Falling for Her Rival

FIFTEEN


Sear

Finn listened while Garrett St. John went over the rules, not only for the television audience who would be tuning in at some point, but for the contestants.

To accommodate Lara’s presence in the competition, all of the tastings would be done blind. That meant that instead of the chefs explaining their dishes to the panel of judges, Garrett would do the honors.

It was hot under the set’s lights, even though every now and then Finn caught a rush of cool air from one of the ducts overhead. He fought the urge to swipe the sleeve of his chef coat over his forehead and cast a discreet glance around at his competition. No one was smiling. Ryder’s death-row grimace wasn’t surprising. But even down-home Flo looked as if she could chew nails. They all had their game faces on today.

That included Lara, even though he could hardly bring himself to look at her. His temper had cooled enough since their exchange in the greenroom that Finn could admit accusing her of sleeping with the other male chefs on the show had been low. As for accusing her of sleeping with him to ensure his vote, he didn’t want to believe it, but doubt nagged like a bad tooth.

Finn hated that since his divorce he was so damned quick to distrust people, particularly women. And Lara was the first woman he’d allowed close. But the fact remained that he wanted to be clear on the timeline. What had Lara known and when? And why hadn’t she returned his phone calls? That in particular seemed damning.

The studio was crowded with people. Garrett was introducing the competitors now. The cameras trained on each one while a pithy biography was read. When they got to Lara, her connection to Clifton had to be disclosed.

Finn gave the producers credit not only for covering their asses, but doing so in such a way as to court higher ratings.

After reading off Lara’s résumé, which on its own was impressive, Garrett said, “Her name may sound familiar. Lara Dunham is Clifton Chesterfield’s daughter. Some of you may think that makes her a shoo-in to win.” He waited a beat while a camera zoomed in closer and then he smiled. “Not so.

“Her own father has made it known that he does not want her working in his restaurant. In fact, their estrangement is exactly why Clifton Chesterfield agreed to let Executive Chef Challenge do his hiring this season. Here is what her father had to say in a previously taped segment after it was revealed that one of the show’s contestants was, in fact, his daughter, who had entered under an alias.”

Finn and the rest of them could hear the audio, although they couldn’t see the actual feed. As it played, a dozen cameras panned to Lara.

“Lara is a disappointment. She was given the finest education, training and culinary opportunities a chef can have and she threw them aside.”

“She works as a food stylist,” Garrett could be heard saying on the tape. “From what I’ve been told, she is rather respected in her field.”

“She can make food look appetizing. Despite all of her training, however, she is no chef, which is why I won’t hire her.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“Are you are referring to the fact that she was married to Jeffrey Dunham?” Clifton thundered ominously.

Garrett was undeterred. “It had to have been a slap in the face. Your feud with Dunham was very well-known.”

There was a pause. A long one. In that gap of silence, Finn swore he could hear Lara breathing.

“Her decision to wed that...alleged food critic certainly didn’t help our relationship. It goes to show how impulsive and immature she is. Neither characteristic is what I am looking for in an executive chef.”

“In fairness, that was six years ago,” St. John said. “And the marriage didn’t last.”

“Exactly.”

“As I understand it, the two of you haven’t spoken since then.”

“That’s because I have nothing to say to her.”

“And if she wins?” Garrett asked.

“I’m not worried about that,” her father said on the tape.

“No?”

Clifton made a scoffing sound. From the corner of his eye, Finn saw Lara flinch.

“Lara won’t win. Ultimately, she doesn’t have what it takes to be a great chef. And only a great chef will run my kitchen.”

Lara’s face was nearly as pale as her white coat by the time the interview ended. While it had played, Garrett, followed by several more cameramen, had made their way over to her workstation.

“Those are some harsh words that your father had for you, Chef Dunham,” the host said.

“He’s entitled to his opinion,” she replied stoically.


Apparently, her response—or lack of one—wasn’t what the show’s producers were after, so St. John tried again.

“Still, it must be extremely difficult to hear him say that you don’t have what it takes to win.”

Sympathy infused Garrett’s tone, but the emotion was manufactured, as proved by the fact that he asked for a second and then a third take before he felt he had conveyed the appropriate amount.

“He’s wrong,” Lara finally got to respond.

“Let’s get on with it already.” Ryder’s complaint carried from the other side of the set.

Finn and the others were in complete agreement. Garrett and the people associated with the show were lapping up the added drama, but the chefs just wanted to cook.

Lara included.

Her nerves were palpable when they finally got under way. She nibbled the inside of her cheek. Under the set’s hot lights, perspiration dotted her brow. She glanced over at Finn. It was on the tip of his tongue to assure her she would do well. He didn’t. He couldn’t.

“Chefs,” St. John began. With a dramatic sweep of his hand, he indicated the table before him. “These are the cards you have been dealt.”

And so it began.

* * *

Lara’s heart was beating fast and loud, pounding in her ears and making it difficult to hear. She glanced at Finn. He stood with his legs shoulder-width apart, his hands on his hips. His eyes were narrowed and his jaw clenched. He looked more like he was gearing up for hand-to-hand combat than food preparation. She felt the same way.

Especially now.

She had two goals today. One was to stay in the competition. She already knew what it felt like to have to leave. She didn’t plan to exit early again. Her second goal was more personal than professional. She planned to make sure her food earned higher marks than Finn’s.

She was so angry with him, so...hurt. And, dammit, that just wouldn’t do. So, she channeled her irritation into determination as she eyed the three oversize rectangles on the tabletop.

Garrett was saying, “The cards have been dealt, chefs. The first card will be for the amount of time you have to prepare your dish.” He turned it over with a flourish. “Twenty minutes.”

Twenty minutes!

She heard Finn suck in a breath. Across the kitchen studio, Ryder let loose an oath that would have to be edited out later. Dear God, Lara hoped that the second card, which would tell them the kind of dish they needed to prepare, would not be an entrée. Working up a main course with any depth of flavor would be damned hard in so short a time.

“And now for the second card.”

She nearly sagged with relief when the card read Appetizer. Given the vast assortment of ingredients in the fridge and pantry, she could pull off a tasty and creative hors d’oeuvre in twenty minutes. Finn could, too. Asparagus spears wrapped in prosciutto and phyllo dough sprang to mind. Had it really been just over a week ago since the two of them sat in his cousin’s pub and enjoyed drinks and finger food while attraction sizzled and the promise of a relationship had simmered? She glanced over and their gazes met.

She recognized distrust when she saw it. Still, seeing it reflected in Finn’s eyes—the same eyes that, less than twenty-four hours earlier, had regarded her with affection that had the potential to become so much more... Well, it cut to the bone.

Garrett’s voice tugged her back to the present when he revealed the third card.

“And your celebrity judge for this round, chefs, is Robin Falconi. Ms. Falconi is the executive chef at Mateo’s in La Jolla, California. She is the author of three cookbooks on Southwestern cuisine.”

“Southwestern cuisine,” Lara repeated half under her breath.

The smart thing would be to steer clear of that type of fare. Unfortunately, playing it safe in this competition held its own set of perils.

“Not your forte?” Finn asked. His voice was barely above a whisper. Even so, it held the edge of challenge.

She shook her head before she could think better of it. Revealing a weakness was never a good idea, especially to an opponent who’d already managed to deal her a nearly lethal blow.

“Gee, that’s too bad,” he added.

“As I recall, you’re not exactly an expert on that style of cooking either.”

“You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

She nodded, put a hand over the tiny microphone attached to her shirt. “I totally agree with you on that score. I thought I knew, but... Well, you proved me wrong today.”

“Don’t.” Finn covered his mike, too. “Don’t even go there. You’re the one—”

He broke off as a big, fuzzy microphone lowered from overhead.

“Chefs,” Garrett said. “Your time starts in three...two...one...”

A buzzer sounded, echoing on the set. Lara swore she felt it vibrate through her bones. All twelve chefs took off like a shot in the direction of the refrigerator and pantry. Finn was behind her one moment, ahead of her the next thanks to his longer stride.

“On your left, chef,” he called as he passed.

He might be angry with her, but he remained civil. Ryder, however, didn’t bother with courtesy. Putting a hand on the small of her back, he shoved her out of the way. Lara banged her hip on the sharp edge of a prep station. She glanced up to see that Finn had stopped.

“All right?” he asked.

Because his concern caused her heart to ache and vulnerability to creep back in, she snapped, “Don’t worry about me.”

“That’s right. You know how to look after yourself.”

Their exchange took only a few seconds, but that was long enough that by the time they reached the pantry, the spice rack and selection of fresh vegetables had been picked over. Ryder was already starting back to his station, his arms filled with a couple of different kinds of lettuce and all of the ingredients to make vinaigrette.

A salad. Really?

Finn apparently reached the same conclusion.

“That had better be one hell of a dressing,” he said.

Lara moved a bin of mixed peppers and spied a bowl containing half a dozen avocados shoved to the back of the shelves. Either it had been overlooked, or several of the chefs had opted to play it safe and not go the Southwestern route.

Before she could grab a few of the avocados, Finn snatched up the entire bowl.

“Hey!” she hollered. “Do you really need all of them?”

“Need?” He glanced at the bowl, which held six, and shook his head. “No. I’m figuring one, possibly two.”

But he made no move to put the bowl back.

“You aren’t going to share, are you?” She snorted.

“This is a competition, Lara,” he reminded her needlessly.

“So, all’s fair in love and war?”

She regretted the words as soon as they were out. His lips twisted with what passed for a smile, but his eyes glittered as hard as stone.

“I could ask the same thing,” he shot back.

She swallowed, but notched up her chin and rallied. “Go ahead and hoard ingredients. I get it.”

His eyes narrowed. “What do you get?”

“You’re afraid if we make the same thing mine will taste better.”

Rough laughter erupted. “Reverse psychology. Pathetic.”

She arched one brow and said nothing.

“Here. Knock yourself out.” He reached into the bowl and took the two ripest avocados before handing it to her.

Lara didn’t have time to be relieved. As for saying thank-you, she didn’t get the chance. Finn had already turned and started back to his workstation with a couple of cameramen in tow. She grabbed spices, heirloom tomatoes and a can of black beans, as well as a couple of dried spices. Just before hurrying back to her station, she grabbed a couple of yams. She’d decided to make a hash of sorts, updating the flavor profile with unexpected ingredients and spices.


By the time she returned to her prep table, nearly three minutes had passed.

Finn was already busy at his cutting board. His avocados were pitted and peeled, and he was slicing a rolled-up bundle of fresh basil leaves into thin ribbons. His movements were deft, fluid. A day earlier, she would have admired his skill with a knife. There was something to be said for a gorgeous guy who knew how to make a chiffonade. But his words in the greenroom made her resent the traitorous tug of longing she felt low in her belly.

“Looking to see how it’s done?” he asked without glancing up.

“Just making sure you’re not going to cut off a finger. Blood doesn’t pair well with the first course I have in mind.”

“I know what I’m doing. I haven’t nicked myself since culinary school.”

“Then maybe you’re due,” she said.

She’d been teasing. So, Lara felt horrible when a moment later she heard his ripe curse and glanced back to find him gripping his hand with a white towel. A splotch of bright crimson bloomed on the fabric.

“Oh, my God, are you—”

“I’m fine,” he bit out.

Somehow he managed to bandage his finger and don a latex glove before the host’s voice came over the loudspeaker to announce, “Chefs, you have fifteen minutes left to prepare your appetizers.”

For the remaining quarter of an hour, neither of them spoke. Nor did they make eye contact until the buzzer sounded and time was called.

Lara stepped back from the prep table, both hands held aloft, and eyed her mixture of avocados, tomatoes, black beans and sautéed yams. She gave it an A for taste. Cumin and smoky paprika lingered on her tongue from the bite she’d sampled just prior to plating. The food stylist in her, however, wasn’t pleased with the overall presentation. The crisp white shallow bowls were the right choice, but she should have added a garnish, perhaps a sprig of something green and leafy. Or maybe even put the hash inside a leaf of bib lettuce first. It was too late now, of course.

She glanced over at Finn’s dish. Even though they’d both used avocado, they’d gone different directions. While she’d detoured to the Southwest, his inspiration clearly had come from Italy.

The plate of bow-tie pasta was covered in a rich sauce into which he had incorporated the avocado. Good call, she thought. The portion size was perfect as a first course. She would have plated it differently, but given that Finn had been working injured, she gave him credit for finishing ahead of the clock. One of the competitors hadn’t, she realized, after a couple of young production assistants came around with a cart to collect the plates. The fact that one of that chef’s plates was missing the sauce on his appetizer wasn’t an automatic dismissal, but it certainly tilted the odds.

In the greenroom, the chefs flopped down onto the various chairs and couches. The only seats that remained unoccupied were on the couch next to Ryder. Lara decided she would rather stand. She picked a spot next to the coffeemaker and leaned against the wall. She needed the extra support to remain upright. Her head was still spinning, both from the competition and from her fight with Finn.

Let it go, she kept telling herself, but to no avail. Her heart was too bruised for that. For the first time in a long time, she’d let down her guard. She’d thought...

“That was tougher than I expected it to be,” one of the chefs said, drawing her attention.

“Twenty minutes!” another shouted. “It felt more like two.”

“I know! I swear I just got started and they were calling time,” added the chef who had failed to finish plating on time. After which he lamented, “I’m as good as gone.”

“It ain’t over till it’s over,” Finn said.

Lara glanced over to find him staring at her. Staring, not glaring. Still, his expression was a long way from warm. He’d discarded the latex glove. His injured left hand had been rebandaged and was now cradled in his right.

She walked over to where he stood and asked, “How bad is it?”

“I’m fine.”

“Maybe you should have the show’s doctor look at it.”

He shook his head. He appeared more wounded than his hand when he told her, “I’ve survived worse.”