by Jill Haven
When I looked up again, Jared had joined me in looking over my workspace, and I groaned inwardly.
“You might as well go home now,” he said, his tone conversational and light despite his words. “We both know I’m the best, and I’ve got this in the bag.”
“Oh, go away, Jared.” I couldn’t do much more than grumble at him as I retied my apron around me and flexed my fingers—I wanted all of my concentration and focus for this. The longer I stayed in the classroom, the more my dream of Paris faded, and the more I wanted to work for Ewin Storm. My inspiration, idol…crush.
And if I had my way, I’d also crush the hell out of this contest. It didn’t matter how many of us got chosen—I wanted to be best of all. The clock on the wall ticked louder as I thought through the tasks I’d need to complete and blocked my time for each one.
“Are you all ready?” Chef Roberts clapped her hands at the end of her sentence, and I nearly grinned at the surprised side-eye Ewin threw her way, but I settled for a quick twitch of my lips before I pushed my amusement to one side.
This was a contest, and I wanted to do well. Win, if I could. If I could show enough potential talent for Ewin Storm to take an interest in me…well, happy didn’t quite cover it. And, shit… His visit flooded me with desire to win his contest and become a top-rated chef like he was and also sent me awash with hormones, pheromones—whatever. Something that tingled lust right through me. I wanted it all. I wanted the cooking, the demanding career, and I wanted to have babies and a family. Other omegas managed that much, right?
Chef Roberts looked around at all of us again, then she turned to Ewin. “Is there anything you’d like to say before they start cooking in earnest? After all, they have an endgame now.”
I’d seen Ewin judge a TV cooking contest before, so I almost recited the words with him.
“Have fun, take care, and put your heart into it.” The familiar motto rolled from his tongue, and I closed my eyes and my thoughts flickered back to Dawson, imagining him at my graduation, and to all my hopes and dreams for my future.
Then an image of Ewin Storm and his deep, dark eyes and short black hair pushed all other thoughts away and heat zinged through me.
Clearing my throat, I avoided looking at the front of the classroom as I began to measure out my sugar. I could actually eyeball it, and it usually turned out better when I did. I lifted the bowl off the scales and focused on the sound of the small white grains and what they looked like piling into a white mound.
If I concentrated hard enough on the actual cooking, I wouldn’t be constantly aware of Ewin’s presence and his movements around the benches as he touched ingredients and asked questions about what people were going to make and the techniques they planned on using.
What if pavlova is too simple?
I froze as I struck two eggs together to crack one of them, and gloopy white dripped from the broken shell. Maybe I’d made the wrong choice and I should have selected something more complicated to show off a wider range of skills.
But the clock ticked on, and I didn’t have time to change my mind. Not and do something well. I should have thought this through more carefully before. I glared a little at Chef Roberts. She could have at least told us, given us time to prepare ourselves to cook for a legend.
I wouldn’t change my mind. I started the mixer blade beating my eggs and checked the temperature in the oven, then I retreated to the pantry to choose my fruit.
2
Ewin
I could look at some of them and cross them from my mental list right away. I wouldn’t even waste pen ink writing their names down. One of the girls rushed around her workstation, red-faced and sweaty, never focused on one task or another, and one of the guys permanently had a Kleenex pressed to his nose and looked as though the next step was actual tears.
Each of my steps echoed off the tile floor as I strolled around the room and between the students. It was too quiet in here. Where was the kitchen noise? I missed my kitchen, the heat of the flames, the sizzle of steak as it hit the pan, the aroma of garlic and spices in the steam. I even missed the yelling and cursing.
Each student bent over their counter. Some studied books or tattered pieces of paper covered in spidery handwriting. Interesting…perhaps old family recipes. But I dismissed them. The great chefs didn’t need a recipe. They cooked on instinct, on a gut feel for their ingredients and what blended well. That was who I wanted in my kitchen. Only those individuals for whom cooking was as much an art form as a science.
Across the room, a young woman wiped her hands on a towel and moved with businesslike precision around her small space. Hmm. She was a scientist, but would her cooking help her stand out? She certainly seemed to know one end of a potato ricer from another.
But I needed only the very best. I had to be back in Cedar Falls, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t make a few great business decisions while I was here. I asked her name, anyway. Maybe she actually was the best Gabriella had to offer me. I glanced at my old friend then shook my head. No…if Gaby said she had some special students, she meant really special. I’d definitely know when I saw them.
The guy at the back, the one who borrowed eggs, didn’t seem so bad. “Name?” I stood next to him and glanced at his ingredients. “What are you making?”
“Jared, and I’m making coq au vin, Chef.” He twisted the pepper mill over the bubbling pot.
“That well-known egg dish,” I interjected in an agreeable tone. I couldn’t help needling him. It didn’t hurt to let him know I saw everything that went on in any of my kitchens. Set expectations right away, and all that.
He didn’t even have the decency to blush. Instead, he offered me a cheeky grin and a lazy shrug of his shoulder. “Some people are just worth irritating, you know? Can’t say I don’t go the extra mile.”
He nodded toward the student he’d accepted the egg from earlier, and I took it as my cue to saunter in his direction. I didn’t need to stand next to coq-guy any longer—his techniques looked spot on, and his dish smelled incredible. I glanced at my list. Not coq-guy. Jared. I added a pencil underline to his name.
When I looked up, I’d arrived by the quiet guy beating his eggs. He didn’t look up, but my nose twitched. Omega, by his scent. I stood, just for a moment, and breathed him in, a wild green, mossy scent that spoke of vitality and youth. It had been a while since something lit a spark in me like that. He didn’t even glance my way, but he had to be aware I was watching him.
I cleared my throat.
“Hello,” he offered as he bent to check the consistency of his egg whites through the glass mixing bowl. He added a tiny bit of cream of tartar.
“How much did you put in?” I checked for measuring spoons, but he didn’t even have one on his counter.
He shrugged lightly. “Enough. I guess we’ll see, though.”
“Do you always cook like that?” I couldn’t help my curiosity. Not many chefs still in the culinary institute had the confidence to cook without measuring their ingredients. “It seems brave.”
“I know this recipe.”
Maybe he thought he was too good for me. I couldn’t get much more than single-sentence answers from him. Challenge accepted.
“Describe what you’re making for me.”
But he still didn’t shift his focus. “It’s my take on a pavlova. I fill it with whatever fruit is in season, usually, but this time I’ve gone for a more traditional summer berry one. Like an Eton mess. Only not a mess. I considered something a little wild, but…eh…” He bobbed his head from side to side as if weighing something up. “We’ll see how I feel when I get that far.”
“Intriguing. And how do you plan to cook your pavlova without leaving the meringue in the oven for several hours to achieve that perfect blend of crisp exterior and chewy, soft interior?”
The tips of his ears pinked. “It’s my twist on the recipe. It’s a family favorite I’ve been baking since I was ten.” His voice dropped to a hush as if he’d
confessed something he hadn’t meant to tell me.
“Oh, yeah, what’s the twist?” I asked my follow-up question out of genuine interest rather than simple professionalism. Still, I needed to narrow down my list somehow, right? The more questions the better. That didn’t explain why this kid deserved a quiz session more than the others, though, and I didn’t want to think about that too closely.
Instead, I waited for him to answer.
“I suppose it’s not much of a twist, to be honest,” he confided. “Just common sense when working under classroom conditions and there’s a lack of time. To help the meringue cool quicker, I crack the oven door open.”
“That’s it?” Maybe he couldn’t make the list after all.
He turned to me and grinned while I swallowed my groan. Jesus Christ. He was beautiful.
“Not the whole twist, but I can’t give away all my secrets to someone I just met, Chef.”
I cleared my throat, buying time to arrange my thoughts into an answer. But I lapsed into silence. Something about watching him work was relaxing and almost hypnotic. I could forget my troubles and just watch his hands move, imagining them touching me, drifting across my skin.
“What sort of pavlova?” My question croaked out of my dry throat, and I automatically reached for a glass from under the work surface and turned on the faucet.
“Well…” He pursed his lips and paused. “I thought maybe summer berry and then I thought about chocolate. You know when it’s all melted and runny and feels like silk in your mouth?” He stopped and his cheeks flushed. “I also considered passion fruit,” he whispered.
“They all sound delicious.” I turned away from him before I made a fool of myself, but not before I drew a second deep inhale. The sounds of the kitchen rushed back to me, as if I’d burst the bubble we’d been standing in. “Name?” I murmured.
“August.”
He got two pencil underlines on my list. He’d been quiet, focused, understated, and he had the flair I wanted to see in a chef in my kitchen. In fact, he had more than the flair I wanted to see…he had a smile I wanted to see every day and a body I wouldn’t mind seeing more of. But I squelched that thought under the weight of my reputation and August’s youth, although my chest ached suddenly at the switch to being professional.
So, I pretty much kept it to myself, but I could be a bit of a dick. I liked the fanfare of being a well-known chef. I enjoyed being able to judge little nobody chefs making their way up the ranks to work in kitchens around the world. Cuisine was an industry of hard knocks, and people like me dished them out early. We went through it, so it seemed only fair to treat those following in our footsteps the same way. Or something like that.
Gaby set a table and chairs at one end of the room for us, and we sat like a crowned king and queen, waiting for our loyal subjects to bring us their offerings. It would have been funny…but we actually did that. And her students took it all very seriously, as if they were actually on some TV show with judges waiting to chide them about their soggy bottoms.
I glanced up at the waiting chefs. Some seemed to be letting their nerves get the better of them, but others were almost haughty and arrogant. My gaze flicked to August, then away…then back, as if something about him drew me. He looked collected and calm, his beautiful face serene as his eyes met mine. A tiny movement curved his lips into a brief smile, and I savored that brief moment before I directed my focus to the elaborate pavlova in front of him.
“Right.” Gaby clapped her hands, a habit that was both endearing and irritating, but her students seemed to have an institutionalized response to her.
They straightened and their focus became sharper. A couple of them ran their palms over their aprons and blew out slow breaths. Did I look that scary? I tried to rein in my smile. Good.
The first student approached our table while his classmates looked on. The other one on my list—Jared. He sauntered as if he hadn’t a care in the world, and I studied him. There was a moment confidence became arrogance, and maybe that had already passed him by. I’d need to watch him.
Of course, his coq au vin was almost perfect, containing the right amount of each ingredient and fantastic balance and blend of flavors. I slurped up the sauce, then dabbed my lips with a napkin.
“Wonderful.” But as much as it was a technical win, there was something missing. It had no heart. Still, customers at my restaurants didn’t usually pay for heart in their dishes. They wanted cookie cutter perfection without deviation every time. They’d been conditioned to it by chain restaurants and a general state of generica reaching as far as they could travel.
No, I wanted the heart. I wanted the inspiration of working among artists. And before I’d even tasted his dish, I wanted August.
It was a long slow road of tasting and polite smiles before we reached the moment he set his pavlova on the table between us. Gaby’s mischievous smile suggested she was almost as excited as I was to crack open the meringue.
“It looks good, August,” she murmured, and her eyes twinkled. “Are you ready to give up the details on the secrets in your recipe yet?”
“No, ma’am.” He took a respectful step back, one foot scraping quietly over the tile as a dimple of amusement appeared on one cheek.
It seemed like an age-old, comfortable exchange, and I smiled at the ease between them.
“This is great,” I mumbled around my first mouthful, surprise as much as pleasure forcing the words out. I usually preferred to be a much more inscrutable judge, the kind that kept them guessing.
I met his gaze as the flavor sensations he’d created flooded my taste buds, and electricity seemed to crackle in the air between us, leaving my next exhale stuck in my chest.
His pupils dilated as if he’d felt the same jolt, but he bowed his head, apparently accepting the praise with as much modesty as he could while all eyes rested on him.
“We’re done…and I’m stuffed.” Gaby grinned and patted her belly as the students gathered in front of us laughed.
“We’ll retire for our deliberations—” I started.
“Plus maybe a nap,” Gaby said.
“And we’ll be back as soon as we can.”
The students drifted away, back to their messy workstations and filled the air with the sounds of bowls chinking together and water running into stainless steel sinks.
I pushed my chair back and indicated the door to Gaby’s office. “Shall we?”
After I declined anything stronger than water, and we were both comfortable in the strange, formal little armchairs to the side of Gaby’s large desk, I rested my right ankle on my left knee and propped my list on my thigh. “I really only have two names.”
She raised an eyebrow. “August had better be on there.” She didn’t even crack a smile.
“He’s your star student?”
She nodded, the movement slight. “Something like that. He deserves a break like this.” She leaned closer to me, her chair creaking and the mug in her hand releasing the bitter scent of burned, office coffee. “That kid has had it hard for a long time, and he’s making it work against all of life’s odds.”
I nodded, but I wasn’t sure what I was agreeing with.
“Let me see your list,” she demanded, her hand suddenly outstretched.
“I don’t remember you being this bossy back in school, Gaby.”
She looked at me, not a trace of humor in her face. “Maybe if I had been, I’d have gotten further than just working in the office attached to where I learned my trade. We can’t all be you, I know that…” She bowed her head briefly. “But some of us don’t even get the chance to try.” She ducked her head again, but not before I caught the gleam of tears in her eyes, and I looked away, focusing my gaze on the leafy trees blowing in the breeze outside the window.
Her sudden grief for what might have been seemed too private to intrude upon. And if I thought too long or too hard about it, my thoughts would turn to my mother, the reason for my return to Cedar Falls, and I
couldn’t afford that time to wallow when I had a job to do.
“All right.” She stabbed her finger against the paper. “Jared. Technically perfect. Creates flawless dishes.”
“But?” She’d left something unspoken, and I nudged her foot with mine.
She shrugged. “He ain’t got no soul.”
I laughed. “That’s what I figured. Still, the industry likes perfection in whatever form it’s packaged.”
She nodded again. “He should be on the list. He gets it right.” Then she smiled. “But I’m glad you spotted August. He doesn’t put himself forward as much as he should, but he’s got something really special. I think he might be the next big thing.”
“Really?” I settled deeper into the chair, trying to find a comfortable position. The noises of the students cleaning their workstations were muted in here, but an occasional clang of dishes or shout of chatter still filtered through the closed door.
“You’ve only seen the smallest snapshot of what he can do. And we sprang this on them, so no one was prepared. The institute directors have chosen him to receive the Paris scholarship.”
I stroked my chin. That scholarship got me started. I opened my mouth to reply, but Gaby glared at me.
“I know you know what that scholarship means to someone like August.”
“Fuck,” I murmured. “I know exactly what it means. It could make him.”
“It could.” Her words were curt.
“But I want him in my kitchen.” It was the best business decision for my restaurant. “I can give him everything Paris can give him.”
She nodded a third time, slowly, contemplatively. “You can. I know why you’re back in Cedar Falls, and it isn’t going to be an easy time for you, but if you think you can train him—really train him—without distractions, then working in your restaurant and absorbing your knowledge and experience will be almost as good for August as any Paris scholarship.”
