to distract her.
She grabbed her handbag and made sure she had her moleskin recipe journal in there. The journal had seen better days and was bulging with pages and photos she’d added. She never went anywhere without the journal. She liked to make notes about the meals she ate and she found eating out always inspired her palate.
“Knock ’em dead,” Vivian said.
“I hope so,” Staci replied as she left their room. She was used to living alone, cooking alone and spending most of her time by herself, so this living with the other contestants could be a strain.
Remy was waiting in the foyer with Jack, the director and one of the producers. She almost missed a step on the stairs staring at Remy. His thick black hair was slicked back. He wore a white dress shirt left casually open at the neck and a navy dinner jacket and gray pants. He glanced at his watch and then at the stairs, his mouth dropping open when he saw her.
She gave herself a mental high five and forced herself to smile at him in what she hoped was a casual way. To be honest, he was oozing sexiness in his dinner wear, so she wasn’t entirely sure what impression she gave off.
“Now that you are both here we will head over to the restaurant. We won’t be filming until we are there so you can relax.”
“Thanks,” Remy said. “Will we be driving ourselves?”
“No. We have a production assistant who will take you and pick you up. During the course of the show you will always be in our hands. Chef Ramone doesn’t like cell phones and he has requested you leave them with us.”
“Okay,” Staci said, opening her handbag to retrieve her phone, which she handed to Jack.
“What’s that book in your bag?” the producer asked.
“Just my food journal. I like to write down the meals I eat.”
“I’m sure that will be fine. Though we will check with the chef before you arrive and if it’s not, you’ll have to give it to one of our staff at the location.”
She didn’t like the thought of letting anyone else have her journal but she wasn’t going to argue about it right now. Jack directed them out the door and into a Mercedes sedan.
“How many vehicles do you have?” Remy asked.
“Enough. In this case Mercedes is sponsoring one of the upcoming challenges and giving away this car as a prize.”
“Nice. I hope I win,” Staci said. “I’ve been riding the bus for too long.”
Remy laughed. “Ah, without the bus I wouldn’t have that great first impression of you.”
She shook her head remembering how she’d landed in his arms. “I could have done without that.”
Soon they were both seated in the backseat and being whisked across town toward the famous restaurant. Instead of thinking about the evening or even the contest, Staci’s thoughts hadn’t drifted any further than the man sitting next to her.
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.
