Falling for Her Rival

SEVENTEEN


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“And then there were three,” Garrett announced in an ominous tone at the start of the next round of competition. “Only Chef Dunham, Chef Westbrook and Chef Surkovski remain. Today’s competition will determine who will go head-to-head in the high-stakes finale.”

“God, I hope it’s not dessert again,” Finn muttered.

“Same here.” Lara sent him a smile.

It was the smile that bolstered his mood, even after the cards were dealt. The good news? They didn’t have to make a dessert. They were tasked with creating an entrée. The bad news—they had just twenty minutes to do that.

Ryder’s oath upon hearing the time allotment echoed in the studio.

“Oh, God!” Lara groaned. “Another twenty-minute entrée.”

So far, that had happened only once in the competition, but it was enough to shake her confidence. That time, she’d failed to completely finish, leaving off the sauce in her haste to beat the clock. The combination of spices in her shrimp dish, however, was imaginative enough to keep her from being eliminated.

“You’ve got this,” Finn told her, even though he was unnerved, too. “Or did you come this far to lose before the final round?”

Her spine stiffened as he’d hoped it would. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmured under his breath.

If he could have kissed her then, he would have. But he had to settle for knowing he would be able to kiss her later, in private. At which time he planned to engage a lot more than her mouth.


Finn decided to do a Spanish twist on an Italian dish, by making pasta carbonara using chorizo sausage. He just barely finished in time and the plating... Well, it wasn’t pretty.

Lara, meanwhile, had seasoned scallops with lime zest, sea salt and freshly ground black pepper, which she’d then sautéed in garlic butter before placing them over a bed of mixed greens. She’d run out of time to make a dressing, so she’d made do with fresh lime juice and a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil. A couple of grilled slices of French bread provided both the starch and the texture. Visually, her dish was gorgeous.

“I knew you could do it,” he whispered.

“Thanks for the pep talk, by the way.”

“Anytime.”

“Looks like Ryder went with flank steak and a basic salad. I don’t see any starch on his plate,” she noted.

“Not exactly imaginative,” Finn replied.

The judges didn’t think so either.

“Chef Surkovski,” Garrett intoned gravely. “You will not be moving on in the competition.”

Ryder cursed and, with a sweep of one tattooed forearm, sent all of the utensils, bowls and bottles of oil crashing to the tiled floor.

“This is bull! I’m going to sue. By the time I’m done, I’ll own both this network and the Chesterfield,” he threatened.

Ryder left the set the same way Angel had: escorted by security guards.

“The finale is fixed!” he screamed just before the door closed behind him.

Fixed? Finn saw it as fated, especially after he ran into Lara’s father in the elevator on the way up the last day of the competition.

The older man didn’t scowl or make a nasty remark. Instead, he nodded in greeting as the doors slid closed.

Still wary, Finn nodded back and tucked his hands into his pockets. As the elevator rose, he kept his gaze trained above the doors on the lit floor numbers. He expected the ride to be accomplished in silence, so he was surprised when Clifton cleared his throat and began to speak.

“You got your wish, young man. Are you regretting it now?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“I called the network after you and my daughter came by the restaurant that day.”

Finn gaped at the older man in surprise. “You mean you’re responsible for her returning to the show?”

Clifton’s laughter was dry. “From what I understand, you were responsible for that.”

Lara’s father was right, but...

“You agreed to give her a chance to compete. Why?”

“I paid for her education and training.”

“So, you let her back on to satisfy your curiosity?” Finn wasn’t buying it.

“Are you always this outspoken, young man?”

“Only when I know I’m right.”

Dry laughter rang out again before Clifton sobered. “It may not seem like it from where you’re standing, but I’ve always wanted the best for Lara.”

“What she wants is your approval and your love.”

“I may not have gone about it the way other fathers do, but I...I love my daughter.”

Present tense.

“Have you told her that, Mr. Chesterfield? She needs to hear it.”

They reached the network’s floor as he said it. The doors opened and Clifton stepped out. For a moment, Finn thought the older man wasn’t going to answer, but then he turned.

“I will. No matter who wins today...I will.”

* * *

Garrett St. John dealt the cards and then flipped them over one by one.

“Chefs, you have forty minutes to make an entrée. Given the amount of time, our judges will be expecting something fabulous. I suggest you make good use of the pantry items.

“As you know, the tasting will be done blind, and, since this is the final round of competition, the guest judge is the one and only Clifton Chesterfield.

“Whoever wins today will be awarded a one-year contract as the executive chef of the Chesterfield’s kitchen. Best of luck to you both.” Garrett pointed to the oversize clock mounted on the wall. “And your time starts now!”

Finn’s pulse took off like a jackrabbit even before his feet started to move. He knew what he had to do. He was going to lose the competition to Lara. It wasn’t the first thing he’d lost to her. The woman already had his heart. He loved her enough that he wanted to ensure that she got the job at her father’s restaurant. After his discussion with Clifton in the elevator, Finn was certain it was just the fix their fractured father-daughter relationship needed. Finn would find another way to rebuild his own career. Being a personal chef wasn’t a bad thing. He could continue as he had been, socking away money, biding his time. And he had Lara.

Lara.

Nerves weren’t the only thing making his heart beat unsteadily.

What was it his mom had always told him? You know you love someone when their happiness is more important than your own.

That was definitely the case here.

* * *

Lara glanced over at Finn. They’d returned from the pantry with their ingredients. She was going with blackened salmon. Her father detested blackened fish. That was why she was doing it. She planned to lose.

Finn needed the fresh start winning would provide. She wanted him to have the job at the Chesterfield. It was enough that she’d made it this far. It was enough that her father realized she was capable and skilled in the kitchen. And apparently, he did, because when she’d passed him in the studio on her way to her workstation, he’d not only made eye contact but also actually wished her luck.

“You haven’t seasoned your rice,” Finn murmured.

“What?”

He nudged the bowl of sea salt closer.

Lara nodded, but she didn’t add any to the pot.

Finn was making fish, too. He’d gone with sea bass and, apparently recalling what she’d told him about her father’s preparation preference, he’d put it on the grill.

It had been on there for several minutes already and he hadn’t turned it.

“You might want to check your fish,” she mumbled.

“It’s fine.”

“It needs to be flipped.”

But Finn shook his head and insisted, “Not yet.”

And so it went as the clock counted down the remaining time. Each of them reminding the other of things they needed to do or things they had left out.

When the buzzer sounded and they both stepped back with hands aloft, the dishes the judges would taste looked as if they had been prepared by first-year culinary students.

Or so the affable Garrett St. John quipped.

“I think nerves got the best of both of our contestants this round,” he said.

In the greenroom, Lara grabbed a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and twisted off the cap. She downed half of it in a few gulps. Cooking badly was harder work than cooking well.

“What was that?” Finn asked mildly.

“Well, it was supposed to be blackened salmon and rice pilaf. It wasn’t my best effort,” she admitted.

“No kidding.”

“Hey, you had an off day, too.”

“Exactly. It should have been a cakewalk for you to beat me.”

“Finn?”

Folding his arms over his chest, he backtracked then. “You know what I mean. I was...struggling.”

Math wasn’t her forte, but Lara was quite capable of putting two and two together.

“Yes, I think I do know what you mean.” She recapped the water and studied him. “And I’m not sure whether I want to slap you for trying to throw—”

“I didn’t throw—”


“Let me finish.”

“Okay, you were going to slap me.” He smiled.

“No, I was saying I didn’t know whether I wanted to slap you for trying to throw the competition or kiss you!”

“If I get a vote, I choose the latter,” Finn said.

She burst out laughing. “Dammit, Finn! I wanted you to win.”

“So you left the salt out of your very unimaginative pilaf on purpose,” he said.

“Among other acts of self-sabotage.” At his questioning gaze, she admitted, “My father would rather eat a fast-food hamburger than blackened fish.”

Finn’s brows pulled together. “Why did you do that? You had a real shot at winning.”

“So did you.” She smiled. “I guess neither one of us wanted it as badly as we did at the start.”

They reached for one another at the same time. When the greenroom’s door opened several minutes later, they were still kissing. Even after Tristan clapped his hands together several times, they took their time drawing apart.

“You’re wanted on the set,” the young man told them.

“What do you think is going to happen?” Lara asked Finn.

“I don’t know. But whatever happens, I want you to know something.” He grabbed her hand, pulled her to a stop. “I love you, Lara.”

“I love you, too.”