Falling for Her Rival

Even though the segments would air weekly on the network, the chefs would be competing three days a week for nearly four weeks. She was in for some long days.

Tristan’s upbeat tone took an ominous turn when he said, “Take a good look around, chefs, because by this time next week, one of you already will have been sent packing and another one will be on his or her way out the door.”

Lara scanned the waiting room’s occupants, wondering whom it would be. No way was she leaving after the first round or the second. When she got to Finn, he snorted softly and leaned over to whisper, “Don’t look at me. I’m not going anywhere. I’m in it for the duration.”

Under other circumstances, she might have welcomed those words from a gorgeous man whose mouth should be registered as a lethal weapon. In this case...

A tremor swept up her spine. “God, I hope not.”

The corners of Finn’s mouth turned down even as his brows shot up. His tone held a slight edge when he replied, “At least you’re honest.”

If he only knew...

Tristan clapped his hands together again.

“Okay, chefs, if you’ll follow me, we can get started.”

Finn fell in step beside Lara.

“I guess you regret that kiss for luck now,” he said conversationally.

She glanced around, thankful that none of the other chefs appeared to have overheard them. Lip-locks with strangers for good luck wasn’t exactly a topic she wanted broadcasted.

“Probably as much as you’re regretting letting me have that cab,” she replied, keeping her voice so low that he leaned closer to hear her. She swore she could feel the heat wafting from his hot, moist skin.

“You won the cab.” Broad shoulders lifted and his gaze lowered to her lips again. “As for anything else, I’m not beating myself up over it. It was...nice.”

“Nice?” She replied too quickly to edit the incredulity from her tone.

“You have a better adjective for it?” His tone held a dare.

She shook her head and he went on.

“It’s a little inconvenient, though.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said innocently.

He smiled, looking as satisfied as Lara had felt after that amazing kiss. “I think you do.”

Oh, yeah. She did, all right.

He went on. “I want you to know in advance that I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“Taking you down.”

The grin that stole over his face now was worthy of a plundering pirate.

“Damn, you’re arrogant.” But she said it without any heat. In fact, she couldn’t hold back her own smile.

Ahead of them, Tristan was saying, “Each of you has been randomly assigned a workstation. All of the stations are identical with identical supplies. Today, you will have one hour—no more, no less—to acquaint yourself with the space and set it up as you see fit.

“If something is missing or an appliance doesn’t work properly, it’s your responsibility to tell one of the staff before you leave today. Once filming starts on Monday, no adjustments will be made. None,” he stated firmly with a steely glance around. “You will just have to make do.”

Tristan had walked while he talked. The group now stood outside the studio. Over the double doors a red light was encased in a metal cage. It was off now, indicating that no taping was going on. Soon enough the set would be hot and filming would be under way.

As a food stylist, Lara had spent a great deal of time under bright lights and around cameras. She’d considered that good training for this competition. She’d even figured it might give her a leg up on her opponents—until Tristan pushed open the doors and they all filed inside.

The overhead lights glared off the appliances as well as the stainless-steel-topped prep stations.

Someone yelled, “Sweet!”

And she heard a few oaths, some uttered in awe, others laced with foreboding. Hers fell into the latter category.

“It looks different on television,” Finn said.

It certainly did. On TV it seemed smaller, almost intimate. It looked like a real restaurant kitchen rather than a massive set riddled with cables and camera equipment.

Ovens and prep stations lined two of the walls. The third wall boasted a pantry, an impressively stocked wine rack and a double-door refrigerator, as well as an ice-cream machine, blast chiller, anti-griddle and other specialized appliances.

The setup allowed for the contestants as well as the camera operators to move around freely. And, of course, come Monday, the show’s on-air host, Garrett St. John, would be there as well, roaming the set while he narrated the competitors’ actions and performed spontaneous on-air interviews as they worked.

On-air interviews.

Bile threatened to creep up the back of her throat at the thought. She’d scored a C-minus in public speaking in high school. Too much lip-smacking and too many ums, according to her teacher. Oh, and she talked too fast and failed to make enough eye contact with the audience.

“If anyone suffers stage fright, I suggest you get over it now,” Tristan said. “In addition to the twelve of you, this set will be crowded with several dozen other people next week. A number of them will be operating cameras trained not only on what you are making, but on your faces. You may have as many as a dozen focused on you at any given time. Every grin, every grimace, every little dot of perspiration on your forehead will be recorded.”

“Gee, that makes me feel better,” Lara murmured thickly.

Next to her, Finn grunted out what passed for a laugh.

Tristan was saying, “When the show airs, the fans will be rooting for their favorites. We want to give them as much of you as possible. That’s why a lot of what doesn’t make it into each week’s televised episode will wind up on the show’s website.”

Tristan’s cell rang. He glanced at the display.

“Sorry. I need to take this. And while I do, I need for all of you to wait here. No searching for your workstations until I return,” he added before walking out in the hallway to talk on his phone.

“Nervous?” Finn asked.

Heck, yeah, she was nervous. But she shook her head and tried to look unconcerned.

Her denial was met with one raised eyebrow. “And I thought you were honest,” he chided softly.

“Okay, maybe I’m a little nervous,” she allowed. “Not about cooking for the judges or having to do it while facing down a clock, but—”

“Liar.”