Sizzle

“No,” she said. “The Disney-Pixar movie. It’s about a chef who is lost and finds his culinary way with the help of a little mouse named Remy.”

“Um … no like my great-uncle,” he said. “I don’t watch animated movies.”

She shrugged. “It’s cute. You should give it a try.”

She stepped further back to look at him. “Sorry again about bumping into you.”

“No problem. I get messier in the kitchens,” he said. “I’m just thinking about cooking today.”

“Me, too,” she said with a half-smile. “I’m the co-owner of Sweet Dreams, a cupcake bakery in San Diego.”

“The cupcake girl,” he said. “I read over the profiles of the other chefs this morning.”

“Cupcake girl? My partner and I own a very profitable bakery … I’d rather not be referred to as the cupcake girl.” She wished she’d thought to read the profiles as well, maybe then she’d know more about Remy. But as she’d been running late she hadn’t had time.

Now he was the one to step back and gave her a low bow. “My most humble apologies, baker.”

“Where do you work?” she asked.

“I’m sort of between gigs right now but I’ve worked in the best kitchens in New Orleans.”

“I suspected as much,” she said.

“How?”

“That slow Southern drawl of yours gave you away.”

He gave her a slow steady smile that made her pulse kick up a notch. She couldn’t put her finger on what it was but there was something familiar in his smile. Also something so damned sexy that she wondered if she should just get off at the next floor.

Some women were into men in uniforms, others into men with power and money but for her it had always been the earthy sensuality of a man who could cook.

“Do you like it?” he asked, his drawl even more pronounced than before.

She grinned back. “Maybe.”

He arched one eyebrow at her. “Most people find my accent charming.”

“Really?”

He gave her a measured look and then winked at her. “Cupcake girl, it’s a big part of my personality,” he said. “Some people underestimate me based on it, but I use that to my advantage in the kitchen. I can be very demanding.”

She knew he was talking about cooking but a part of her was thinking he’d also be demanding in the bedroom. She cleared her throat.

“I am, too,” she said. Running the bakery with Alysse was hard work and they’d only become successful by making sure the bakery always came first.

“Cupcake girl—”

“If you call me cupcake girl again I’m not going to be so nice.”

“This was you being nice?” he asked.

And though the tone was still there in his voice she glanced up at his eyes and saw a hint of a sparkle. She liked him and looked forward to kicking his butt in the kitchen.

“Guess you’re not the only one who is more spice than sugar,” she said.

The door opened and they were met with a long line of folks waiting to sign in.

“I’m surprised to see so many people here today,” she said.

“I’m not. The prize money is going to bring out everyone from executive chefs to prep cooks,” he said. “I’m going to wash up. See you in the kitchen.”

She watched him walk away before giving herself a mental slap. She wasn’t here to repeat the mistakes from her past, but to fix them. This time she was going to do it right and that meant no falling for another chef even if he did have a killer smile, sexy ass and a charming accent.

REMY CRUZEL HAD GROWN up in one of the most famous kitchens in New Orleans. Gastrophile—the three Michelin starred restaurant that raised the bar and set the new standard for American Creole cooking. His grandfather and great-uncle had shocked the culinary world by getting three Michelin stars—something hard to achieve outside of Paris and even harder to do when you weren’t French by birth. But the Cruzel brothers had done it and then passed that expertise on to their children.

Everyone quieted down as three men walked into the main room. He recognized Hamilton Ramsfeld, a popular American chef who his father said was a pompous ass who’d lost his love of food in his quest for notoriety. But then his old man was a hard man to impress.

“Hello, chefs, I am the head judge Hamilton Ramsfeld and the other judges in this competition are Lorenz Morelli executive chef and owner of a string of successful high-end Italian restaurants and Pete Gregoria, the publisher of American Food magazine.”

“We look forward to tasting the dishes you prepare for us,” Lorenz said in his heavy Italian accent. “Everyone on the left side of the room will come with me,” Lorenz instructed. “Everyone on the right will stay here with Hamilton.”

“Good luck to you all,” Pete said.

The field of chefs here today was as diverse as he’d expected it to be and he wasn’t surprised when the judges immediately divided the room in two.

He saw Cupcake Girl go with the other group and gave her a mock-salute. She was cute and funny but he wasn’t here to flirt with women, he was here to prove he had the cooking chops to take over as Chef Patron at Gastrophile in New Orleans. His family name was legend in the food world and it wasn’t Stephens. He’d lied on his application.

It was hard to know how much of the praise heaped on his head was due to his last name and how much was due to his skills. So Remy Etienne Cruzel had become Remy Stephens. He didn’t know how long he could keep up the ruse, but on his side was the fact that none of the celebrity chefs were friends of his father and Remy had kept a rather low profile at the Culinary Institute of America and while working at Gastrophile.

“Welcome to Premier Chef—the Professionals Audition. A love of food has brought you here today but we will only be accepting those of you who have real skill and ability in the kitchen. You might be the king of the kitchen back home, but here in this competition you will have to earn everything. Every new day will bring another chance to prove yourself and at the end of the 12 weeks if you have what it takes you will be the new Premier Chef,” head judge Hamilton Ramsfeld said.

Remy nodded knowing this was exactly what he needed to hear.

“Chefs, each of you will prepare a dish from our pantry in 15 minutes that demonstrates your culinary point of view. When the time is up your dish will be judged and only half of your number will make it onto the show.”

“Yes, chef,” was chorused by the cooks waiting to get in the kitchen. They’d set up a line of tables in a big circle around the room and Remy was anxious to get to his station and start his mis en place. He knew what he could cook well in 15 minutes and already he was prepping in his head.

Remy didn’t really care who the judges were as long as they scrutinized him for his dishes and not his pedigree, and by lying about who he was he’d ensured they would. They called start and the chefs all ran to the pantry to gather ingredients. It reminded Remy of a game his grandfather used to play with him when he was little. Hiding ingredients in the cupboard and then making him wear a blindfold to see if he could sniff out the items.

He had an image of Cupcake Girl in a blindfold and little else as he directed her around his kitchen back home. He shrugged off that thought and forced his mind back to the competition. It’d be embarrassing if he were sent home before filming even began.

He gathered his ingredients and prepared his dish, cooking easily under the pressure of the clock.

“Dude, this is intense,” said the shaggy blond guy next to him. “I’m used to working under the gun but not with this many people around.”

“It is crazy, but I think they do that to rattle you,” Remy said.

“It’s not shaking you,” the guy said.