Katherine Garbera - Sizzle

She turned her face away from his touch. “And you’ll do the same?”

“Oui, chère ,” he said.

She rubbed one finger along his beard-stubbled jaw just to try to keep him off-balance and because she was longing to know what it felt like. He seemed to just reach out and touch her whenever he wanted to.

“Good. I grew up in here in southern California. I’m an only child and was always in the kitchen with my grandmother who practically raised me,” she said. “Your turn.”

“I grew up in Louisiana. Though I live and work in New Orleans now, I spent a lot of time in the bayou as a young boy with my grandmother’s people. I learned to shrimp and cook off of what we found each day. I didn’t realize how great a gift that would be as a chef.”

“I bet. My grandmother used to buy whatever was on sale at the grocery store when we went. She never had a menu and when we’d get home she’d combine the ingredients in different ways.”

“Sounds like we are similar in our upbringing,” he said.

“Maybe. You seem very comfortable surrounded by luxury,” she said.

“Do I?”

“Yes. This is probably the nicest car I’ve been in unless you count the limo I took to prom. I don’t think that’s the case with you.”

He laughed. “Who did you go to prom with?”

“A boy who thought he loved me,” she said.

“Why did the boy think he loved you?” Remy asked.

She was not about to start talking about her rocky past and the loves that might have been. “Don’t avoid the question.”

“What was the question?”

She frowned at him. “You’re difficult and cagey. What exactly are you hiding, Remy Stephens?”

“I believe that some things shouldn’t be spoken of. But you are right, I did grow up in a comfortable home financially. However, that’s not as interesting as a boy who thought he loved you. Didn’t you love him?”

“I’m not talking about that,” she said. She hadn’t allowed herself to really care about anyone when she’d been younger because she’d had big dreams of leaving California and going to Paris. She was going to be the next Julia Child.

“What about emotionally? Was your home as comfortable in that way as it was financially?” she asked. She’d met more than one person who hid behind evasion and had grown up in a difficult home. Having money didn’t always mean that someone had an easy upbringing.

“It was good. My family are all Cajun or French so there is a lot of passion and tempers flaring, but I always knew I was loved.” His voice revealed the truth of those words. And she thought about how he’d been in the kitchen. There was something very controlled about Remy. She doubted he’d be the sort of man who’d let passion for a woman interfere with his desire to win.

She needed to remember that.

“Spoiled?” she asked.

“A little. But I can’t blame my parents for that. I just like to get my way,” he said.

“Like you did in the competition this afternoon. Doing what you thought was best instead of what I told you.”

He shrugged again. “I have to give my all in the kitchen. Even if that means making other chefs mad.”

“Is that why you are between gigs right now? Do you have a hard time taking orders?” she asked.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose and pulled his arm off the back of the seat to his lap. She guessed that she’d asked a question that cut too close to whatever he was hiding from her. Whatever his emotional vulnerable point was. Interesting .

“Perhaps,” he said. “Mostly it’s that I have been praised for my cooking but by those who’ve known me my entire life. I want to know if I’m really good.”

“Why? Did something happen to shake your confidence?” she asked.

“Did something happen to you?” he asked, focusing that intense blue gaze of his on her. “I bet it did. No one goes from Paris to a cupcake bakery without a big event forcing the change.”

“True. I guess we both have our secrets,” she said. “But I will tell you this, I’ve never doubted my ability to put a good dish on the table. I know when I’m done cooking that the person eating my food is going to be blown away.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. I think you must be the same,” she said. “Otherwise why would you come here?”

“Why indeed,” he said.

She leaned back against the leather seat and looked out the window again. This time the answers she sought had nothing to do with her, but with him. “You want external praise.”

“Don’t you?” he asked.

“I guess. Really I want a chance to get back what I once had,” she said, speaking from the heart.

As much as the success she’d had with Sweet Dreams validated her as a chef and businesswoman, she wanted to know that she had the chops to go head-to-head with the best cooks in the world. She’d competed years ago to get that original role in the kitchen of a top Parisian chef, and then she’d thrown it away for love. No, that wasn’t right. There hadn’t been love between them, but there had been passion and danger, she thought. It had been very dangerous to give in to her passions.

Yes. That was what had been missing from her life. That was what she was afraid she’d never find again. Her passions for living and for cooking. It was only when she embraced both, that she really did have balance. Yet that was the very thing that frightened her the most.

“You look like you just solved the problems of the world,” he said.

“Nah, just the problems of one woman. It’s funny how you find answers when you didn’t know there was a question,” she said.

“What did you figure out, ma chère ?” he asked, lifting his arm against the back of the seat again and touching the side of her face.

No way was she sharing the truth with him, but she knew that if she were going to reclaim her passion in the kitchen she’d have to reclaim it in her life as well. She needed to figure out a way to balance her personal passions with her professional ones and a part of her felt like maybe she could do that with Remy. But another part of her warned that the last time she’d attempted this she’d been burned. Could she survive another dance of passion with a chef?

REMY HAD COME TO COOK but he found most of his time so far had been taken up with thinking about the sexy little woman seated next to him. Her perfume was elusive but tempting, and he found the scent distracting as they worked next to Chef Ramone in the kitchen. Remy shook his head, forcing his attention back to the cutting board in front of him. The executive chef moved off to take care of an emergency on the other side of the kitchen and Staci moved closer to Remy.

“He’s so low-key I almost don’t believe he could prepare these spectacular dishes.”

“I know what you mean. I’ve never met a chef who doesn’t yell,” Remy said. “Certainly never worked with one who didn’t.”

“Me either. Even Alysse and I yell back and forth at the bakery.”

“That’s your partner?” he asked.

“Yes. She’s funny. Usually we’re just telling each other stories from the night before or I’m bossing her around,” Staci said.

“Do you do that a lot?” he asked. He’d finished dicing the vegetables he’d been assigned to work with by the chef. Staci still had half her pile to go. He reached over and took the carrots from her.

She smiled her thanks. “Yes, I do boss her around a lot. But not just her, anyone who needs my advice.”

“Do I need it?”

“I don’t know. A part of me wants to say yes, but I don’t know you well enough. You’re wicked with that knife.”

“Knife skills are one of the best weapons in a chef’s arsenal,” he said.