Cravings Page 8

  She slit holes into the dates, stuffed chorizo sausage inside, then wrapped bacon around the package. A quick sauce of chipotle peppers, diced red peppers and tomatoes came together next. The spicy scent permeated the air, beads of sweat dotting her forehead not only from the heat but from the fiery fusion of flavors. Dates steeped in tomato sauce eventually met the blistering heat of an oven.

  The beautiful sticky rice went into a simmering pot of milk while she quickly lowered two eggs into tepid water waiting in a separate pot. A tablespoon of brown sugar went back into the rice, along with razor-thin slices of scallions and ginger. A split second’s decision included adding julienned shiitake mushrooms. A dash of soy sauce added earthiness and saltiness. Umami.

  In her periphery, Lee remained a presence, a warmth that settled and focused her. Almost a comfort. She made the conscious decision to move him from rival to accessory, one that highlighted her talent. He’d chosen to compete against her because he believed in her cooking. This went beyond a bet and saving face. This was friendship—and something more, given the chance.

  “Five minutes!”

  Ginger blinked out of her musing and went back to work. She dimly acknowledged the audience chattering on around her, but she let their voices drift away to focus on the lone voice guiding her craft. The difference between this round and the former, the difference between night and day.

  She quickly peeled and chopped the hard-boiled eggs before stirring them into the porridge. More slices of scallion added peppery crunch. She ladled the entire mixture into serving bowls before topping each one with two of the savory stuffed dates. The crowd’s buzzing grew louder as she scooped tomato sauce over each and let the dark red liquid seep into the creamy rice.

  “One!”

  The shouted word snagged her away from the final dish, and Ginger’s head snapped up. Had thirty minutes passed already? She’d been so focused, so in the zone, it hadn’t occurred to her to listen to what was said around her or to focus on Lee’s movements.

  Lee.

  “Ginger…that. Is. Brilliant.” A grin bullied its way onto her face as she turned to the object of her affection. He stared at her plating, brown eyes wide and glittering with what she assumed was surprise. “Congee, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  The plates were whisked away before she could say anything further. Max’s elegant voice was directed toward her. “So, Chef Danielle, what are we sampling as your entree today?”

  This time when her heart kicked hard, nerves had nothing to do with it. She couldn’t have been prouder of her creation. “What I’ve made for you today is my take on devils on horseback atop congee.”

  Max’s brow lifted. “Wow.” His gaze lifted and met hers. “I do believe we have ourselves a contender here. Now let’s see if it tastes as good as it looks.”

  Chapter Eight

  Lee studied their faces as they sampled Ginger’s food, and for the first time, a flicker of doubt surfaced.

  He knew the appreciative smile of a satisfied diner. The way his eyes closed as taste exploded on the tongue and aromas drifted up and enfolded him. Or the way she leaned back in her chair, body slumping as simple pleasure made her languid. The final tell being the way he used his fingers to pick up the last speck of food left behind on an otherwise empty plate.

  All this he observed while the judges sampled Ginger’s food.

  He was proud of her. Damned proud. To know his competition had really delivered, making his ultimate victory a question and not a guarantee, infused him with unmistakable, unexplainable, and maybe a little reluctant, glee. She’d come here to trounce him, putting her reputation and ego on the line. For a while there, when she’d been immobile after the timer had started, Lee had been certain she was just handing those precious things to him. But now he watched and knew Ginger—the Ginger he could admit having a few feelings for—had arrived, and she’d come here to win.

  “Chefs, you’re eating an Indian-style congee topped with chorizo-stuffed dates in a spicy tomato sauce.” Ginger’s soft voice carried the weight of distinct satisfaction.

  “Good Lord, woman, where have you been hiding all this time? This is slap-your-mama good!” exclaimed Thomas, his fork and knife still working furiously as he spoke. Lee’s brow lifted in response. This from the man who wore culture like a warm blanket?

  “It’s luxurious and comforting and unctuous and simply marvelous,” the female judge said. He’d found out her name was Liz MacLean, a food writer for the St. Petersburg paper.

  Max sat back, steepling his fingers over the empty plate. “When Lee asked for a last-minute date at Food Fighters, I was tempted to turn him down. Now that I’ve had this dish, Chef Danielle, I’m so pleased that I hope you’ll do us the honor of attending again, no waiting required. And if ever you wish to dine at my restaurant, please do so as my guest. Any time.”

  Wait a minute. Had his voice gone a little husky there at the end? Lee cleared his throat. Loudly. His neck burned when he said, “Chefs, if you’re done with my competitor’s dish, today I’ve prepared for you a duck-and-date sticky-rice risotto with ramps, topped with a garlic whiskey sauce.”

  In unison, the three judges set aside their empty dishes to focus on this new one. Although, he swore they were a bit sluggish about leaving Ginger’s food behind to sample his. Even the audience must have sensed the shift in the atmosphere as it went from ill-disguised wonder to something less joyous. Someone yelled, “Woohoo! Whiskey!”

  A low titter of amusement rippled out from the remainder of the crowd, but it wasn’t enough to alter the dampened mood. Max took a few forkfuls before setting down his utensils. “Excellent as always, Chef Solomon.”

  The other two chefs nodded their agreement, but Lee couldn’t help but notice they’d also stopped eating. Maybe the ramps were too bitter? Or the whiskey not cooked out enough? Taking already prepared rice and turning it into a risotto might not have been the most creative thing he could have come up with, but it did require a technical skill not many cooks could have pulled off. That had to count for something.

  “It looks lovely,” whispered Ginger. She nudged him with her shoulder, and that simple touch pulled him out of a quickly rising funk.

  “Then I’ll have to prepare it for you sometime, only without using sticky rice.” Warmth spread through him at the idea, a soothing reminder of what it had been like to feed her. The next time it happened, they would be alone in his home with nothing but time on their hands, maybe the suggestive promise of an empty bed the only thing urging them to hurry.

  “I think we can go ahead and announce the winner of the round and put an end to this competition,” Thomas said, gathering the judges’ tally sheets. Lee’s stomach tightened as Thomas began to frown. It rioted when Thomas leaned over to Max, pointing at the pages.

  “Girls rule and male chefs drool!” someone shouted, and the audience erupted in laughter, catcalling and shouting.

  “Chef Ginger!”

  “Lee all the way!”

  A paper napkin flew across the room, bouncing off the skull of a man whose head had been tipped back while he drank from a beer bottle. “Hey!” he yelled, then picked up the balled-up paper and threw it blindly. A maelstrom of flying napkins turned the crowded space into a snowstorm within seconds as more and more napkins took flight.

  “This is nuts.” Ginger giggled while they watched the friendly fire from a safe distance.

  “Max will have heads in a few minutes if they don’t settle down,” Lee replied. The activity almost distracted him from the torture of waiting for the judges to finish discussing whatever it was they seemed in battle over. Almost.

  “Lee,” Ginger said, putting her hand on his, “no matter how this turns out, I want to say that the past few days have been a pleasure. Even tonight, I have to admit I’m really enjoying myself. I haven’t had a challenge to put some spark back into my every day in sometime. So, thank you.”

  “I’ll take that thanks now, because whe
n my customers are parking in front of your building, I think a few choice words will be headed my way.”

  “Ha! You still think you’re going to win this?”

  Actually, he wasn’t as sure anymore. “Of course I’m going to win,” he said instead. “It’s what I do.” He also recognized this as a last chance to say something profound before the judges colored their worlds for good or for bad. “I also want to say I’m glad we did this too. I don’t think I would have gotten to know you as well otherwise. And honestly? I’d really like the opportunity to learn even more.”

  Her cheeks grew ruddy, and the urge to run his fingers over the deepening pink almost made his hands itch. “I might like that,” she said softly.

  The sudden hush over the rowdy room dragged Lee’s attention away from the petite chef and to Max, who stood with a hand raised. Without speaking, he called for silence, and the audience heeded. “Undoubtedly, you’re all anxious to hear the winner of tonight’s food fight. Two great chefs came to us to settle a dispute, and the result of this showdown determines the winner. In the first round, Chef Solomon walked away with a four-point lead over his competition, Chef Danielle. Did the second round allow him to maintain his advantage?”

  Thomas stood. “After an excellent showing, we have a winner of the second round and can then announce the overall winner of Food Fighters.” The audience hollered, and Lee had to wonder how many alcoholic beverages had been consumed in the past hour. “Although both chefs presented dishes that demonstrated why they’re top in their crafts, one chef embodied the elements of creativity and taste to perfection. So the round goes to Chef Danielle, with a perfect twenty.”

  Lee’s heart punched him in the ribs. His mind raced to do the math while thunderous applause threatened to drown his thoughts.

  Liz stood next to Thomas, a grin stretching across her face. “I’m sure many of you are wondering how Chef Solomon did. Was it good enough to beat Chef Danielle in the final tally? He simply had to score seventeen or higher in order to walk away as the winner of Food Fighters.”

  A cool hand slipped into his, and when he saw it was Ginger’s, instinct had him curling their hands together. Surprise kept him otherwise immobile, unable to question her action or respond.

  “Should we recap their dishes?” Liz asked. “Just so that you remember who did what…”

  The audience booed.

  She smiled wider. “Perhaps we need a second opinion to make sure we did the math right.” Laughing, she took a step back as she made a motion of surrender when they threatened to revolt. “Okay…okay. In the second round, after serving a dish of duck-and-date risotto, although an insanely promising dish, the ginger whiskey sauce lingered on the tongue and not necessarily in the best of ways. For this reason, the judges gave a total score to Chef Solomon of…”

  Ginger squeezed Lee’s hand as the judge let the pause linger. “C’mon,” Lee muttered.

  “Sixteen!” A beat passed as the audience took in the significance of the number. A beat where an assortment of emotions assaulted Lee, most of all, the realization that he hadn’t won. “That’s right, for the final score, we have a tie!”

  His mind spun. In all the time he’d been visiting Max’s underground competition, Lee had never heard of an overall tie. Although the chefs oftentimes came in evenly matched, the judge’s scores differed greatly. Except this time, when it mattered.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, how do you feel about a sudden-death, tie-breaking round?” Max asked the room.

  The audience went wild.

  Whoa. What did this mean?

  They were supposed to be here for little more than an hour, cook their hearts out and then go home, one sulking, the other one proud. A tie-breaking round? What did that involve?

  Granted, she was still stunned by her score—a perfect twenty out of twenty—and should have been celebrating, but adding a third round seemed more like a punishment than anything else. Good thing everyone loved comfort food. Everyone. And so long as the judges didn’t do something too out in left field with the third round, she’d show them—and Lee—that her perfect score hadn’t been a fluke. Comfort food beat hoighty-toighty food hands down, any day of the week.

  Max grinned. “We don’t get to do this very often, but as you can tell, we all love when there’s an epic final showdown. I hope you’re ready. You’ve given us a great show so far, but let’s pull you out of your comfort zones and throw you into the fire.”

  Uh-oh. This sounded bad.

  “So, chefs, pull out your creativity, because you now have the honor of preparing for us a dessert. Two theme ingredients. Thirty minutes to plate.”

  A lead weight settled in the pit of her stomach. Dessert? She knew about six desserts really well, and maybe another dozen or so passably well. Throw in a mystery ingredient, and the odds of winning against Lee went from a sure thing to fifty-fifty. “What kind of sadist came up with this is as a tie-breaker?” she muttered.

  Lee squeezed her hand. “I hear you.”

  She glanced down, not realizing until now that they’d been holding hands. His comforting embrace wasn’t sexual, shouldn’t have been, but from the moment she saw it, her body responded. Warmth spread from the contact, twining through her like a direct line to her panties. Damp heat spread.

  Ginger shook her head, diffusing the sensation. Withdrawing her hand from his helped the rest of the feeling dissipate. Her focus needed to be on a dessert and not on the fantasy of Lee.

  “So, chefs, if you’ll please resume your stations, we’ll get this show on the road.”

  The audience clapped, but the energy in the room seemed stifled, nowhere near as exuberant as it had been an hour ago. Either the drinks had stopped flowing or the entertainment had grown stale. Wasn’t her problem, but she’d like the room she’d competed in earlier. Now, the dispirited atmosphere weighed heavily, to the point that she felt the fatigue of a long day. Blowing out a breath, shaking off the urge to sink into the closest chair, she went to get ready.

  “You okay?” A low murmur from the man beside her, who must have been equally tired.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Hey.” The weight of Lee’s hand settled on her shoulder. He applied gentle force until she turned to face him. He cupped her chin, tilting her face up and toward his, giving her an unobstructed view of those beautiful honey-brown eyes that studied her now, caressing her face the way she wanted his touch to. “You look like you could use a good night’s sleep.”

  She smiled. “Gee…thanks.”

  “You know what I mean,” he said softly, chuckling. “After this, I’ll take you home. You’ve earned an escort at a minimum. Maybe a glass of wine afterward.”

  “Chefs?”

  They ignored Max. “Are you inviting yourself to my place, Lee?”

  “Yes.” A shameless admission.

  They stood in the middle of a restaurant’s kitchen, two or three dozen people surrounding them, everyone in the room waiting on them to provide the next round of entertainment. Yet Ginger grew hungrier for Lee. The warm, low timbre of his voice ignited goose bumps across her skin.

  “What happens if I agree?” she whispered.

  He leaned nearer, his cheek brushing hers as he murmured into her ear, “Say yes and find out later. You won’t be disappointed.”

  Ginger’s eyes closed while her heart thudded faster. Every reason she’d previously had for turning him down swirled to the surface of her mind, the thoughts and images tumbling until she couldn’t distinguish one from another. She still knew their restaurants were barriers, but didn’t this competition settle that question?

  God, she wanted it to. And if for only one night, she would claim it as such. “Yes,” she said, eyes open and staring into his.

  That rich caramel color melted, bringing with it a lush darkness that made her nipples swell and her throat tighten with need. A brief nod was all the acknowledgment he gave to her barely whispered reply.

  “Chefs, your stations
, please.” Max’s singsong admonition yanked her out of the moment, the simmering lust surrounding them broken as if captured in a balloon, now popped with a single pinprick. The air felt thick, her breathing heavy. Turned on beyond repair, Ginger scrambled to gather her thoughts and get back into the competition.

  Pulling away from Lee’s allure felt like walking through molasses, but on wobbly legs she managed to make it behind her station again. With each step, her mind cleared. By the time she and Lee stood in place, she’d begun to recite basic cake and pudding recipes from memory. It was an advantage she’d need in order to make it through the next round. A good cook could rely on guesstimation and freely add or discard ingredients without major consequence to the outcome of any savory dish. Dessert, on the other hand, required precise measurements and proportions. One wrong ingredient—baking soda instead of baking powder, for instance—could yield cookies harder than the metal pan used to bake them. Egg whites not whipped long enough could weep like a willow, or, if whipped too long, turn an airy meringue into a thick, clumpy and coagulated mess.

  This would not be a cakewalk, pardon the pun. And now, with the heavy weight of Lee’s sensual invitation burning through her, his very presence became more than just a distraction. The knowledge of him standing so close, ready to be touched, and their pending date combined into an unfair and wholly arousing foreplay.

  “Win now, sex later,” she mumbled to herself. If she had to repeat it over and over to get through the next thirty minutes, she would. Whatever it took. She had to win. Taking Lee home was already a concession of sorts, and that was bad enough; losing would be unimaginable.