Page 7 of Burning Rivalry

“Celebrity chef?” I almost choked on my tongue. “Do us both a favor and never call yourself that again. You sound ridiculous.”

A deep red, angry flush crept up her neck and spread across her face. “I forgot. You’ve already cornered the market on sounding ridiculous in this kitchen.”

Someone in the kitchen let out a long, high-pitched whistle in response to that. The sound snapped me back to the reality of the situation, and the same seemed to be true for her. Her eyelids fluttered, she lowered her head and trembled as she stared at my feet. “I have guests to attend to,” I choked out, fighting for every breath before pushing the swinging door open. They would see right away how flustered I’d become, no doubt, and would probably give me shit for it.

Instead, back at my table, Jackson held up a piece of focaccia glistening with olive oil. “This is the perfect pairing. I could make a meal out of this.”

Claudia hadn’t uttered another syllable, yet somehow, she’d gotten the last word.

And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

4

CLAUDIA

It wasn’t bad enough he had to be a complete jackass. No, he had to insult me in front of the entire kitchen. The kitchen that had gone somewhat quiet and still when moments ago it was full of frenetic activity.

The worst part was how he stared at me—defiant, nasty, daring me to talk back as if he wished I would give him a reason to fire me. And it would have been so easy to give him that reason too. After a handful of days in this kitchen, I had come up with more than a few observations he wouldn’t have been very happy to hear. They could live in my back pocket until the time came to drop them on his head.

Be the bigger person. How many times had I heard that during the course of the show? Twelve weeks spent keeping my thoughts to myself, staying quiet when there were obvious injustices going on. What would all those people out there in the dining room think if they heard about the quiet, secretive sabotage that went on behind the scenes? When the producers decided which members of the group helped the ratings and which didn’t. That mysteriously broken oven? Missing ingredients? They were not accidents.

Somehow, I had made the cut, but it was all hollow in the end. The win was supposed to be a stepping stone or a springboard to something bigger for me.

And this was something bigger?

Getting berated in front of my coworkers?

All I could do was shake. That, and be glad there was nothing sharp within an arm’s reach, or that conversation might have gone a whole lot differently.

I was going to quit. I had to quit. There was still enough in my savings to float me for a little while until I found another job. A better job, with a better boss, one who wasn’t completely psycho about everything staying exactly the same. No wonder the damn restaurant hadn’t actually grown or evolved beyond its original concept—modern twists on classic dishes. Whoop-dee-fucking-doo.

Big, frustrated tears filled my eyes. There were two articles I was supposed to be interviewing for in the next couple of days, both of which pertained to my new position and how my presence would shake up the Strip. Something about leaving other pastry chefs shaking in their clogs, not that I would ever come up with a line as corny as that or put anyone else on alert that I was in town, gunning for their jobs.

Not even close. I wasn’t out of my mind, looking to piss people off. I wasn’t born and raised here, but I knew a thing or two. People relied on each other. And unlike the man whose name was on the sign out front, I didn’t take an enemy’s animosity as a sign of success. I got what he was going for, but his approach was all wrong. There was no need to piss people off to get ahead.

“Don’t let him get to you.”

Shit. I turned, sniffling, to find Lucas wearing a sympathetic expression. His dark eyes were soft, the corners of his mouth pulling downward. “He’s tough, but so are you. And I like your bread,” he added, coming to a stop and leaning against the prep table currently bearing my weight. For a big, sharp-tongued guy, when things were going wrong in the kitchen, he struck me as being surprisingly kind.

Standing up straight, I replied, “Thank you. I don’t usually let anybody get to me that way.”

“You’re in a new place, a new job, a new kitchen. But everybody’s been treating you pretty well, right?” he asked like he was trying to encourage me. I almost told him not to bother, it was a lost cause, but then again, I couldn’t remember the last time anybody went out of their way to be nice the way he was now. He didn’t have to. He was a busy guy in a busy kitchen, keeping the gears turning while his boss joked around with buddies and got all the praise.

“Everybody here has been decent,” I assured him, arching an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t have anything to do with that, would you?”

His fair cheeks darkened. “What do you mean?” He turned back to his work plating entrées, but not quickly enough to hide the slight grin that had started to stir.

And there I was, letting myself believe I wasn’t being hazed because everybody around here had respect for me. Or that at least this was too busy a professional kitchen for anyone to have the time. “I can take care of myself, you know,” I murmured. “Thank you if you told them to lay off. It’s been sort of a… crazy situation lately.”

“Tell me about it. It’s been crazy here too.” Eyeing me up, he added, “You’re supposed to turn all that around. So far, so good, at least from where I’m standing.”

There was something in his words that gave me pause. Maybe it was the way he said it—a little too approving, maybe a little too familiar. But the way I was feeling, I welcomed it. I had an ally in the kitchen.

Make that two. “He can be such a hard-ass sometimes,” Allie whispered as she approached. Raising her voice, she called out, “Behind you.” Lucas was careful to avoid a collision.

“He’s stuck in his ways,” Lucas agreed, pushing up his sleeve when it fell across his forearm. The many tattoos were fascinating. “You just keep doing what you do. And remember, you’ve always got a taste tester right here if you want to try out a new project.”

“I’ll keep you in mind,” I promised. By the time I returned to my corner of the kitchen, I had pushed back the tears, locking my emotions behind a steel door in favor of getting a rundown from my assistant, Stella, a middle-aged woman with a tart tongue and no problems telling off anybody who made the mistake of screwing with her. There was nothing but love among the crew, though tensions could run high at times.