Some Like It Hot (17 page)

Once they were out of the line of camera sight, Eva seemed to relax a little, her shoulders sloping down as she let out a breath.

“I know you don’t have any time to spare,” she said quickly, not meeting his eyes. “But I had to make sure we were on the same page—”

“Don’t sweat it.” Danny was proud of how even his tone was. “I know exactly where I stand, and what last night was about. And if the page you’re on says it can’t ever happen again, then we’re definitely reading from the same book.”

She stiffened. “Good.”

“Great.”

Her gaze flashed to his for a second, and Danny had to flex his fingers again, clenching them down tight and aching to keep himself from asking her if this was really the way she wanted to play it.

But it was. Of course it was. Eva knew exactly what she wanted—it was pretty much her defining characteristic. And she never let anything stand in the way of getting it.

Clearly, she didn’t want Danny.

Not the way he wanted her.

Nodding decisively, Eva lifted her chin, took a deep breath that did interesting things to that shirt she was wearing, and marched over to consult with the cameraman, heels clicking a staccato beat against the tiled floor.

Danny watched her go, every muscle locked in the desire to grab her, shake her, make her admit that the fire they’d started was too hot to burn itself out after one night—but Eva had already put him out of her mind.

She had a job to do, and in her own way, Eva was every bit as hardcore as any chef Danny had ever known. Admiration glimmered through him, and a kind of bone-deep recognition.

This was probably a no-brainer for her. Ditch the chef contestant, avoid complications with the competition. Or maybe not—maybe she felt the same serrated edge of unfulfilled hope and wasted potential slashing at her insides that Danny did.

But both of them knew it didn’t matter.

Eva would keep going. She wasn’t a quitter. She wouldn’t walk off the line and leave her staff fumbling around, trying to play catch-up without her. She’d stick it out, nut up, and get it done.

In that moment, Danny knew he was a goner.

Cheney waggled his bushy eyebrows at her, pen stuck in the gristly hair behind his ear. Waving his clipboard at her, he said, “Hey, if I’d known we were going to get this kind of drama on a daily basis, I’d have pushed for more cameras.”

Eva felt a burst of frustration that threatened to bloom into a full-on rage. It was as if the entire universe were conspiring to make this the crappiest day possible.

“Look, Mr. Cheney,” she gritted out, her jaw so tight it hurt. “I told those visionless pricks at the Cooking Channel months ago that this competition had the potential to be their hottest new show, or at least a special-event program that could pull in millions of viewers.”

“That’s right,” Cheney nodded. “And they sent me to check it out, get some B reel, and assess whether there’s enough here to bother bringing in a full crew. Which is expensive, as I think I don’t have to probably remind you.”

Eva put her hands on her hips, digging her fingernails in until she could feel tiny crescent moons of pain stinging through the clingy wool of her trousers. “So if you’ve already assessed us as ‘worth the bother,’ where the hell is the rest of my camera crew?”

Cheney made a clicking noise with his tongue and the inside of his jowly cheek. “Well, that’s where it gets dicey. Things were going great, with that fight and everything, and that lady chef from San Fran making eyes at the big, scary dude from Manhattan. There was some story there. And that other New York chef, the one who tackled the soup and saved the girl? That was pure gold! Until you made me shut off the camera. And now this thing with Devon Sparks leaving … I don’t know.”

“What, exactly, is it that you don’t know, Mr. Cheney?” Eva tried not to sound too homicidally annoyed, but it was tough, because the primary alternative was to let him see how desperate she was. “Because the competition is going forward, with or without Chef Sparks as a judge, and I can assure you the drama is only just beginning.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s true enough.” Cheney cast a jaundiced eye over the rush and bustle of chefs in the last hour of the challenge’s countdown. “I’ve been shooting for the Cooking Channel a long time, and let me tell you, there ain’t nobody got more drama than a big group of chefs. The gossip and backbiting and sleeping around and egos clashing all over the place—I tell you what, it’s a dream for an honest TV producer, looking to make a few bucks.”

“Again, I have to ask, Mr. Cheney. What is the problem?” She gestured out at the frantic kitchen, hotter than the steam room at her fitness club, and twice as sweaty, full of shouts and near-collisions, and at least fifty enticing smells competing for her attention.

He stuck his clipboard under his arm and rummaged around in his pocket, coming up with a pack of gum. After Eva refused a piece with a quick shake of her head, he shrugged and popped one in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “The problem is, you don’t seem to be on board with the kind of program this wants to be. You got to get the viewers to turn on their TVs or set their TiVos, or whatever it is. You got to get the butts in the recliners, is what I’m saying. And the quickest way to do that is star power.”

“But we have Kane Slater,” Eva protested. “He’s a multi-platinum recording artist! He’s on every magazine’s list of hottest guys out there!”

“Yeah, he was a good get,” Cheney acknowledged, sucking on his gum. “But he’s not a chef. Cooking Channel viewers? They tend to get their panties wet mainly over hot chefs. That’s sort of the whole point.”

Eva gave him her best unimpressed look. “If you’re trying to disgust me, you should know, I’m fairly unshockable. And I don’t grant your premise, at all. Kane has universal appeal!”

“To music nerds, maybe.” Cheney snorted, but Eva thought she saw a spark of respect in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “Look, I’m not saying there’s zero crossover potential. But I can tell you right now, my bosses aren’t going to think it’s enough. You can’t argue with demographics, at least not to TV execs.”

“Mr. Cheney. We are, of course, in talks with several major Cooking Channel stars, trying to work it out with their schedules so they’ll be able to come on as judges. My father is only stepping in temporarily. Can’t you give us a few more days to make that happen?”

The naked plea in her voice must have penetrated his thick, crusty exterior, because Cheney softened minutely. “Look, I’d like to help you out, but every day I’m here, filming stuff I won’t be able to use, it’s costing the studio money. Here’s an idea—If you can’t give ’em a hot chef at the forefront of the action, here, you’re going to have to go for the other big audience draw—reality show staples like catfights, secret affairs, that kind of thing. You got any of that to offer?”

Eva felt like pulling her hair out. Except then she’d be bald, on top of everything else, and her life was shitty enough already.

“No! That’s not the kind of show I want to do. That’s not what this competition is about.”

Before Cheney could do more than roll his eyes, her father’s smooth voice cut into the conversation.

“Mr. Cheney, give me a moment with my daughter. I’m sure we’ll be able to put our heads together and come up with several ideas that will interest your superiors at the Cooking Channel.”

Chewing hard, Cheney squinted back and forth between Eva and her father. She stood as tall as she could, refusing to show any emotion.

She wanted Cheney to stay—but was she desperate enough to give in to his demands? Eva didn’t know.

She’d have to figure it out, though, and fast, because the obnoxious little man turned back to his equipment with a terse, “Fine. I’m kind of curious what they’re making, anyway. But after that, if you can’t offer me another hot chef judge or something juicy, and I’m talking front page of
US Weekly,
I’m out of here.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cheney.” Eva gripped her father’s elbow and steered him toward the kitchen doors. “You won’t regret it.”

“Eva, please,” Theo said with a glance at the timer on the wall. “The challenge is almost over. We don’t have time for this right now. Cheney has agreed to stay, there’s nothing more we can do for now.”

Battling back tears of frustration she would not allow to fall, Eva tried to get her breathing under control. “Really, Dad? We don’t have time for you to explain why you’re trying to sabotage me?”

Theo got that pained look on his face, the one that told Eva she’d reminded him of her mother, somehow. She’d stopped asking for specifics when she was around eleven, but the expression never failed to clutch at her heart.

“So dramatic,” Theo murmured, letting her pull him out into the hallway. “I’m not trying to sabotage you, honey. I’d never do anything to hurt you. But you swore you could get the RSC onto the Cooking Channel, and so far, it seems like you’re just not willing to do what it takes to make it happen.”

Eva’s throat felt scratchy and tight, as if she’d swallowed shards of broken glass. “Dad. I’m trying…”

“Not hard enough. As the head of Jansen Hospitality, I’m like an army general. I need to know that when I tell my lieutenant to take that hill, that damn hill is as good as taken. No excuses. No waffling. The fact that you can’t seem to close this deal with the Cooking Channel, well…”

He pressed his lips together so tightly, they disappeared in his trim salt-and-pepper beard. “It makes me wonder how ready you are to take over Jansen Hospitality. Honestly, it makes me wonder if you’ll
ever
be ready.”

The words hit her like a slap in the face. Her knees almost crumpled, but Eva dug for the strength to stand up straight.

“You were right,” she said through numb lips. “This isn’t the right time to discuss this. Come on, let’s go back inside.”

Remorse glimmered through Theo’s dark gray eyes. He put a large, warm hand on her shoulder—the same hand that had clumsily braided her hair, and tenderly dabbed antibiotic ointment on a scraped knee, and pulled her close for a hug after she graduated from college.

Throat aching, eyes burning, she stepped away to open the doors. Theo let his hand fall back to his side, and Eva tried to pretend she didn’t hear his sigh of disappointment.

So dramatic,
she heard in her head, her father’s voice equal parts nostalgia, pain, and irritation.

Dramatic like her mother, she guessed, although Eva didn’t really know. Her main memories of her mother were of soft arms, and kisses that smelled waxy and left bright red imprints of smiling lips against her cheeks.

Eva didn’t feel dramatic. She felt brittle, like sugar spread thin and burnt to a crisp, as if all it would take was one sharp tap and she’d shatter across the kitchen floor.

Okay, maybe she was a
little
dramatic. But damn it! Could this day get any worse?

Danny had to push hard to get his dish finished, but once he’d gotten his brainwave, it was downhill work from there.

He’d watched Theo take Eva out of the kitchen for a confab, and when they came back in, Eva had that look. The too-perfect, put-together face that hid everything vibrant and real about her behind a facade of serene professionalism.

It was Eva’s game face.

Danny felt an unwilling tug of sympathy. He knew from personal experience, nobody could tear into you, make you bleed and cry, like family. And he had what he considered a really good relationship with his parents.

From what he could tell, Eva would say the same. She obviously loved her father. As much as he held her position in the family company over her head or hurt her feelings or fucked around with a lot of women, she adored him. And it made sense. Theo was all she’d had, ever since she was little.

It made Danny remember the story she’d told him, about her dad cooking French pancakes for her when she was a kid. The memory had been a happy one, he knew, a moment in time when she and her father had been in perfect harmony, the sweet and bitter of life balanced and blended, rolled up in a crisp-tender, golden crêpe and dusted with confectioner’s sugar.

French pancakes,
he thought, a grin tugging at his mouth. He loved that she still called them that, even after a lifetime of five-star French meals and trips to Paris.

And then, as if Eva had waltzed over and whispered it in his ear, Danny knew exactly what he was going to make.

It was risky—crêpe batter was supposed to sit in the fridge for at least an hour after you mixed it up, to let all the tiny air bubbles pop and settle so the crêpes were easier to handle, less likely to tear. But there was less than an hour left, no time to lose, and Danny would just have to execute his crêpes perfectly. There was no other option.

Racing to the walk-in, he grabbed eggs and whole milk, snagging a blender on the way back to his team’s table. Win, finally done with the custard, ran to gather up the dry ingredients Danny shouted out to him, returning at a jog with his arms full of flour, sugar, salt, and baking powder.

Danny measured them into the blender, whirring the batter liquid and smooth, while Winslow rustled up two identical sauté pans. He clanked the things down, covering two of their team’s allotted burners.

“Guys?” Danny wrestled the blender pitcher free of its base and trotted over to the range. “I need these burners. We good?”

“Yeah, I can make it work,” Beck said, moving at double speed, his hands going so fast, Danny couldn’t even see what he was doing with those sausages of his.

“I gotta have one for the fried eggs,” Jules shouted from across the table. “But not until ten minutes before zero hour.”

Max was already plating, setting out the white rectangular plates they’d chosen for presenting the first course. “You’re good to go, Danny boy. Kill it!”

Danny wasted no more time. “Win, crank it up, we’ve got to get these pans heated and it’s going to take a minute.”

“What are you thinking, boss?” Winslow twirled the knobs on the stovetop and checked the color of the flames under both pans, like the smart chef he was.

Cooking in an unfamiliar kitchen meant that the things that were automatic in your own restaurant, like where to set the gas range knob for the level of heat you wanted, became fraught with peril and the possibility of scorched food.

“Crêpes,” Danny said, tapping the blender sharply against the counter to help the bubbles float to the surface of the batter. “I’m thinking a mille crêpe cake, actually. Hey, can you check that the blast chiller has room in it? And add a little starch to that custard, let’s thicken it up to a pastry cream.”

“You got it.” Winslow saluted, his sneakers squeaking on the rubber floor mat as he took off.

Adrenaline pumped through Danny’s veins, but his hands were steady as rocks while he found a ladle and an open container of vegetable oil.

When a couple of drops of water danced and jumped when he flicked them onto the pans, he knew they were hot enough. Moving carefully but quickly, he ladled out enough batter to thinly coat the bottom of the first pan.

This was the critical moment—without a proper crêpe paddle, the flat, wooden implement used at crêperies all over France to smooth their batter into perfect, uniform circles, Danny had to judge exactly how much batter to use.

Too much, and the crêpe would be pale and flabby. Too little, and it began to cook too quickly, before he could tilt the pan far enough to fill in the holes.

There was no time; Danny had to get both pans going at once, and he had to watch them for any signs of smoking or scorching. Fiddling with the height of the flame under the back burner, he almost missed the cues to flip the pancake on the first burner.

One strong flick of his wrist, a quick few seconds of browning and crisping up on the other side, and the first crêpe was done. Sliding it onto the plate Winslow held out, Danny rushed to ladle the next cup of batter into the empty pan before the second crêpe began to burn. And it went on like that, Danny establishing a rhythm of dip and flip and turn and slide that was almost like a dance, or the graceful, smooth moves of tai chi that Max had tried to teach them all a few weeks ago as a calming meditation technique.

Danny had sucked at tai chi—maybe if Max had explained that it was just like the moves in the kitchen, the way your muscles learned the pattern of flex and tense and sway, and your mind could float away, above it all, working on the problem of how, exactly, to build this crêpe cake.