by Dee Carney
Every blonde that came into the restaurant caused him to jerk his head up and lose focus, his need to verify if she was Ginger or not a distraction he could ill-afford. But Christ, it didn’t stop him from craning his neck every single goddamned time.
A blonde teenager at a table full of elegant people snagged his attention, and disappointment swamped him again. His gaze jumped back to the plate in front of him, skimming its surface, before he sighed. “Service,” he grumbled.
“Wait.” Cherise studied him with disbelieving eyes before deftly gathering up the plate. She gave a quick shake of her head, then set it aside. “The lamb tenderloin is missing the pink peppercorns, and the cabernet reduction is a tad thick. Possibly burnt. We need another one on the fly. Again, please.”
Lee winced. Sure enough, she’d caught what he hadn’t. Blatant errors that shouldn’t have made it past him.
With deft expertise, she slid into position next to him, picking up where he’d left off. Her hands stayed busy, pouring a teasing amount of sauce noisette over bright green asparagus, but she shot him a wicked glance before calling to one of the guys on the line. “Percy? S’il vous plaît prendre la relève.” Lee’s jaw tightened, teeth grinding. “Lee,” she said in a sickeningly sweet voice, “I have a question for you about next week’s menu. I think you said now would be a good time to discuss it?”
Lee scowled at the unsuspecting Percy trying to step in per her instructions. Percy’s eyebrows practically met his hairline, his eyes wide with just-trying-to-do-my-job. “Chef?” he asked, his voice small.
Not bothering to answer or glance at Cherise, who’d better have a good reason for pulling him away from the brigade, Lee yanked off his apron. The ties snapped instantly, because, like a rube, he’d forgotten to loosen the damned things. Balling up the material in one fist, he hurled it toward a waiting garbage can. Vision clouded, he stormed toward his office, not caring about the way the staff jumped out of his way—so long as they did.
That night was supposed to have soothed the ache. It should have quenched the fire back down to a smolder. But by Christ, the clawing craving for Ginger was worse now than it had ever been. Now, messing up on the line? Unacceptable. Didn’t help that he couldn’t shove her out of his mind. She lingered there, her memory growing ripe and lush like fruit on a vine.
The taste of her lips, sweet and soft, mocked him whenever he stopped for too long. If the room became empty of noise and distraction, the echoes of her throaty moans teased him. He could still feel her tits pressed against him, nipples tight and begging to be suckled.
The crowded kitchen parted like the Red Sea as he wound his way toward the back office, where he could lick his wounds in privacy. Didn’t matter that he ignored her; he could hear Cherise close on his heels. Staff whom he’d counted on to talk through orders and work as a team went collectively still and silent. Only the sounds of food being seared broke the dearth of human voices. The emptiness escorted him into the office chair.
“Don’t wanna hear it,” he said roughly as Cherise stepped into the room.
Mouth pressed into a firm line, she didn’t say anything as she shut the door.
“Cherise, I’m serious. Not in the mood. Got a lot on my mind.”
She sat down, taking the time to shimmy back into the seat and then cross her legs. Her face blanked while her brow lifted a fraction. Dark eyes searched his face.
Lee sighed. “What?”
“Food Fighters, huh?”
Not that he’d kept it a secret, but he was still surprised she’d heard he planned on competing. “Tomorrow night. You coming?”
“After closing up, naturally.” A pause. “I hear you’re going up against Chef Ginger Danielle. Is that a good idea?”
No. “Settling an argument.”
“Because you’ve been an ass?”
He lobbed one back at her. “Think I can’t win?”
“In your current state of mind? Nope.”
Lee’s mouth fell open before he remembered to shut it. “What’s with the honesty? Can’t get you to decide if I should serve strawberries or huckleberries with the starfruit bruschetta, but tonight you’re full of opinions.”
“I’m kind of annoyed with you, Lee. I have a feeling you did something assholey to put you in this kind of mood. Am I wrong?”
He stared back at her, refusing to even blink in response.
“Well, I don’t know what it is, and I probably don’t want to know, but I know Food Fighters isn’t your style. I know that you are going way out of your way to antagonize Ginger. And I know,” she said, shaking her head, “that it’s affecting everyone here.”
“Bullshit,” he grumbled.
“True shit, Lee. Most people don’t know you the way I do and can’t put up with the way you sometimes come across. The ones who stick it out are worth keeping around, if you don’t push them away. And since you’re in here moping like a kicked dog, I assume whatever assholey thing you did needs to be amended, right?”
Lee stilled, a slowly simmering heat rising up through his neck and ears. “Kicked-dog Lee still signs your checks. You would do well to remember that.”
Cherise gulped. “Right. Sorry. Might have overstepped my bounds a tad.” She rose, sliding out of the seat she’d made herself so comfortable in only a few minutes ago.
“Wait.” He hadn’t hired her because of her timid ways. “You may or may not have a point, but if you did, what do you think I should do about it?”
“Depends on how badly you may or may not have messed up.”
He recalled the storm brewing in Ginger’s eyes when he’d last seen her. He blew out a sigh. “Not good. She’s the kind of woman who deserves to be seduced, and I went full force. No finesse. Just…hurricane.”
“So why not seduce her now?”
“I’ve already fucked it up.”
“So?”
She had a point. And God knew if he could turn back time, he would have done things differently. Maybe still call the tow truck on her customers because, face it, it got her over to his place—but that night would have been a slow build. Not the slap shot it had been.
He would have seduced her.
He still could.
“Think Percy could handle the line for the rest of the night?”
Cherise’s face fell. “Are you really firing me—”
“No! No. Nothing like that. I need your help. I need to apologize to Chef Ginger, and I think I know a good way to do it.”
A slow smile blossomed on her face. “What did you have in mind?”
Ginger wiped her forehead on her shoulder before sifting through the piles of white cheddar and sharp Asiago cheeses. A fine dusting of nutmeg peeked through the small amount of flour she’d added to the mixture. In the saucepan, a creamy decadence of béchamel sauce waited, a bubble erupting over its surface on occasion, despite the low heat. It hadn’t quite thickened to where she needed it yet, and besides, the pork belly still sizzled next to golden slices of garlic in the sauté pan.
Her stomach rumbled happily as the scent of bacon—God, what kind of person could resist the smell of bacon?—invaded her senses. Mouth watering, she waited a moment longer before stirring in the rich rendering left from the pork, the crispy pieces and the fragrant garlic into the sauce. With the heat turned off, she stirred in the cheeses, sighing contentedly as the strands elongated, blending into the sauce.
The simple but velvety cheese sauce complete, she dumped the cooked and drained gomiti pasta into the sauce, stirring all until well combined. Didn’t look quite rich enough, though, and she added another two handfuls of cheese. Perfect.
“Jen, this is ready to be portioned out,” she said to the prep working on dicing zucchini on the stainless steel table a few feet down. The young woman nodded in reply, and Ginger knew she’d handle putting the pork belly mac and cheese into individual porcelain dishes. One of the more popular items on her menu, the batch would be enough to get them through lunch service, when the d
ishes would be heated and toasted beneath a salamander. Once ready for service, the expeditor would add freshly prepared slices of pork belly to the pasta, and the thousand-calorie dish would be complete.
“Chef?” Marco, one of the servers, came toward her with a covered platter in hand.
Ginger frowned. Returned dishes happened, but so infrequently it always surprised her when it did. She kept her recipes simple and comforting, the portions a little bigger than necessary.
“What’s wrong with it?” She headed for the burners, ready to get started on a redo of whatever plate had been returned.
“Nothing, I don’t think,” Marco said. His mouth turned down as he stared at the silver dome covering the platter.
“Then why did they send it back?”
“Who?”
Byron peered over Marco’s shoulder, apparently in tune with the ridiculous Abbott-and-Costello conversation ensuing. “Problem, Gin?”
“Just in getting my server to let me know why someone returned my food.” She planted her hands on her hips and stared Marco down.
“Oh!” He finally seemed to catch on and shook his head. “This isn’t a return, it’s a delivery. From next door. The guy said to tell you that it’s compliments of Chef Lee.”
She met Byron’s eyes and knew they were probably having the same concerns. Whatever lay beneath that deceptively gleaming silver couldn’t be good news. She wouldn’t take Lee to be someone who’d resort to poisoning his competition, but then again…
“Send it back,” Byron said, interrupting her thoughts.
“No wait.” She held up a hand, curiosity nudging her. “Let’s see what it is first.”
“Flowers?” someone called.
Ginger whirled to find half the kitchen staff watching the exchange. Those who weren’t watching seemed dangerously close to burning the food that sizzled away in hot skillets. Bobby hadn’t betrayed her indiscretion to everyone as far as she could tell. Or, if they knew, none had changed their behavior toward her, for which she was grateful. “Hey, guys, back to work, huh?” she shouted. Grumbles came in reply, but most did return to their tasks.
“You really think it’s flowers?” Byron asked in a low voice.
“No.” Well, it’d better not be. Poison might not be Lee’s style, but pretentious opulence in the form of arranged flowers strolled right up his alley.
She lifted her chin toward Marco. He grinned, then took great pride in removing the silver dome with a flourish. “Tadaaa!”
Four perfectly sized portions of beef rested against a stark white porcelain plate. The rounds came from loin that must have been grilled, the centers cooked to a delicate and precise medium rare. Some sort of red fruit garnish had been scattered across the surface of the rounds, while diced chives served as visual contrast. More bits of red could have been anything from bell pepper to beets or chilies; the fine dice made it impossible to tell. Also, drizzled in delicate patterns across the beef, a dark sauce glistened beneath the bright lights of the kitchen.
Marco whistled softly. “That looks hella good.”
“Yeah, it does,” Ginger murmured. But what did it mean? What reason could Lee possibly have for sending something so refined to her? Possibly an apology for taking things too far, but she couldn’t help her suspicion.
She reached for one, temptation outweighing caution, before Byron lightly slapped her hand away. “Are you really going to taste it? What if…”
“It’s poisoned?” She laughed. A little nervously, but she laughed. “Lee wouldn’t do something like that.”
“Still think you should send it back.”
She should. She was still mad with him, at the way they’d left things, but she didn’t eat high-end food like his every day. Hell, almost ever. Her mouth watered as she stared at the appetizing sampler meant to tease her taste buds. The platter certainly got her stomach to wake up and take notice.
“Try it, Chef.” Marco nodded encouragement, his gaze bouncing from her to the plate. When she looked beyond him, the staff who should have been back at work seemed to be divided on a decision. Some nodded enthusiastically, while others appeared horrified, their faces drawn in alarm.
Before she could change her mind, Ginger snatched a medallion and popped it into her mouth. Byron started to protest, but she was already chewing.
She sagged in abject pleasure as sweet and salty and fiery and mellow and robust all exploded on her tongue at once. “Ohmigod,” she moaned. “Ohmigod, that’s good.”
Byron glowered but grabbed one of the medallions and, with more finesse, ate one as well. Mouth still humming from the heat of chili, she smiled as the same sensations that had assaulted her overtook him. He chewed thoughtfully, shaking his head the entire time. “Jesus, he’s good,” he said with an air of wonder. “That is…amazing.”
“I know.” So beyond her humble fare, the food he’d sent over could have been an intimidation tactic. Balsamic vinegar, tart cherries, a smidgen of goat cheese and the sharp bite of chives worked together in a combination leaning toward orgasmic.
“There’s chocolate in there,” Byron said. “And that’s cherries, right?”
“Yeah. Inspired.” In a million years, she might not have ever combined those same ingredients and come up with such an elegant representation of how food should be done right. It made her pork belly mac and cheese seem like something that came out of the blue box instead. What Lee had done defined “art”.
“Someone eat these other two or trash them,” Ginger said loudly, scurrying out of the way when at least six sets of hands reached for the plate. “I don’t know what Lee’s trying to pull, but he’s not going to make me back out of Food Fighters.”
She and Byron turned away. They took turns washing their hands at a nearby sink. Ginger used the repetitive motion of drying hers with a paper towel to focus on things other than Lee Solomon.
She would not—could not—be intimidated, but he certainly might have encouraged her to rethink her strategy at the competition. If this type of item headlined his repertoire, she’d have to bring it home to win the night.
“Uh, Chef?” Marco approached, a grin pushing his cheeks up. “There’s another platter here.”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “Compliments of Chef Lee. Another platter for you. This one has a card attached.”
Ignoring the white cardstock, she peered at the covered dome, this one as shiny and enticing as the last. If what lay beneath remotely resembled the previous dish, she’d be done for. If only she could figure out why he’d started sending them over. If it was to intimidate her, she’d march over there right now and kick his ass. Then again…that didn’t seem Lee’s style. No, this introduction to his food seemed more like…temptation.
This time she removed the lid herself, gasping at the lovely display. The first thing she noticed was the gold leaf. The flavorless decoration did nothing but draw one’s attention to the fact that the dish spoke of luxury. It almost seemed like overkill.
Lee had sent over some type of pudding or crème dessert, a duo of orange-colored sauces drizzling down its side. Surrounding the main item, sugar crystals reflected from pale discs she’d bet money were crystallized ginger. Orange slices and diced yellow fruit surrounded the pudding, forming the symbol for yin-yang.
Sweet tooth kicking in with a vengeance, Ginger picked up the spoon nestled in the linen cloth next to the plate and dipped it into the cream. The moment it hit her tongue, she closed her eyes and relished it.
“Well?” Byron asked.
“Shh,” she whispered, eyes still closed. “I’m having a moment.”
“What is it?”
“A ginger bavarois.” She opened her eyes long enough to dip the spoon through the ginger-flavored Bavarian cream and one of the orange sauces. “With mango. Oh dear God, this mango and ginger combination is heavenly. I think I might have to marry it and have its babies.”
Her fingers practically trembled with excitement as she
reached for one of the ginger slices. When she bit into it, peppery ginger flooded her mouth. She considered if truly she should march over to Lee’s place and forfeit.
“It’s marvelous, Byron. Try some.”
“Don’t think so. This has you written all over it. I’m just surprised he’s loading you up with dessert before the main course.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Wait. You think there’s more?”
“Oh, definitely. He’s sending over tidbits for a reason. Doesn’t want you to get full up on one dish.”
Made sense, not that she liked it. “You might be right, but this isn’t dessert. It’s a palate cleanser.” The brilliance of it startled her. “He’s helping cool down the tongue from the chili of the previous dish with the cream, but the ginger keeps the pepper still going, just not as strongly.”
To stay ahead of him at Food Fighters, she would have to remain one step ahead of him. Losing was not an option. Not the way her pride stuck out and demanded recompense.
“You gonna read what he has to say?”
She didn’t want to. If the teasing offerings of food were jabs at her, designed to lower her confidence or, worse, declare his prowess, she’d never be able to get past it. It would hurt too much, because for now, she clung to the idea that maybe this was an apology.
She took the outstretched envelope, sending a scathing look to Marco that made it clear she did not expect him to stick around to hear the contents. He had the decency to look sheepish before backing away. Byron, on the other hand, would not be so easily dismissed. “Well?”
Her scalp tingled as she scanned the card and a blush lit her up like Vegas. She crumpled the card in one hand before walking to the gas stove. The pilot made quick work of the sizzling words and only when the page had disintegrated into ash and smoke did Ginger let out a breath of relief that it was gone.
Even Byron wouldn’t get to read this one. The words were positively scandalous.
And, goddamn Lee, she kind of liked it.
