Sizzle

She wished she’d made a better first impression on him but she knew that her skills in the kitchen had made up for her stumble. And if she were honest, she wouldn’t trade their first meeting for anything.

“Nervous?” he asked.

“A little. But not really,” she said. “You?”

“No. I’m curious to see his techniques. I haven’t cooked much outside of the South.”

“I was trained in Paris,” she said.

“Really? Pastry?” he asked.

“Yes and everything else,” she admitted.

“Then why are you the co-owner of a cupcake bakery? You should be working in the finest kitchens in the world.”

“That is a long story,” she said.

“Well, we do have a long drive ahead of us,” he replied.

3

THE WARMTH OF THE CAR’S interior felt like an intimate cocoon and it would have been easy for her to forget that Remy was her competitor. Yet, this situation was so far removed from what she knew life to be like. Remy might be an out-of-work chef but he was clearly used to luxury. He sat relaxed next to her in his expensive clothes.

What was his story? Did she want to know? A lot of people said it was better to know your enemy but given her personality flaw regarding men, she thought a little mystery was probably in order.

“You were going to tell me how a Cordon Bleu chef ends up owning a cupcake bakery,” he said in that sultry southern way of his.

It would be easy to dismiss him as an innocent were it not for the shrewd look in his eyes. She didn’t have to guess to know that he was one of those who subscribed to the know-your-enemy theory.

“Was I?” she asked, turning toward him. The fabric of her skirt slid up her legs and she waited to see if he had noticed.

He had. But he arched one eyebrow at her to let her know that he knew she’d done it deliberately. She shrugged and he smiled.

“It’s clear that neither of us is going to forget this is a competition,” he said.

“I’m here to win,” she said. “I have to assume you are too.”

“Indeed. Why else would I travel across the country with just my knives and culinary training?”

“Where did you train?” she asked, turning the tables back to him.

“CIA. But we’ll learn about that during the competition. I want to know more about you. The things you aren’t going to reveal in front of the camera,” he said, as he shifted to stretch his arm along the back of the seat. His fingers just inches from her shoulder, she felt the heat of his body against her skin.

“But those facts aren’t ones I’ll give up for nothing. What are you going to offer me in return, what secrets do you keep, Southern Man?”

She realized that the attraction ran both ways and that Remy wasn’t afraid to turn the tables on her. She cleared her throat.

“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine,” he said.

“That hardly seems fair unless I know what you’re offering to give up,” she said.

“Okay, tell me how you got started cooking. Where did your culinary journey begin?” he asked, running his finger along the side of her cheek.

She turned her face away from his touch. “And you’ll do the same?”

“Oui, chère,” he said.

She rubbed one finger along his beard-stubbled jaw just to try to keep him off-balance and because she was longing to know what it felt like. He seemed to just reach out and touch her whenever he wanted to.

“Good. I grew up in here in southern California. I’m an only child and was always in the kitchen with my grandmother who practically raised me,” she said. “Your turn.”

“I grew up in Louisiana. Though I live and work in New Orleans now, I spent a lot of time in the bayou as a young boy with my grandmother’s people. I learned to shrimp and cook off of what we found each day. I didn’t realize how great a gift that would be as a chef.”

“I bet. My grandmother used to buy whatever was on sale at the grocery store when we went. She never had a menu and when we’d get home she’d combine the ingredients in different ways.”

“Sounds like we are similar in our upbringing,” he said.

“Maybe. You seem very comfortable surrounded by luxury,” she said.

“Do I?”

“Yes. This is probably the nicest car I’ve been in unless you count the limo I took to prom. I don’t think that’s the case with you.”

He laughed. “Who did you go to prom with?”

“A boy who thought he loved me,” she said.

“Why did the boy think he loved you?” Remy asked.

She was not about to start talking about her rocky past and the loves that might have been. “Don’t avoid the question.”

“What was the question?”

She frowned at him. “You’re difficult and cagey. What exactly are you hiding, Remy Stephens?”

“I believe that some things shouldn’t be spoken of. But you are right, I did grow up in a comfortable home financially. However, that’s not as interesting as a boy who thought he loved you. Didn’t you love him?”

“I’m not talking about that,” she said. She hadn’t allowed herself to really care about anyone when she’d been younger because she’d had big dreams of leaving California and going to Paris. She was going to be the next Julia Child.

“What about emotionally? Was your home as comfortable in that way as it was financially?” she asked. She’d met more than one person who hid behind evasion and had grown up in a difficult home. Having money didn’t always mean that someone had an easy upbringing.

“It was good. My family are all Cajun or French so there is a lot of passion and tempers flaring, but I always knew I was loved.” His voice revealed the truth of those words. And she thought about how he’d been in the kitchen. There was something very controlled about Remy. She doubted he’d be the sort of man who’d let passion for a woman interfere with his desire to win.

She needed to remember that.

“Spoiled?” she asked.

“A little. But I can’t blame my parents for that. I just like to get my way,” he said.