Heat 1 (Heat: Master Chefs #1) (5 page)

Chapter 6

T
he weekend seemed to take forever to come
around.  I went through the motions, teaching four classes everyday, checking
on homework every night and planning the day’s lesson every morning.

But
at the back of my mind was Bobby… constantly.  And seeing him in class every
day added an extra degree of difficulty when it came to concentrating on
cooking.

So
when Saturday morning finally came around and I met Bobby at the main entrance
of his dorm, I was on edge.  I didn’t want to blush again, not the embarrassing
way I had when he’d mention going on a date with him, but as I headed to the
entrance and saw Bobby in the distance, I felt the heat of that blush rise up
to my cheeks again.

I
had to get that in check.  Of course, I could fib and say I’d been out in the
sun a little too long.

But
no.  I couldn’t really do that.

“Hey,”
I said as I skipped up the steps. 

“Wow. 
Look at you.”

Aside
from that night at the meet and greet where I’d removed the white lab coat to
reveal the demure midnight blue dress I’d worn, he’d only seen me in that
dreaded white, straight cut coat.  For our first tour of the city, I’d opted
for stretchy skinny jeans that were snug without being overly skin tight, with
a long hot pink shirt with a circular cut out at my back.  Though the morning
was cool, I’d still hopped into my comfy flip flops and I’d pulled my hair back
into a relaxed ponytail.

“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 9
^th
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 impressive 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.