Jackie Braun - Falling for Her Rival

“Something wrong?” He stopped what he was doing and looked over at her.

Lara felt a flush creep over her cheeks, one of the curses of having a redhead’s fair skin.

“No. Nothing’s...wrong.” She forced her gaze from him to the prep top, where a couple of containers filled with spatulas, slotted spoons and the like, and some bottles of oil were all that delineated one chef’s side from the other. “It’s just not a lot of space for two people.”

“Worried I’ll take advantage of you?”

She felt her face flame anew as a couple of more inappropriate thoughts threatened to storm the gates of propriety. Worried? More like wishing.

“I just hope you’re not one of those chefs who like to spread out.”

“I’ll keep all of my stuff on my side if you’ll do the same.” To illustrate his point, Finn moved a bottle of extra virgin olive oil to his section.

“Actually, I think we’re supposed to share the oil.”

He glanced at the trio of bottles, which were filled with different varieties, some of which were intended for cooking, others for adding flavor afterward.

“Ah. So I see.” He moved the bottle back to the dividing line. “Are we good?”

“That depends.” She canted her leg out to one side and settled a hand on her hip. She was only half kidding when she said, “When you’re cooking, are you neat? Some chefs aren’t and it’s a pet peeve of mine.”

Indeed, it was one of the rare points on which Lara and her father actually saw eye to eye.

“As a pin. What about you?”

“A place for everything and everything in its place.”

“Then I’d say the two of us will get along fine.”

“Yes, we’re...” Her gaze homed in on his mouth as she recalled their kiss. “We’re very...”

Finn’s smirk told her he knew exactly where her mind had wandered.

“Compatible? Is that the word you’re looking for?”

Oh, she had a feeling they would be that and then some.

She looked away and blurted out the first thing she could think of. “The knives aren’t bad.”

Five of the most essential blades clung to magnetic strips that were mounted on the wall behind each contestant’s stove. Even at a glance, she could gauge the quality. The network had spared no expense.

“Will you be using them?” he asked.

“Please.” She snorted at that. More so than any other utensil in a chef’s kitchen, knives were personal, their weight and balance suited to the user. As such, they were the one item the contestants were allowed to bring with them from home. “Are you kidding?”

He shrugged. “Just trying to get a feel for what kind of chef you are.”

She was the kind who deserved to be heading up the Chesterfield’s kitchen, a job she was going to do her damnedest to earn.

Tristan, apparently having overheard their conversation, said, “Remember, chefs. You’re limited to seven.” He’d been making the rounds in the studio, hands clasped behind his back, his expression reminiscent of a warden’s. “Are you finding everything to be in working order at your stations?”

“So far so good,” Finn said.

She nodded in agreement.

Once Tristan had moved on, Finn said, “I wonder if Ryder will show up next week wearing all of his knives on his belt. The guy’s a trip.”

The visual nearly had her smiling.

“I was going to say scary. Thanks for earlier, by the way.”

She might not have needed Finn’s interference, but she’d appreciated the gesture.

“He was just trying to psych you out.”

Mind games.

For a sobering second she wondered if Finn was playing one now, being nice, friendly, lulling her into complacency with words that were every bit as enticing as his good looks. She didn’t want to think so, but as Tristan had mentioned earlier, a chef could use trickery and deceit as part of his or her overall strategy.

Underhandedness made for good television. Still, Lara couldn’t see her father condoning such behavior in the person tapped to run his kitchen. Of course, Clifton wouldn’t have much of a choice—at least not for one year. She’d read the fine print in the rules. The winner was ensured employment as the head chef for that long, although he or she could be fired for cause before then.

“What made you sign on for this?” Finn asked.

Lara opted for the most obvious answer, which also saved her from having to lie. She felt like enough of a fraud already. “I want the job. You?”

“The same.” He said it quickly, a little too quickly.

They eyed one another.

“It’s a great opportunity. The chance of a lifetime.” She smiled.

“It’s also a lot of hoops to jump through to run your own kitchen.”

“It’s not just any kitchen, though. It’s the Chesterfield. Two American presidents have eaten there, as well as an assortment of state and federal lawmakers. On any given night you can find a Tony-Award-winning actor or Hollywood A-lister seated in the dining room raving about the roasted duck or—”

She broke off, becoming aware that she sounded just like her father used to when Lara or her mother had dared to complain about the amount of time he spent there.

Meanwhile, Finn didn’t appear overly awed, even when he leaned closer and added, “You forgot its Michelin rating. Three stars.”

Okay, now she was confused. “You’re not impressed?”

“Oh, I’m impressed, all right. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.” He was holding one of the knives, and he used it to make a sweeping motion around the studio. “Even so, I’d bet you the title that more than a few of the chefs here have a reason beyond the Chesterfield’s prestige for signing up for this show.”

Lara glanced around, considering. Perhaps Finn was right. He certainly was right about her. She had something to prove. To her father. To herself. And, okay, maybe she could perform a little bit of penance in the process.

He was saying, “It’s those reasons you have to worry about.”

Intrigued, she asked, “What do you mean?”

“That’s where passion comes from.”

Finn returned the knife to the magnetic strip, offered the same smile that he’d given her after he’d surrendered the cab and asked for that kiss. The effect was every bit as mesmerizing. Lara’s skin felt as if it had been splattered with hot grease.

With her gaze on his mouth, she almost corrected him. It wasn’t passion’s only origin.

* * *

They didn’t talk for the next several minutes as they acquainted themselves not only with their immediate stations but also the set’s overall configuration. Indeed, the kitchen was unnaturally quiet. All of the chefs were alert and on edge.

The pantry consisted of several freestanding, metal-framed shelving units. An assortment of bins and containers, contents clearly labeled in bold lettering, filled them.

“So, that’s a red onion,” the quirky-haired Kirby said.

Lara, Finn and several of the other chefs laughed.

Tristan adjusted his glasses and allowed a moment for their mirth before saying, “Obviously, the labels are intended for viewers at home. Although in the heat of battle, some of you also might find yourselves grateful for them.”

“I notice that several of these are empty, Tristan.” Flo pointed to a bin marked Bell Peppers.

“Not to worry. They’ll be full on Monday with fresh produce.”

“How fresh?” Lara wanted to know. “And where does the show do its shopping?”

“You’re the food stylist, right?” Tristan asked.

Other than her pseudonym, Lara had tried to be as truthful as possible on her application to the show. So, in addition to her education and professional background, she’d jotted down her current job title.