point for having each member of the team answer at least one question.”

  Fear turned Jules’s knees to gelatin. “But I know this one,” she whispered frantically. “What if I freeze up again?”

  His hand was still covering hers on the buzzer, and he twined their fingers together, squeezing warmly. “You won’t,” he said, confidence spilling from his pores. “You’ll know the answer to Slater’s question. You’re our last, best hope for winning this thing, Jules. There’s no way you’ll let us down.”

  She stared straight into his calm gray eyes, her breath caught in her chest.

  Is there anything on earth more seductive than a man who believes in you?<
br />
  Jules closed her eyes and tried to be the woman he thought she was. “Go for it. I’ll get the next one, and we’ll win.”

  Max’s eyes flashed bright blue with approval for one instant before he turned to face the judges.

  “Brown sauce,” he said. “You take bones and trimmings, veal is best, and roast them until they’re all golden and caramelly. Drizzle them with oil and sauté them with mirepoix. Um … that’s diced carrots, onion, and celery. Which I’m sure you knew, but now you know that I know, too. Um. Where was I?”

  Maybe he wasn’t as confident as he seemed. “Breathe,” Jules whispered out of the side of her mouth. “You’re doing great.”

  Max shot her a grateful look and reached for her hand under the table. Jules grasped his sweaty fingers and held on tight, the familiar zing of attraction almost subsumed in the rush of adrenaline from the competition.

  Almost.

  “Okay. Let the mirepoix and bones get good and brown, adding in some tomato paste right before they caramelize. And don’t burn the tomato paste, because you need it for color and depth of flavor. Deglaze the pan with stock and scrape up all the good, crusty bits from the bottom. Then you want to simmer it for a long time, two to four hours, skimming every now and then to get the gross stuff off the surface of the sauce, which is way easier if you offset the pot a little bit. Makes all the nasty come up on one side, so it’s a snap to scoop.”

  Max paused for another breath, and Jules checked the judges’ table. Claire Durand had the look of a woman who’d ordered a shrimp cocktail and been served a raw bar full of oysters, clams, and crab legs.

  Perfect. Jules bet even the crankiest judge was unlikely to downgrade them for being too detailed.

  “You can add a little pouch of herbs tied up in cheesecloth or whatnot, if you want. I go by taste, usually, see what it needs more of. Strain out the chunky bits, then you can thicken it with a roux of flour and butter for sauce espagnole, or with plain old cornstarch for a jus lié, just keep simmering until it’s all thick and glossy. And that’s it.”

  “That was … very comprehensive,” Claire said, eyebrows high. “Full marks for your explanation. Now for the rest of the question?”

  “Oh right!” Max looked surprised for a moment, as if he’d forgotten the second half of the answer he’d signed on for.

  Jules didn’t even have time to get worried, though, before he was rattling off, “Let’s see, I guess I’ll say sauce robert, which is brown sauce with butter, white wine, and onions, finished with a pinch of sugar and a little mustard. If you add thin strips of cornichon pickles to that robert, you get sauce charcutière.” His eyes gleamed. “I gotta give it up for sauce zingara, though. Brown sauce with minced shallots, fresh breadcrumbs, and butter, brightened up with a dash of lemon juice and a handful of chopped parsley. That’s my favorite; plus, come on. It’s got way the best name.”

  Claire Durand doled out a small, approving smile. “Well done. And your team has once more caught up with Ristorante D’Este. The final question will decide who moves on to the next round. And I believe you’re close to receiving the extra bonus point for this round, if the last member of your team who has yet to field a question is the one to provide the correct answer this time.”

  “Remember, folks,” Eva Jansen interrupted, speaking to the crowd. “It’s not the last two teams standing today—we’ve got room for four in the finals to see which team will represent the East Coast in this year’s RSC. The longer you stay on the stage today, the more points you rack up. And at the end of the day, that’s what will decide who goes to the finals. So really make an effort to spread the questions out over your whole team; it could make the difference between continuing on in this competition, or going back to your restaurant and watching the RSC on TV.”

  “Also,” Devon Sparks added, “making every chef contestant answer at least one question proves to us judges that you’re a well-rounded team, and that every member deserves to be there and will contribute equally.”

  “And thus endeth the public service announcement,” Kane Slater intoned solemnly.

  Even from up on the stage under the hottest lights known to man, Jules felt the freeze of Claire’s glare.

  “If you’re so eager to be done with this round,” the female judge said, “then why don’t you ask your last question?”

  Shooting her a sunny smile, Kane said, “I think I will, thanks.”

  Jules felt her lungs starting to work overtime. There was a warm squeeze around her fingers, and she realized she and Max were still holding hands under the table. Well, not really holding. At least on her part, “clutching” would be a better term. She tried to ease up on her grip, but he moved even closer to her so she could feel him all along her side, and twined their fingers together tightly.

  “You’re our resident geek,” he reminded her softly. “Go get it, girl.”

  Bolstered by Max’s encouragement, she zeroed in on Kane, watching his lips move and trying to anticipate what he was about to say.

  “Final question. Let’s make it a good one.” He paused for a long moment, as if thinking, and Jules would have sworn he made eye contact with her before saying, “You all know what the Michelin Guide is. Love it or hate it, agree with it or not, it’s been awarding stars for fine dining restaurants since the turn of the last century. And nearly all the chefs who’ve been lucky enough to rate the maximum number of stars—three—have something in common. They’re men.”

  Claire’s head whipped around to laser a narrow-eyed stare at her fellow judge, but Kane Slater ignored her. “The first two women were awarded three stars in 1933, then almost twenty years later, another one made the cut. And then? About fifty years go by, the pages of the little red guidebook filled with dude after dude after dude. Until 2007—one lone woman appears. The next year? The total number of Michelin-starred women chefs doubles. So who can name the trailblazing female chef and the restaurant that broke the seal in 2007?”

  Jules blinked. This was definitely not in her thick manila folder of info on Kane Slater, rock star and amateur gourmet. Which didn’t mean she didn’t know the answer, she realized with a start.

  As quick as a breath, she buzzed in. “It was Chef Anne-Sophie Pic of Maison Pic in Valence, in southeastern France.”

  “Ding ding ding,” Kane said, standing up so fast his chair fell over. “We have a winner!”

  Instantly, Jules was surrounded by the rest of her team, the center of a knot of embracing arms and cheering voices.

  Good thing, too—without four big men anchoring her to the floor, she might just have floated straight up to the Javits Center ceiling like an escaped helium balloon. Euphoria streaked through her in a golden rush, clearing the cobwebs out of her brain and sharpening every sense, so that even over the din of celebration and the applause of the audience, she heard him.

  Max.

  He put his mouth right next to her ear, close enough to tickle, and said, “I knew you could do it.”

  With shivers of delight cascading down her spine, Jules straightened her shoulders and stepped back up to the table.

  “All right,” she said as the opposing team left the stage scowling, and a new group of chefs in white jackets trooped on to take their place. “I’m ready for the next question.”

  * * *

  They lasted a record eleven rounds.

  Jules was unstoppable, on fire, and Max could only watch her with a mixture of pride, admiration, and nearly uncontrollable lust.

  Smart chicks are hot. Damn.

  The rest of the team did their part; even Max managed to contribute a few more answers to obscure questions about stuff like fishing practices in the South China Sea and the ingredients of harissa, the hot chili sauce he’d gotten addicted to in northern Africa.

  But mostly it was Jules, whiskey-brown eyes blazing with intelligence and confidence, who kept them going.

  When they finally tapped out after two full hours on the stage, Max thought it was probab
ly due more to dehydration and exhaustion than because Jules ran out of answers.

  As they dragged themselves off the stage, she said, “Sorry, guys. I just couldn’t get to the buzzer fast enough.”

  “Hey.” Danny muscled Max aside and slung an arm over her shoulders. “Do not sweat it, girl. You were incredible up there.”

  While the rest of the team echoed that sentiment, Max did his best to drill a hole through the back of his brother’s skull with the force of his glare. It didn’t work.

  Max wondered when the green-eyed monster had gotten its teeth into him. He couldn’t remember ever being jealous over a chick before, especially when he knew she’d been best friends with Danny since the dawn of time.

  Now? He kind of wanted to bend his baby brother’s fingers back until the kid squealed like a pig, just because those fingers had touched Jules. Weird.

  Hell, Max had even felt a flash of jealousy at the way that blond rocker judge smiled at Jules! Which was ridiculous, he told himself, watching her throw her head back to laugh at something Danny said.

  Getting bent out of shape over a simple smile, when I’m the one who’s allowed to touch her, kiss her, and make her smile all the time. She knows how I feel now. And I know she feels something, too, even if she’s not ready to admit it.

  The crowd in front of them parted to let an exuberant Gus through, his arms waving with dangerous abandon, nearly clocking a hapless bystander in the head.

  “My little band of geniuses!” he chortled. “You were magnificent. Stupendous. Outstanding! I only wish I could’ve been up there with you, in the thick of things.”

  “We could’ve used you,” she said, making a face. “Especially at the beginning, when I nearly choked.”

  Never one to dwell on the past, Gus waved that away. “You finished strong, and that’s what counts. With the number of points you kids racked up, there’s no way we won’t make it into the finals.”

  “For heaven’s sake, don’t jinx it,” Nina said, walking up to hug first Danny, then Max. “They’re announcing the teams who get to move on once everyone finishes competing, but I just talked to a very nice young man named Drew, who I think is Eva Jansen’s assistant, and he said the announcement probably won’t happen until late tonight, after all the teams get their chance and they can tally up the results.”