Hilary Fields - Bliss

“Mind where yer gawkin’, girlie,” he growled.

Though he’d agreed to be her second in this duel, Malcolm was not best pleased to be spending his Friday subjecting himself to scrutiny by the “idjit unwashed.” Once he’d heard a bit of Sera’s history with Chef Austin, Malcolm had been more than ready to release his inner Highland warrior on her behalf, but he hadn’t dropped his dislike of the general public or his disdain for their “criminally ignorant palates.” Being judged by a bunch of “gastronomic ignoramuses” in this contest was the ultimate affront for the prickly Scotsman. Sera couldn’t blame him; she was feeling unnerved herself at the prospect of letting the city of Santa Fe decide her fate. Fleetingly, she wished she’d taken Asher up on his offer to accompany her, but she’d wanted no distractions while she was getting her head in the game. She’d asked that he, Pauline, Hortencia, and the BRBs not show up until the contest was under way, so she could focus solely on the task at hand.

Focusing in this environment, however, would be anything but easy.

The Blue Coyote had been transformed from posh restaurant to public tribunal, with tables cleared away to leave a wide semicircle of space for the audience. The open-plan kitchen had a long, quarter-moon-shaped bar that allowed patrons to ogle the chefs across the pass while they worked (a fad the rather introverted Serafina had always loathed). The bar’s countertop was set up with two sets of mixers; copious trays, tins, and molds; and matching mise en place containing ingredients from shaved Belgian chocolate to unsalted Irish butter, and everything in between. Tablecloth-shrouded trolleys at either end of the bar held more mystery items for the great bake-off. Probably full of “challenging” ingredients like sea cucumber and monkey’s knuckles, if the Food Channel people have had any say in it, Sera thought, grimacing. They seemed to have taken over the place; camera jockeys and PAs with walkie-talkies stringing wires and testing light levels while the anxious restaurant staff looked on, wondering if they’d be able to clean up the mess in time to open for dinner.

Outside, Canyon Road reveled in a rare warm winter day, the sun blazing merrily in a poetically blue sky. Tourists were strolling up and down the winding street in just their fleeces and down vests, stopping to snap photos of the whimsical sculptures that graced practically every storefront. “Santa Fe’s answer to Madison Avenue,” Sera had heard it called, and she had to agree. The exuberant art scene showcased in Canyon Road’s many galleries was at the core of the City Different’s charm—and brought in a great proportion of its tourism dollars.

Already, people were peeking their heads in the Blue Coyote’s main entrance and peering through the wall of French doors that would be thrown open in an hour when the contest began. Food Channel production peons were keeping the gawkers at bay as politely as they could.

Her opponent in this contest, however, felt no need for politesse.

In the center of it all stood ringmaster Chef Austin, looking tall and leonine in a royal blue chef’s coat custom-embroidered in gold on the breast with his name and the steaming serving dish that was his trademark. He’s a steaming pile of something, all right, thought Sera, straightening her own plain white jacket self-consciously. Supremely confident, Austin was ordering the staff and TV crew about with equal abandon, and they were hustling to accommodate, fearful expressions in their eyes that Sera remembered well from her days in his kitchens. Her stomach tightened.

The only way out of this mess was to win, and win big. If she beat Blake, the publicity would ensure her bakery became a real destination for tourists visiting Santa Fe. But if she lost…

If she lost, she could kiss her Bliss good-bye.

Oh, God…

Hey. Don’t freak out just yet, she rallied herself. Blake may be in his element, but I’m not entirely unarmed. I’ve got my recipes, my equipment, and one highly volatile Scotsman.

At Sera’s side, Malcolm oozed culinary menace, armed with camo-print apron, a special-order utili-kilt bristling with tools from pie crimpers to spatulas, and a hairnet that barely contained his snowy, waist-length locks. His mustaches had been braided, Gimli-style, giving him a truly ferocious look. If I can channel all that ferocity into wowing the crowd with our desserts, we’ve got a chance at winning this thing. But if he goes off the rails… yeek.

“That’s the man, is it?” Malcolm growled, giving Blake the hairy eyeball from under furry brows. “Och, that preening popinjay dinna stand a chance against us, lass. Look at ’im, lording it up like ’e owns the place.”

“He does,” Sera reminded him, smiling despite her nerves as she noted how prominent her pie maven’s brogue had grown since arriving in enemy territory. “Or at least, he’s the largest stakeholder, so he may as well. C’mon, the contest’s going to start soon, and we need to get set up.” She started tugging Malcolm toward the prep stations.

“First I want tae size up th’ competition. Let’s go hae’ a word wi’ Chef Snottypants.”

Before Sera could demur, Malcolm was marching, kilt swaying, over to her ex. “Hold your nose, Malc,” she called, trailing behind him. “Blake’s attitude stinks worse than a durian.”

Apparently the threat of behavior more putrid than death-scented exotic fruit wasn’t enough to put the Scotsman off.

“Austin!” Malcolm snapped, stomping to a halt beside the celebrity chef. Sera fetched up in his wake, stomach souring as she caught wind of Blake’s obnoxious cologne.

Her ex didn’t bother to acknowledge either of them, continuing to bark orders at his staff as if his opponents didn’t exist. At his side stood a young man with a long-suffering expression, who was taking the brunt of it. Sera recognized him as Samuel Everett, one of the Southwest’s more prominent up-and-coming pâtissiers. She’d seen him featured in several industry magazines, all of the write-ups glowing. Sam must be the pastry chef here. Naturally, she thought, Blake drafted someone who can actually bake to be his assistant, since he’s still reading the back of Duncan Hines boxes himself . Under other circumstances, she’d have loved to swap techniques and gossip with the young chef over coffee. But no doubt Blake had filled his head with lies about her, and he’d probably run screaming even if they weren’t on opposite sides of today’s bake-off. It reminded Sera of why she needed so badly to win today.

No more, Blake. No more. You’re goin’ down.

“Oi! I’m talking to ye, ye arrogant shite,” Malcolm snarled. A vein began to pulse at his temple.

Austin took his sweet time turning to face them. His eyes flicked wearily over Sera’s short frame first, from sturdy clogs to the sparkly snood Hortencia had crocheted for her. Only then did his gaze turn to Malcolm, and Sera saw his eyes widen for a moment before they became hooded with his habitual ennui once more.

“Is this your second, or is it a sasquatch, Serafina?” Blake ogled Malcolm from kilt to hair net. “A bit… hairy… isn’t he? With this one around, you’ll want to check for stray fur balls when you plate your desserts.”

Instead of swinging a cleaver at Blake, as Sera half feared, Malcolm merely planted his hands on his hips and eyed the other man for a moment. “What kind of accent is that yer sportin’, mate?” he asked, a trace of amusement coloring his brogue. “I canna quite place it. Sounds t’me a bit like Brighton—by way o’ Brooklyn.”

Blake’s eyes bulged. His jaw worked furiously. His true origins were a mystery even to Sera, who’d spent more years by his side—and in his bed—than she cared to remember. But it was obvious he didn’t appreciate the Scotsman calling his ancestry—or his mystique—into question. “I won’t stand for being insulted in my own restaurant by some skirt-sporting savage, ” he began, taking a menacing step in Malcolm’s direction. Malcolm met him halfway, the light of battle in his eye, issuing a growl that would have done a real sasquatch proud. But before either man could take a swing, Sera stepped between them.