Hot Under Pressure (12 page)

Priority one was to get them both out of here.

Priority two? Get his team into position to win this damn competition, because he had to have her one last time.

Chapter 11

Over her years in the male-dominated world of magazine publishing, Claire had learned to read a room.

It was a useful skill, one that had served her well in front of editorial boards, irate advertisers, and banquet halls full of chefs whose restaurants she’d reviewed—not always favorably. It had helped ensure that as her workplace dynamic gradually shifted to accommodate the influx of highly educated, determined, career-minded women, Claire remained at the head of the pack.

Glancing around the frenetic San Francisco kitchen as the challenge clock wound down to zero, Claire saw a number of interesting things.

Devon Sparks had arrived on an early flight that morning, and Eva had been touring him around the kitchen, getting him up to speed on where things stood in the competition.

Now they were standing by the back wall, having what looked like a very serious conversation; it was the first time Claire had seen her young friend without a smile on her face since they’d left Chicago.

Claire frowned; either Devon was sharing upsetting details of his pregnant wife’s recent illness, or Eva was in a funk for some other reason.

Tilting her gaze to the right, she checked out Danny Lunden to see if he looked similarly frustrated—that would mean there was trouble in paradise, and Claire could expect to spend a good portion of her evening dispensing chocolate, martinis, and “poor baby”s.

However, although Danny cast the occasional concerned look in his true love’s direction, he didn’t appear to be suffering from anything worse than a pan of sadly flat-looking ladyfingers. Making a disgusted noise, he scraped the sponge cake cylinders into the garbage and started fresh while Claire turned back to her perusal of the room.

All the teams were rushing around, spilling sauces and cursing sticky pressure cooker lids and praying that the blast chiller could firm up their from-scratch, oddly flavored ice creams. The Midwest chefs, in particular, appeared to be floundering—there was quite a bit of red-faced shouting coming from their team leader, Ryan Larousse.

Danny’s teammates from the East Coast team appeared to be doing well, although one of them seemed a bit behind after having gotten caught in exactly the situation Claire had warned them about.

One of the most interesting things she’d observed all morning had been the state of Beck and Skye Gladwell when they’d tumbled out of the walk-in, clothing askew and hair mussed, after that chef with the dreadlocks had tried to get into the cooler for a carton of buttermilk and found the door jammed.

Dreadlock Boy had pried it open with the help of his West Coast teammates, and there they were, the intimidatingly large, dark-haired chef wrapped around the petite, zaftig hippie with the messy red curls like something off the covers of the romance novels Claire kept as her secret indulgence.

They’d broken apart instantly, claiming the embrace had been all about conserving body heat, but Claire was no fool. She knew how it could be when circumstances threw one into contact with an old flame.

So really, she had nothing to feel guilty about in regards to Beck and Skye, just because two chefs had found themselves trapped in the large commercial refrigerator during the challenge even after she’d warned them! They’d surely enjoyed themselves.

So what if she might have had a chance to get the door latch fixed, had she not been so busy having a moment with Kane Slater?

Guilt was an entirely unproductive emotion. As was regret.

Fear, however …

Claire’s gaze fell on Kane where he stood watching the chefs, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a child too excited to stand still. Claire felt a visceral tug toward him, as if he’d hooked her behind the belly button and was now reeling her in.

Claire dug in her heels and resisted the pull, feeling a need to maintain some distance—both professional and physical.

When she was with Kane … it was all too much. She felt too much, hoped too much, cared too much, and she was smart enough to know that an ounce of fear for the future would save her an infinity of regret when this affair inevitably ended.

So she turned resolutely away from her young ex-lover, and most certainly did not notice the flex and play of muscles in his tanned arms, bared to the elbow by the rolled sleeves of his hipster-plaid button-down.

A loud buzz jerked Claire’s attention back to the wall clock, which now read 00:00 in flashing red digits.

“Time’s up,” Eva called, moving front and center. “Step away from your stations.” She glanced at Claire, who gave her an infinitesimal nod.

Taking a fortifying breath, Claire assumed her best blank expression and stepped forward, heels clicking loudly against the tiled kitchen floor.

Showtime.

*   *   *

There were times when Skye thought if she could choose to have inherited anything from her parents, it wouldn’t be her mother’s artistic brilliance or her father’s genius for political satire.

It would be the single quality they both shared: complete and utter confidence that everything they did was right and good.

Even after tasting her parmesan-chive meringue—even after forcing every person on her team to taste it—Skye’s belly was still clenched tight in terror of the judges’ reactions.

Fiona, who knew her too well, leaned over close enough to hiss, “It’s going to be fine. Stop looking so nervous! They’re going to think you sneezed on their plates or something.”

Skye laughed because she knew she was meant to, and the bands of tension around her midsection eased a little.

She stared down the long stainless steel table where each team was presenting their finished dishes to the judges. Why did the West Coast team always have to go last?

“I can’t help being nervous,” she whispered to Fiona, who shot her a sympathetic look that somehow also conveyed a very strong “buck up” vibe. “Everything is riding on this!”

“Not everything! Just your entire life.” Fiona smirked and faced forward again, nudging her shallow square plate of jiggling Jell-O shots in line with the rest of her team’s dishes while Skye went back to fretting.

If they finished last, the way they had in the practice challenge, they were through. Out of the competition and heading back to the Queenie Pie Café in disgrace.

At her parents’ next salon, she’d have to tell them she’d lost. She could already hear her mother’s sympathetic but exasperated voice saying, “Well, what did you expect? You’re wasting your talents, puttering around a kitchen like some fifties housefrau.” And her father would raise his sleek dark brows and take a languid puff of his joint before adding, “Maybe now you’ll let go of this ridiculous retro fantasy and do something meaningful with your life.” She could picture it all so clearly.

Probably because she’d lived through it a time or two already.

The judges were moving down the line, dragging Skye closer and closer to the moment of truth, and she resolutely blocked out everything they were saying to the other teams.

She didn’t want to know. It wasn’t about doing better or worse than anyone else, she told herself. All she could do was her best, and hope it was good enough.

And besides … if she noticed the other teams and how they were faring with the judges, she’d have to be reminded that not only did she need to win this challenge to avoid dealing with her parents’ perennial disappointment—she needed to stay in the competition because Jeremiah was coming home, all the way from Burkina Faso, just to see her cook.

Skye swallowed around a sudden lump in her throat. There was no way she could face her heroic, save-the-world-one-village-at-a-time boyfriend if she failed at a stupid cooking contest.

The deep rumble of a masculine voice roughed over Skye’s skin, catching at her and reminding her that she had enough to be ashamed of as it was.

Stop it
, she lectured herself.
Don’t think about how you’re going to tell Jeremiah about Beck. Don’t think about—oh God—kissing Beck, or the way your whole body came alive the minute he touched you. Don’t think about anything other than getting through the next five minutes.

It was good advice, but when Beck threw his head back and laughed—actually laughed!—at something Kane Slater said about his dish, Skye knew she wouldn’t be able to follow it.

As much as her whole life and a ridiculous amount of her self-worth were tied up in winning this challenge … there was no distraction big enough to keep her mind from wandering to Henry Beck.

Especially when he turned his head suddenly and caught her staring.

Heat seared up the back of Skye’s neck, flooding her cheeks with warmth, and she immediately dropped her gaze to the table in front of her. But there was no way to block her ears, and she listened to every word as Beck explained how he’d come up with his dish.

“Actually, I’d planned to do salmon,” he told the judges. “But you’ve seen that from me before. And then I had the chance to take a few minutes alone with one of the chefs from another team…”

Skye kept her eyes stubbornly trained on her own plate, ignoring the inferno in her blood.

“And she talked some sense into me about what a signature dish really is. So I decided to do this take on linguini with clam sauce. Because for me, cooking is all about taking what you’ve got, and turning it into something better.”

“Flour, egg, clams, white wine, lemon juice,” Devon Sparks counted out as he twirled another bite of pasta around his fork. “Very basic ingredients, but you made them sing. Well done, Chef Beck.”

That wasn’t a glow of pride she felt, and it definitely wasn’t satisfaction that she’d helped Beck crystallize his dish, Skye told herself. Nope.

No way.

Finally, it was the West Coast team’s turn to be judged. Skye stood up straighter, pulling her shoulders back, but not so far back that she was in danger of poking anyone’s eye out with her overlarge chest.

It was a fine line to walk, but she managed it.

The judges strolled down the table, looking cool and fresh and relaxed, and just generally giving off the air of people who hadn’t been brawling their way through a crowded competition kitchen for the past five hours. Skye blew an errant curl off her sticky, sweaty forehead and tried not to miss the chill, dark confines of the walk-in cooler.

“Chef Gladwell,” Claire Durand said in her cool, precise voice. “What do you have for us today? Your team sourced all the ingredients for these signature dishes from…”

“Chinatown,” Skye confirmed. “Which, honestly, if I’d chosen first? I still would have picked Chinatown. It’s my favorite neighborhood in the city.”

“Oh?” Claire wasn’t really looking at her. All her attention was focused on the plates in front of her, but Skye nodded anyway.

“I used to live there,” she babbled nervously. “Above a Chinese grocer, actually, so I’m super familiar with the local shops and what they offer.”

“So even though you drew the short straw, you kind of lucked out,” Kane Slater observed, giving her a friendly smile that somehow didn’t relax a bit of the tension holding Skye’s shoulders in a rigid line.

“Yes. And I hope you enjoy what we’ve prepared for you.” With a practiced flick of her wrist, Skye turned her plate and presented it to the judges. “I know you said ‘signature dish,’ which could mean something we’re known for. But I wanted to stretch a little, and honestly, to me, I think my signature as a chef is the willingness to treat simple, perfect ingredients with love and respect. This dish definitely works for that. It’s a savory meringue, with chives and parmagiano reggiano to give it some bite, with a topping of sweet onion confit and whole basil leaves.”

Each judge had a spoon, and they took turns digging in.

Skye studied their reactions anxiously, holding her breath. Was this too out there? Not out there enough? Would they think she’d tortured the concept of a meringue, pulling it too far off course and taking too many liberties, or would they be impressed that she’d managed to solve the sugar problem?

But when “Intriguing…” was the first thing out of Claire’s mouth, Skye knew she had them. Her shoulders dropped at least two inches, sending relief all down her spine and through her lower back.

Claire Durand looked her in the eye and said simply, “I’m impressed. You’ve achieved something I didn’t think was possible.”

Relief flooded Skye’s system. They were so in!

The judges had more comments, but Skye barely processed them, her whole body alight with hope and joy. She definitely wasn’t still tingling with the aftereffects of Beck’s kiss. No way.

The rest of her team did well, as she’d known they would; Fiona’s playful take on Jell-O shooters was an especially big hit.

Devon Sparks couldn’t stop admiring the brilliant little squares of jewel-bright gelatin flavored like Fiona’s favorite cocktail, the French 75. Fi spent a bunch of time explaining how the French 75 got its name when it was invented during the First World War—for having a kick like a 75mm artillery cannon—but Skye had a feeling that Devon wasn’t listening to her.

The calculating look on his movie-star-handsome face made Skye think grown-up Jell-O shots might be making an appearance at his New York restaurant in the near future.

Nathan’s summer vegetable tart was always a favorite on the Queenie Pie menu, and the judges appeared to agree that it was awesome. Oscar had quietly, stubbornly, made carnitas, the way he did every single Sunday at the café, over Nathan’s strenuous vegetarian objections, and the judges were impressed with the perfectly caramelized crust on the tiny chunks of juicy pork.

They even liked Rex’s unapologetic fish and chips, especially the way he battered the potatoes before frying them, making them extra crispy.

All things considered, Skye thought they had a good shot. But then, she’d thought that before and wound up extremely disappointed. So when the judges headed back to the front of the room to make their announcement about who would stay in the competition and who would be going home, Skye couldn’t help but hold her breath.