Some Like It Spicy (5 page)

“Jolene is a former Miss Texas and has had a lot of experience on camera. Do you think she has an unfair advantage?”

“Not at all. Like I said, everyone here is equally talented.”

“As I’m sure you know, there has never been a female winner of
The Next Celebrity Chef
,
”
Sally said. “Do you think gender has anything to do with a chef’s qualifications?”

Ashton’s shoulders relaxed. This was a subject she felt very passionate about. “Cooking has nothing to do with how well you fill out a blouse. I predict this season there will be a female winner.”

Sally asked about the rest of the chefs individually, and Ashton successfully dodged her traps. Finally, she was free. She stepped out of the room and smack into a body.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and looked up. At Ty Cates.

“I…I…” she stammered.

“’Sorry’ pretty much said it all.”

He was laughing at her, clearly entertained by the way her tongue tied into knots around him. Ashton narrowed her eyes. “Fine, I’m not sorry. Technically, you ran into me. You should apologize.”

He bowed his head in fake contrition. “Ms. Grey, I’m so sorry to have walked by the door while you were walking out. It will never happen again.” He lifted his head and looked into her eyes. “Do you forgive me?”

She shivered. Silly, but she couldn’t help it. Her body was operating separately from her brain. “This time. But you’d better not let it happen again.” God, was that even her voice? It sounded…sultry, like she was trying to seduce him.

Ty cleared his throat. “Ashton, I—”

“Everyone to the prep tables!” Sally yelled, cutting off whatever Ty was about to say.

Ashton didn’t move, just stared at Ty.

He broke eye contact first. “Good luck.”

The group gathered around the tables in the center of the kitchen. Besides Sally and Ty, she saw Andrea Cummings and an unknown man. He looked to be in his midforties, and just a little too pretty for Ashton’s taste. His brown hair was shiny and long, flowing down to his shoulders, his eyes green, and his skin the color of a perfect cappuccino.

“Let me introduce you to the judges,” Sally said. “You probably recognize Ty Cates.” She paused while a few of the chefs cheered and applauded. “As an award-winning chef, Ty is here to offer his expertise on everything from the taste of your dish to its presentation. This is Andrea Cummings, Vice President of Talent for Food Fanatics TV. She’ll be critiquing your presence in front of a camera. Finally, we have a new third judge this year—Claude Mueller, food editor from
Gastronomy
magazine. He’ll be evaluating how your recipes will translate into magazines and cookbooks.”

Ashton made a conscious effort not to cringe.
Gastronomy
was the most pretentious magazine of food and food culture on the market. She should know—her dad had been a contributor many times.

“We have one more thing planned for today,” Sally continued. “A test run.”

Anticipation and dread shrouded Ashton like a blanket. She knew she was good, knew she deserved to be among the best of the best. But she couldn’t silence the nagging, little voice in her head, the one that sounded exactly like her father, who tauntingly declared her a failure.

She would not let the voice beat her. Giving a quick shake to clear her head, she forced her concentration back to Sally.

“We’re going to do a challenge right now. This will not be on the air, nor will the results count for or against you. This is just a chance for you to get used to cooking with cameras rolling and the clock ticking. It will also give you a chance to get used to having your food critiqued to your face. Our judges will be watching from another room to see how you handle being filmed.” Sally tilted her head. “Ty?”

He stepped forward. “Hi, everyone. We’re going to run this challenge just like the ones on the show. I’ll give you the details and the time limit. If you do not have a plate ready, you will automatically lose.” His fierce gaze passed over each of them. “So, whatever you do, have a plate on that table.”

Ashton looked down and realized her hands had started to shake. She moved them behind her back and stood taller.

“Today’s workers are busier than ever,” Ty continued. “The average American spends less than a half hour eating lunch. Your challenge is to design a lunch item for busy people on the go. You have thirty minutes starting…now!”

Ashton made a beeline for the refrigerator, her mind racing along with her feet. The first thing that came to mind when she thought of a fast lunch was a sandwich. She decided to go with her instincts.

In the refrigerator, she saw a bevy of food that interested her. She grabbed chicken, celery, grapes, capers, and the mayonnaise. In the pantry, she found different condiments and seasonings, and a beautiful loaf of fresh ciabatta bread.

When she got back to her station, she eyed the ingredients and then got to work. Thirty minutes passed like lightning.

When time was yelled—far too quickly—a calm had settled over her. She’d been too focused on cooking to even think about the fact that the cameras were following her every move. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

She also hadn’t had time to pay attention to what anyone else was doing. Now that they had a few minutes, Ashton scanned the other creations.

Duffy had also made a sandwich, but his was on a bun and while it looked delicious, it seemed very messy. Lance had made some sort of rice bowl, which was not exactly practical for eating on the go. She glanced down the line, and while she couldn’t see everyone, it looked as though the majority had also made sandwiches.

Ty and the judges started tasting at the opposite end. With three judges, Clint, Ed, Billy, and Sally, Ashton couldn’t see or hear a thing. She had to wait until they were closer. Finally, they reached Duffy, and Ashton got a preview of what she could expect in mere seconds.

“What do you have here?” Ty asked Duffy.

Duffy rubbed his hands together, like a wizard creating a new potion. He slid his tongue over his front teeth, pausing on the gold one. “We got us a crab po’ boy sandwich. I made crab cakes with fresh crab, red peppers, scallions, a little bit of egg and milk, and breadcrumbs, and then rolled them into balls and deep fried them. I put some Dijon mustard in the bun, then the crab balls, and topped it with my hot-pepper slaw. Enjoy.”

Ty, Andrea, and Claude each took a bite. Ashton held her breath as she waited for them to speak. When Ty did, she was disappointed.

“Thanks, Duffy.”

It was her turn.

She took a few deep breaths and commanded her brain to tell her heart to calm down. The muscle was in heart-attack territory.

“Hi, Ashton,” Ty said. “Tell us about your dish.”

“It…it’s…” Her cheeks flamed as she stuttered. She lowered her lashes to hide from the embarrassing number of eyes on her. Her mouth refused to work. How had she ever thought she could do this? To stand in front of all these people and be judged was proportionate to deep-sea diving with sharks and stingrays.

She could feel her shoulders slouch, her body begging to fold into a protective ball. It was the same position she’d mastered in childhood during one of her father’s verbally abusive tirades. She would just quit, she decided. Open her eyes and tell them this was all a big mistake.

Her lids lifted, and her gaze immediately found Ty. But instead of the scorn she expected to find in his eyes, she saw sympathy.

“Just take it slowly,” Ty soothed. “This is why we do a practice run. No one is perfect in front of a camera the first time.”

“But we are on a schedule, dear,” Andrea said tartly, tapping her foot. “So, let’s try to get through this.”

Ashton breathed deeply until she could feel her body start to relax. She ignored Andrea, Claude, and everyone else in the room and kept her focus on Ty.

When she finally spoke, her voice wasn’t as cracked as she feared. “I made a chicken-salad sandwich. I boiled and pulled the chicken and mixed it lightly with mayo and Dijon, dill, red grapes, and capers. I used ciabatta bread, cutting it like a pocket and removing the dough, then stuffed the chicken salad inside.” She’d been talking way too fast for television, but at the moment, she didn’t care.

She’d made enough sandwiches for each judge and as they chewed and swallowed, she watched their faces, searching for any indication of whether or not they liked it. The judges gave away nothing and moved on to Lance.

“Okay,” Lance said, clapping his hands and dancing from foot to foot like a child with a bladder problem. “What we got here is a teriyaki rice bowl. I stir-fried the chicken in teriyaki, added diced pineapple, bell peppers, and carrots. I layered it over jasmine rice and topped it with some crispy wonton noodles. Bon appétit.”

The judges gave one other sideways glances. “Is there a fork?”

Lance shook his head. “Nope. The idea is that the small pieces make it easy to just tip the bowl into your mouth.”

Ashton bit her lip to keep a straight face, but Duffy belted out a laugh.

Ty’s attempt at tasting the dish left him with a teriyaki mustache on his lip. Andrea and Claude didn’t fare any better.

The tasting complete, the judges faced the chefs.

“Let’s start on the end with Anthony,” Ty said.

Ashton tried to pay attention to the judges, but her pounding heart clogged her ears like cotton balls. She rolled her hands into fists and squeezed, a technique she’d learned from dealing with her father. Usually, the pressure gave her something to focus on, so she didn’t do something stupid, like burst into tears. Or lose her temper.

But this was different. She wasn’t going to be berated in private, with just her mother as witness. She’d be put down in a room full of her peers, by a man who made her knees wobbly. And in a matter of days, she’d be thrown to the wolves on national TV.

“Ashton.”

She snapped her head up at the sound of Ty’s drawl.

“Your turn.”

Chapter Four

As Ashton faced the judges, she willed herself to stop fidgeting. If she didn’t want to give away the fact that her nerves were sparking like a firecracker, she needed to put on a face for both the camera and the other contestants.

“Ashton,” Claude started. “I found your dish to be an innovative take on a chicken-salad sandwich.”

Ashton cautiously relaxed.

“I especially liked the way you hollowed out the bread to make a pocket. This dish was also simple, something the average person could make.”

At that last comment, Ashton felt her temperature rise. Was he saying her dishes were too easy? Little bubbles started to boil in her throat.

“This is a good thing,” Claude continued. “When you are writing a recipe for a national magazine, you need the dish to be elegant, but not so difficult it would turn off a reader.”

Andrea went next. “You need to relax in front of the camera. You spoke way too fast and you were as stiff as a robot. A camera is part of a celebrity chef’s life, so you need to show me you can be comfortable.”

Ashton nodded. So far so good. She didn’t care that she wasn’t perfect her first time cooking in front of a camera. With practice, she’d be fine…she hoped. She held her breath as she waited for Ty to speak.

“Ashton.”

A tingle ran down her spine. What was it about the way he said her name?

“I thought your dish was inventive, tasty, and perfect for an on-the-go lunch.”

She smiled broadly at the praise. The fist she’d formed eased, along with her tension.

“But it needed more salt.”

Her fingernails broke skin against her palms.

“Chefs can be hesitant about it, but sometimes all a dish needs to make it really great is proper seasoning.”

“It didn’t need salt.”

Dozens of eyes whipped in her direction.

Dammit, she had vowed to take criticism and not say a word, but he was flat-out wrong. How could she be expected to keep her mouth shut?

“Say again?” Ty raised an eyebrow.

She cleared her throat. “It doesn’t need more salt. The capers are salty. If I used more, it would be overkill.”

Ty had been standing in the middle of the room, but now he walked to her table. Amazingly, all her nerves had fled. She knew she was right.

“Capers don’t put out enough flavor to omit salt completely.”

“I didn’t omit salt completely. I just said it didn’t need more than I added. You just took a bite. If you’d eaten the whole sandwich, you would understand.”

“All right, then.” Ty picked up the sandwich he’d started and took a large bite. Then another, and then another. When he finished, he stood silent, his eyes filled with contemplation.

“Well,” Ashton prodded. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“The sandwich is very good,” Ty conceded.

Ashton lifted her lips in a relieved smile.

“But it still needs more salt.”

Embarrassment flooded her cheeks as laughter filled the room.

“Now, we pick the winner and the loser of the challenge,” Ty moved on. “The loser of the challenge is Lance.”

Every eye in the place shifted to Lance. His face turned as red as his hair, and he folded his arms across his chest.

“Lance,” Ty continued, “while the flavors were there, conceptually your dish didn’t work. The challenge was to make an on-the-go lunch, and you gave us a rice bowl with no silverware. My shirt ate more than I did. You need to listen to the challenge and follow it.”

Lance gave a tight nod, his gaze on the wall rather than on anyone in the room.

“The winner of the challenge is…”

Ashton’s heart sped up to a sonic rate.

“Ashton.”

Hearing her name, Ashton gripped the table to keep her feet from falling under her. She’d been proud of her sandwich, but Ty had shaken her confidence.

“It did need a little salt, but overall, your sandwich embodied the essence of the challenge,” Ty said. “Remember, being a celebrity chef is about three things: presentation, quality, and accessibility. If you keep those ideals in mind, you may find yourself the next celebrity chef.”

“That’s it for today,” Sally said. “Tomorrow we film your first challenge. You have tonight off, so get some rest. Be back in the studio at eight in the morning.”

Groans filled the room at hearing the time. Chefs were inherently night owls; they worked late and slept in. At least they’d all be at the same disadvantage.

Ashton slumped against the table and closed her eyes. This had been the longest day of her life. She couldn’t believe she had to do it all over again tomorrow. And tomorrow, someone would be eliminated.

Worse, someone could be eliminated for something as small as not enough salt in a dish. If every chef were on his and her game, it would be the little mistakes that counted.

“
Not enough salt
.” She couldn’t get Ty’s words out of her head. She’d won the challenge, so he’d obviously liked the dish, but his criticism gnawed at her like a dog on a bone, especially since she didn’t believe it.
Don’t take it personally
, her inner voice begged.
He’s not Dad. He’s not
trying
to hurt you.

If it had been her father tasting the dish, he would have said it needed salt just to get a reaction out of her. And if she attempted to argue, even if he knew he was wrong, he’d never admit it.

Was Ty the same way?

She watched as he headed toward a back office. A minute later, an assistant followed, a bottle of sparkling water in hand.

Ashton caught up with the guy. “Is that for Ty—uh, Chef Cates?”

The frazzled young man nodded curtly without breaking his stride.

“I can take it to him if you’re busy.”

An appreciative smile touched his lips. “Thanks.” He handed her the bottle. “I’m Ms. Cummings’s assistant, and she doesn’t like me doing things for other people, but Chef Cates asked—”

“No problem,” Ashton cut him off. “Happy to help.”

She continued down the hallway to Ty’s office, peeking in before entering to make sure he was alone. Sure enough, he sat at a desk, peering down at a pile of papers. She knocked lightly and then entered before he had a chance to look up.

“Can I help you?” he asked glibly.

She shut the door halfway. “I brought your water.”

He lifted his chin. “I thought I asked an assistant for that. Second job?”

She forced away the feeling of foolishness that warmed her skin. She needed to know, or otherwise she’d never get any sleep tonight. “You weren’t serious about your criticism of my sandwich, right? You were just playing to the cameras. My sandwich was perfect.”

…

Ty leaned back in his chair, a smile rising to his lips. “Perfect? There’s no such thing as perfect.”

Her pert, little nose scrunched up as she set his water on the desk. “Are you saying your food isn’t perfect?”

“
Perfect
is a subjective term. I could take any dish from any chef and serve it to a group of people, and I guarantee I would find at least one person who loved it and one person who hated it.”

Her eyes lit. “So you admit you could be wrong about my dish needing more salt.”

“I didn’t say that. I was right about the salt.”

If he didn’t find her fierceness so attractive, he would probably be a little afraid right now. She was looking at him like she wanted to skewer his head for a shish kebab. This would probably be the time to shut up, but he hadn’t had this kind of stimulation in a while. He couldn’t stop himself from arguing with her.

“Yes, capers are salty, but you didn’t have that many capers in the sandwich. Some bites were a bit bland. The flavor needs to carry throughout the whole dish.”

“I know.” Her words came out with a snap, and he couldn’t blame her; proper seasoning was day one in culinary school.

“And why are you even upset? You won the challenge.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she cast her gaze down. “My reputation is riding on this show. I need to know what I’m walking into. Are you creating controversy for the camera, or are you telling the truth?”

He should have been insulted that she’d even suggest he played to the cameras, but the quiver in her voice revealed the true reason she stood in his office. Someone had hurt her in the past, chipped at her confidence. She wasn’t here to argue; she was here for validation. Her defensiveness, Ty realized with a pang of sympathy, was nothing more than a shield.

He held up his right hand. “I swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

“Thank you, Judge Cates.” She stood in the doorway, silent, shifting. Finally, “Um, I guess I’ll be going now.”

“Wait!”

Had that come from him? Sure enough, he was on his feet, walking toward her. “You want to taste some great capers?”

One of her sculpted eyebrows rose and a slight smile played on her lips. “You mean other than the ones I used in my sandwich?”

“Yeah. I know a great little place down the street.”

“Is that allowed? A judge and contestant fraternizing?”

It was most definitely not allowed. Good thing that wasn’t what was happening. “It’s not a date. Call it professional research.”

She nodded. “In that case, let’s go.”

…

“This is where you wanted to take me?” Ashton eyed the small restaurant. The place was mainly takeout, with a large counter and just a few small tables against the wall. A quick scan of the menu hanging behind the counter revealed the cuisine as Mediterranean.

“Just because a place doesn’t have a million dollars worth of furnishings doesn’t mean it doesn’t have damn good food,” Ty said.

“’Damn’?” Ashton tsked. “What would your mama say if she heard you talking like that? I bet she raised a better Southern boy than that.”

Ty grinned. “She’d tan my hide. Come on.” He put a hand on the small of her back and led her forward. Ashton grew instantly warm where he touched her, inanely wishing her cotton shirt wasn’t in the way so she could feel his skin against hers.

A plump woman with beautiful olive skin and long black hair streaked with gray grinned as they approached. “Mr. Ty!” she exclaimed with a heavy Greek accent. “We haven’t seen you in a while.”

Ty took the woman’s hand and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Sorry, Sophia. Crazy schedule.”

“But now you bring a beautiful woman with you.” She gave an obvious wink, causing Ashton to blush.

“I’m not… We’re…” How to explain?

Ty took care of it. “This is a fellow chef, Ashton Grey. I told her if she wanted to know how a caper was supposed to taste, she should come here.”

Sophia puffed up proudly. “You want an order of fried capers? Sit, sit, I’ll bring them out to you.”

Ashton and Ty chose a bistro table by the window. “How’d you find this place?” Ashton asked. Whenever she had a free night, she usually tried to hit the newest Chicago hotspot to feel out the competition.

“My best friend Scott introduced me to it.”

“Is he a chef also?”

“Scott?” Ty laughed. “Scott doesn’t know a black truffle from a shiitake mushroom.”

Ashton gasped in mock horror. “And you’re still friends with this cretin?”

“I’m just using him for his bowling score.”

Ty bowled? For some reason, Ashton couldn’t picture it.

“Here you go.” Sophia set down a plate. “Fried capers.”

Ashton studied the dish. The capers were the size of peas and opened like a flower in bloom. They had been fried to a golden brown, but the distinct olive-green color was still visible. She picked one up and sniffed. They were seasoned with something—mustard seed?

“Oh, just eat it.” Ty grabbed the caper from her hand and held it up to her mouth.

Spine tingling, she opened her mouth and allowed him to drop the caper in. She bit slowly, allowing the flavors to blend on her tongue. The seasoning was definitely mustard seed. It blended perfectly with the slightly tart caper.

“Well?” Ty asked, his arms crossed over his chest in smug victory.

“They’re delicious,” she conceded. “Amazing. The perfect caper. But she didn’t season with salt.”

“Argh!” Ty’s groan echoed loudly. “Fine. Your sandwich was perfect. You didn’t need more salt. Adding more salt would have been like adding dimples to the
Mona Lisa
. All right?”

“You really mean it?”

Ty stared into her eyes. “Not a word.”

“Oh!” She looked away, but she knew he saw her smile. “Let’s just agree to disagree.”

“Agreed.”

“Even though you’re wrong. It’s pointless to argue.”

“Do you always need to have the last word?”

She’d asked her father that on more than one occasion. Oh, God. If she was starting to act like him, she might as well walk in front of a bus right now.

“Is something wrong?” Ty asked. “You got a weird look all of a sudden.”

“I just realized how much I sound like my dad,” Ashton said. “That’s not a good thing.”

Ty nodded sympathetically. “You don’t get along.”

“Not so much. His version of making me into a better person is to constantly criticize me. He especially loves to criticize my food. Just because he’s a food critic—”

“Food critic?” Ty’s forehead wrinkled for a moment, then his mouth dropped. “Is your father Charles Grey?”

Oh, crap. Exactly what she hadn’t wanted to admit. “Yeah.”

Ty began to laugh. “He reviewed my restaurant once, about six months after it opened. He said my chicken cordon bleu did for French cuisine what Hitler did for the Germans.”

Ashton wanted to sink under the table. “That sounds like him.” He didn’t just insult people’s food; he took it to a new level. And he found himself immensely witty. Apparently, many people did—he was highly sought after by magazine and book editors. Still, just once, she wished her father would be on the receiving end of one of those famous insults. Maybe then he’d understand.

“Hey.”

Ashton looked down to see Ty’s hand arch over hers.

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” He squeezed her hand. “I only cried for one, two months tops.”

A laugh bubbled up. “You’re doing better than most. I can’t tell you how many death threats he’s gotten.”