Jackie Braun - Falling for Her Rival

“It’s a little inconvenient, though.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said innocently.

He smiled, looking as satisfied as Lara had felt after that amazing kiss. “I think you do.”

Oh, yeah. She did, all right.

He went on. “I want you to know in advance that I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“Taking you down.”

The grin that stole over his face now was worthy of a plundering pirate.

“Damn, you’re arrogant.” But she said it without any heat. In fact, she couldn’t hold back her own smile.

Ahead of them, Tristan was saying, “Each of you has been randomly assigned a workstation. All of the stations are identical with identical supplies. Today, you will have one hour—no more, no less—to acquaint yourself with the space and set it up as you see fit.

“If something is missing or an appliance doesn’t work properly, it’s your responsibility to tell one of the staff before you leave today. Once filming starts on Monday, no adjustments will be made. None,” he stated firmly with a steely glance around. “You will just have to make do.”

Tristan had walked while he talked. The group now stood outside the studio. Over the double doors a red light was encased in a metal cage. It was off now, indicating that no taping was going on. Soon enough the set would be hot and filming would be under way.

As a food stylist, Lara had spent a great deal of time under bright lights and around cameras. She’d considered that good training for this competition. She’d even figured it might give her a leg up on her opponents—until Tristan pushed open the doors and they all filed inside.

The overhead lights glared off the appliances as well as the stainless-steel-topped prep stations.

Someone yelled, “Sweet!”

And she heard a few oaths, some uttered in awe, others laced with foreboding. Hers fell into the latter category.

“It looks different on television,” Finn said.

It certainly did. On TV it seemed smaller, almost intimate. It looked like a real restaurant kitchen rather than a massive set riddled with cables and camera equipment.

Ovens and prep stations lined two of the walls. The third wall boasted a pantry, an impressively stocked wine rack and a double-door refrigerator, as well as an ice-cream machine, blast chiller, anti-griddle and other specialized appliances.

The setup allowed for the contestants as well as the camera operators to move around freely. And, of course, come Monday, the show’s on-air host, Garrett St. John, would be there as well, roaming the set while he narrated the competitors’ actions and performed spontaneous on-air interviews as they worked.

On-air interviews.

Bile threatened to creep up the back of her throat at the thought. She’d scored a C-minus in public speaking in high school. Too much lip-smacking and too many ums, according to her teacher. Oh, and she talked too fast and failed to make enough eye contact with the audience.

“If anyone suffers stage fright, I suggest you get over it now,” Tristan said. “In addition to the twelve of you, this set will be crowded with several dozen other people next week. A number of them will be operating cameras trained not only on what you are making, but on your faces. You may have as many as a dozen focused on you at any given time. Every grin, every grimace, every little dot of perspiration on your forehead will be recorded.”

“Gee, that makes me feel better,” Lara murmured thickly.

Next to her, Finn grunted out what passed for a laugh.

Tristan was saying, “When the show airs, the fans will be rooting for their favorites. We want to give them as much of you as possible. That’s why a lot of what doesn’t make it into each week’s televised episode will wind up on the show’s website.”

Tristan’s cell rang. He glanced at the display.

“Sorry. I need to take this. And while I do, I need for all of you to wait here. No searching for your workstations until I return,” he added before walking out in the hallway to talk on his phone.

“Nervous?” Finn asked.

Heck, yeah, she was nervous. But she shook her head and tried to look unconcerned.

Her denial was met with one raised eyebrow. “And I thought you were honest,” he chided softly.

“Okay, maybe I’m a little nervous,” she allowed. “Not about cooking for the judges or having to do it while facing down a clock, but—”

“Liar.”

She ignored him and continued. “But about the entertainment component. I’m a chef, not an actor.” She gestured around her. “I think we’re all nervous about working in front of the cameras.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Are you telling me you’re not the least bit anxious?”

“I can’t afford to be if I want to win. And I want to win.”

“Wanting isn’t the same as doing.”

The smile her word elicited was illicit. He leaned closer, and his tone was matter-of-fact when he clarified, “I’m going to win.”

Another time she might have found such self-assuredness sexy, especially when paired with smoky eyes and a devilish grin. Since it ran counter to her own plans, however, she told him, “In your dreams, Paper.”

Finn chuckled. “I was right about figuring you for a rock. But the only thing I’m dreaming about right now—” His gaze flicked to her lips and he hesitated before clarifying, “The only thing I can afford to dream about is being the last chef standing in this kitchen.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Try a dozen of us,” scoffed the young man standing to Lara’s right.

She’d forgotten about him—she’d forgotten about all of them—as she and Finn had engaged in a quiet battle of words that carried an undertone of flirting.

Kirby Something-or-other. From where she stood, she wasn’t able to make out the last name on his badge. She pegged him to be in his early twenties. His shaggy hair stuck out at odd angles and gave the overall appearance of having been hacked off with a meat cleaver.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t all be friendly, y’all.” The speaker this time was a middle-aged blonde whose waist was as thick as her Southern accent. Her badge read Flo Gimball.

“That’s right. We can be friendly. Course, it won’t change anything. I’m going to win,” boasted a gravelly-voiced man who sported a shaved head, gauged ears and a five-inch-long goatee.

Thanks to two full sleeves of tattoos, he would have looked right at home in a biker bar. Rebel that he was, he wasn’t wearing the name tag he’d received from the security desk in the lobby, but the Gothic lettering on the side of his neck spelled out Ryder. Lara assumed it was his name—whether first, last or otherwise, she couldn’t be sure.

“Right,” she muttered half under her breath.

Sorry, but she couldn’t see Ryder in her father’s kitchen. For starters, Clifton wasn’t a fan of body art, which was probably why she had gotten a yin-yang symbol the size of a half-dollar inked on her lower back as soon as she’d turned eighteen. Her dad had been livid when he found out. She’d been smug and secretly pleased to have gotten his attention. Now, every time she wore a bathing suit, she just felt stupid.

“You got something to say?” Ryder asked in a voice as gritty as cornmeal.

The guy easily stood six-six and carried his fillet knife in a sheath attached to his belt. Fish and prime cuts of meat probably weren’t the only things he used it on. Lara gulped, a purely reflexive action that she regretted immediately when the huge man grinned as if he could smell her fear.

“Down, boy.” Finn surprised her by stepping between them. “Pick on someone your own size.”

Ryder’s laughter chewed through the silence that followed Finn’s valiant admonition like the rusty blade of a chain saw.