Recipe for Persuasion

by Sonali Dev

  The throbbing in his knee spread all through him like rage. He stepped into her space, the memory of betrayal vibrating through him, and leaned close to her ear. “They were the first toes I sucked.” His tone was cruel, but he didn’t care. “Letting them get severed under my watch would be callous, wouldn’t it?”

  She stepped away from him, face flaming, her scent flooding his brain. Her hair still smelled like it always had. As though her essence was wrapped up in it, clean and fiery like freshly bloomed roses. He hated how it reached inside him and dug up memories. But like everything else about her, even her scent had become colder. The fire almost snuffed out, even the vibrancy of roses too restrained to be real.

  The full blast of her jet-black glare met his. “Since when is being callous a problem for you?”

  It was Rico’s turn to stiffen, but he had spent too much time in the spotlight to let it show.

  What about chasing her around like a puppy had been callous? Or about begging her not to leave him?

  Please, Ash. I’ll do whatever you want to make myself worthy of you. Don’t leave me.

  How had he had so little self-respect?

  “Why are you here, Frederico?” she finally said, throwing another wary look around the room, and while there was something comforting about the fact that she had changed beyond recognition, how much she seemed to care about what everyone thought rubbed his nerves raw. Even at sixteen she had been more self-possessed than most adults he knew; none of the fads and waves of what their school thought was cool had ever seemed to register with her. She had been so brutally focused on what mattered to her that Rico had let being one of the things that did matter become his life.

  Of course she’d like to know why he was here. Laying out his hand in front of her without any thought of self-preservation once had taught him well. He never left a play open anymore. “Didn’t you watch the interviews? I’m here to learn how to cook. My career just ended and I need a hobby.” He kept his voice cool, his smile cooler.

  Her eyes narrowed. She scoffed without scoffing.

  “Why are you here, Ashna?”

  Her gaze fell to the wooden chopping board at their station. She adjusted it so it was perfectly aligned with the countertop. “I’m here for the only reason anyone should be here. Not to play games, but to win this competition.” She made another adjustment to the already perfectly aligned board. “But that’s not going to happen if we’re on a team. We can’t be together.”

  He had to laugh at that. “Not like I’ve ever heard that from you before.”

  Her face flamed again and something other than tired flatness glittered in her eyes for the first time, a small spark of the fire that had defined her, breaking through this new frigid exterior.

  He crossed his arms and relaxed his hip into the countertop. “If what you say is what you mean”—another cool smile—“and you do want to win, then I think we’ve got a pretty good start. A record number of viewers are expected to tune in for today’s show and they will be voting. And they already love us together.” What had the journalist from Sports Illustrated said? Ah yes, “You can’t fake this kind of magic.” If only they knew the truth. Ashna Raje could fake pretty much anything.

  Was she faking being calm right now, or was this coldness real? “Yes, but I’m not here to win a popularity contest based on some sort of rom-com the public is waiting to see unfold. This is a cooking show. It’s my career, not a hobby, and I want to win based on my talent.”

  He was totally calling bullshit on that. Still, he had to be impressed that she had fallen into her father’s legacy so easily and wholeheartedly. He had never imagined her running the restaurant. At least not until the very end, when he’d finally met her father.

  “If this were about talent alone, half the scores wouldn’t be based on audience votes. At this point the only way you’re winning is if we’re on the same team.” So he sounded arrogant, so shoot him.

  She swallowed. “We’re going to have to lay some ground rules.” Which wasn’t exactly an admission that he was right, but he was taking it as such.

  “Again, like I’ve never gotten that from you before.” He sent a lazy smile at a camera. “What ground rules would you like to lay down this time?”

  Her jaw clenched. “We can’t talk about our past. None of that ‘this time, last time’ stuff. This show has nothing to do with that.” The new cold flatness was firmly back in her eyes.

  “What past?” He could do cold and flat too.

  “Thanks.”

  Pushing off the station, he turned to face her. She was still fiddling with the chopping board. With one finger he pushed it out of alignment. Her hands stilled on the wood. She didn’t look up at him.

  “Don’t mention it.” He kept his finger on the board and held it in place as she tried to straighten it again. “I’ve had enough practice with you hiding me like a dirty secret.”

  She had pushed him into the bathroom once, when her cousin had walked into the In-N-Out they were at. Years of women using him as arm candy hadn’t wiped away that memory.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Which was just as well, because there wasn’t anything in her eyes he wanted to see. Bringing up their past wasn’t going to benefit him either. It was certainly not the right strategy for closure.

  Before either of them could say more, Jonah came back. “Sorry to interrupt.” He grinned in his extra-smarmy way.

  Ashna smiled at him kindly, obviously ready to hug him for the interruption.

  “It’s time to get to know the other contestants,” Jonah said, the thick tension between Ashna and Rico sliding right past his powers of deduction. “They’re going to do introductions. And guess what? You two are first.”

  Ashna stiffened. But he was Rico Silva; and it was showtime.

  “Us being first sounds like a prediction, mate,” he said, and held his arm out to Ashna.

  Given the tight set of her mouth, he wasn’t sure if she would take it, but she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. The smile she attempted for the camera was a valiant effort.

  Together they walked under the spotlight to applause and hoots. For better or worse, they were doing this.

  Chapter Ten

  Three steps with her hand on Rico’s arm and Ashna knew he was in pain. His forearm was warm and ripped under the dark gray button-down he was wearing. No forearm on earth had any business being so . . . so . . . solid despite the pain his body was communicating. Thinking of him as solid made Ashna want to throw up.

  Or burst into nervous laughter again.

  The ironic consequence was that she involuntarily squeezed his arm. She felt him half turn toward her—the familiarity of his movements next to her only made the queasiness worse—and he put his hand on hers and squeezed back.

  Really? Yeah, no!

  She pulled her hand away, stepped under the too-bright spotlight, and smiled at China, focusing her attention on her friend to keep from having to process the combined attention of the cast, crew, and studio audience.

  Next to her, Rico was having the exact opposite reaction. All the attention coming his way seemed to pump through him, inflating him into someone she didn’t recognize. He gave the cameras what everyone seemed to think was his most dazzling smile. Every single woman in the room let out a sigh, several hands pressed against heaving bosoms. Ashna scanned the crowd to make sure no outright swooning had taken place.

  Ashna threw him a look. Was he seeing this? Did he not find it ridiculous?

  Nope, he was soaking it up, reflecting it back. It wasn’t his usual loose-limbed confidence, but something more languidly in control, studiedly transparent. He was working the room and the cameras, and everyone stood there lapping it up in huge thirsty gulps.

  The boy who hadn’t given two shits (his words, not hers) about what the world thought of him was now this . . . this slick charmer. If China hadn’t grinned at her like someone who had glimpsed heaven, Ashna wouldn’t have been able to keep hersel
f from walking off the set.

  The network had announced this week that China was the lead producer on the show. This was it, China’s dream. She cleared her throat into the mic and laughed.

  “So, hey, hi!” China said, and applause and cheering erupted around her. Everyone was caught up in her excitement, softened as they were by Rico’s winks and grins. “Welcome!” China was in her element with a mic in her hand telling people what to do. No wonder she had endured the disappointment of her family by not working at the yoga studio. This is what she’d been born to do, and she’d always known it.

  Her usual producer’s uniform, a jacket over a T-shirt and jeans, and sneakers, was new and extra spiffy today. She dropped a curtsy in response to the crowd’s appreciation and explained their agenda for the day. First, she would introduce everyone informally, and then DJ, their host, would do it for the cameras. Ashna looked around, but DJ wasn’t here yet.

  “First up is owner and executive chef of Palo Alto’s legendary Indian fine dining restaurant, Curried Dreams, Ashna Raje.” A polite spattering of applause. “And her partner, the striker for Manchester United—the man you’re all wondering how we managed to nab—Frederico Silva!” An explosion of cheers. “But here at the Food Network we give away recipes, not trade secrets.” They loved that, and cheers ebbed and turned into laughter.

  Standing next to her, Rico vibrated with good humor. Whether it was real or part of this New Rico, Ashna couldn’t tell, but something about it was so joyful that a parched part of her soaked it up.

  “We’re tremendously excited about the show,” China went on. “We fully expect it to be the next big thing.” She threw a grateful smile at Rico and Ashna. “Already we’re a household name thanks to a very generous and heroic act.” Ashna worked hard to suppress her groan. Yes, she knew it made her a terrible person, but thinking about Rico slamming down on his hurt knee made her want to shake him. It also made her want to find him a chair.

  Crazed applause.

  Rico took a bow. Ashna practiced every breathing technique India had ever taught her, but then China touched her heart as she looked at Ashna, which was so sweet that Ashna found it impossible not to smile.

  When the next wave of fawning and hooting died down, China held out the mic to Rico and Ashna. Rico’s hand pressed into the small of her back, it seemed to take him a second to realize what he was doing and he withdrew it. Which didn’t remove the warm imprint from her skin. Rico waited for her to speak into the microphone, but she couldn’t, her arms wouldn’t move.

  With all the smoothness of who he now was, he took the mic from China and gave her a hug. Really? The Boy No One Was Allowed to Touch (except her, of course) was all cuddly now?

  The cameras were on them, but when China looked at her, Ashna could still see the holy shit, he’s good on her face. Ashna made the effort to hold in her scoff.

  “What an honor to be here,” Rico said. It was unfair what the mic did to his voice. The bass, the silk, it all magnified manifold. Those rounded consonants of his accent, a mix of his Brazilian and English heritage, melted into one another as though they knew the impact they had on ovaries everywhere. Ashna counted at least five women pressing a hand into their bellies.

  Ashna wanted to flip him the bird.

  “What a stroke of luck to get partnered with the most talented of all the chefs here.”

  Applause broke out around them again, along with some friendly boos. He smiled at her—a smile that looked benign enough, but she knew he saw the virtual bird she was flipping him, and she was certain he drew immense satisfaction from it.

  “These introductions aren’t going to be on the show,” she whispered when he had charmed the pants off the crowd sufficiently and they returned to make way for the next chef-celebrity pair.

  “The cameras are on,” he whispered back, his warm spearmint breath stroking her earlobe, “so everything is fair game. It’s reality TV, Chef Raje. Welcome to show business.”

  Anger pulsed through her, displacing all the nervousness. She hated to admit it, but having someone who knew how to navigate this craziness was a plus. So long as he kept his word and left their past behind, and she didn’t let herself forget it even for a moment, she could handle this.

  China started to introduce the other contestants. Competitive spirit buzzed through the air and something long forgotten stirred inside Ashna, something that made her palms itch for the feel of a ball. She rubbed the feeling off on her pants.

  First up was Tatiana Rain, a TV dog whisperer who was wearing a pink rhinestone collar around her neck. She was just as charming as Rico had been.

  This was a pattern. Every star who followed was amply armed with the charm offensive. They did all the talking. The chefs—none of whom Ashna knew and all of whom had impressive credentials—followed Ashna’s lead and merely stood by in support. There had to be a special camp where celebrities trained, because as they took the stage one after another, Ashna realized that they were all adept at owning the room while showing nothing real.

  The fact that Rico did this better than everyone else here made her strangely restless. Only the audience seemed to exist for him. In this moment, Ashna could have been anyone—a thought that she chose to find comforting.

  Next up was Lilly Cromwell, an older soap opera star from Tennessee with a stark southern drawl—the grandma Ashna had prayed for. Danny El followed, a child star who had aged out of the Disney Channel and was trying to make a name for himself in the adult acting world.

  “Who’s the child’s agent?” Rico whispered to her. He was right, this was probably not the best platform if he wanted to be taken seriously.

  Then came Song Ji Woo, an actor from a K-drama, which, the young woman was kind enough to explain in the most endearingly modest move, was what Korean TV shows were called. As if there was anyone alive who didn’t know this.

  Song was possibly the most gorgeous person Ashna had ever seen. She had one of those faces where exquisite individual features were arranged, well, exquisitely. Her unabashed excitement about being on the show added sincerity to all that perfection. Apparently she was a fan of Rico’s (of course she was, insert eye roll here). Bouncing on her heels, she announced that she was only here to meet him. This resulted in more hooting and applause. The man executed another self-deprecating head bow that rivaled Song’s sincerity (insert another truckload of eye rolls).

  The last one to introduce herself was P. T. Cruiser (a pen name, one hoped), an author of cozy mysteries.

  “There’s an oxymoron, if I’ve ever heard one,” Rico whispered to Ashna. After their turn, she had excused herself to go find Jonah and request that he get Rico a chair. Between the pain he was trying to hide and his stance, it was obvious putting weight on his leg was killing him. The high director’s chair they’d given him meant he was perfectly positioned to commentate into her ear. Well, no good deed ever went unpunished, did it?

  At least Ashna’s annoyance at his quips kept her nice and distracted. Thinking about competing with these ambitious, talented people would have been exciting if not for her special affliction of only being able to cook Baba’s recipes. With that gift there was no possible way for this to end in anything but staggeringly disastrous public humiliation.

  The author made a joke about the show being the perfect setting for one of her novels—which were filled with murder and mayhem.

  Just you wait, Ashna wanted to tell her. Just you wait.

  THAT FIRST DAY on set had gone off like an especially heinous nightmare. And that was without actually having to cook. It had been just introductions and trying to get everyone comfortable with the set. An abject failure when it came to Ashna. She couldn’t remember a time when she’d felt more uncomfortable.

  For all the harsh and sudden ways in which things between them had ended, the years Ashna had spent with Rico were the only time when she had felt sheltered from the storm of her life. Now, a few hours in his presence, and the storm she’d believed she had
harnessed ravaged her again.

  And tomorrow the cooking challenges would start.

  The producers, including her traitorous friend, were being unsurprisingly tight-lipped about everything. China had officially crossed over to the evil side. As for DJ, he had swept in, shot the introductions, and taken off. All Ashna had gotten out of him was a quick hug and a promise to catch up soon. There was some sort of emergency with one of Yash’s fund-raising events in LA that Nisha couldn’t get to, and DJ had jumped in. All hands on deck, that was the Rajes. DJ had slipped effortlessly into the golden circle just the way Ashna had expected him to.

  Ashna wished she’d been the one to help with Yash’s fund-raiser, coward that she was. But running away never solved problems. Having tried that strategy, she knew its success rate was zero.

  It was past midnight and she was still at the restaurant taking inventory and getting things set up for the week. Mina Kaki was going to help her manage Curried Dreams when she had to shoot. Wilfrieda and Khalid were going to share sous chef duties. She had taken care of the things she had control over. The rest she couldn’t think about until she got there.

  Just as she was ready to leave, her phone rang.

  She answered because there were only so many problems she could push away for later.

  “That knife didn’t touch you, did it?” Shobi said with uncharacteristic maternal worry.

  She’d seen the clip. Fabulous!

  “I thought you stayed off social media.” Shobi wasn’t a fan even though her foundation had a following of hundreds of thousands, which of course she would bring up soon enough.

  “Hate the thing. For the most part I leave it to my social media director. But Flora chanced upon the video and sent it to me.”

  Ashna loved Flora, her mother’s personal assistant, but she wanted to shake her for this. “It wasn’t how it looks. You know how TV is.” How Media Jumbles Reality was another one of Shobi’s favorite themes.

  “It’s that restaurant. Look at what it’s done to you. By now you should have been in a committed relationship and not swooning like a teenager.” Ashna made her way to the holding area and started wrapping silverware in napkins. God forbid if Shoban Gaikwad Raje might say anything as conformist as by now you should be married the way any other Indian mother would. But no, the keeper of women’s rights had to say “committed relationship” instead. It would have been all fine and dandy had Shobi herself been capable of being in a committed relationship.