there?” he asked, reaching around her to push the button for the fourteenth floor.
“The universe or heaven or whatever you like to call the fickle fates,” she said, tucking a strand of her short hair behind her ear.
“Why are you blaming an unseen power when you are clearly running late?” he asked. “If you’d been here on time none of this would have happened.”
“Touché,” she said.
Silence grew between them and Staci tried to just let it be, but she hated quiet … always had.
“Are you here for the competition?” she asked. It was an educated guess, but one she suspected would be confirmed since he held a bag of chef knives in one hand.
“Yes,” he said. “I hope you are better in the kitchen than you are in the elevator.”
“Oh, you haven’t seen me at my best in the elevator,” she said with a wink. Then holding out her hand to him, she introduced herself. “I’m Staci Rowland.”
“Remy … Stephens,” he said. His handgrip was firm and his hand was warm in hers. His hands showed signs that he’d been a chef for a while with burn marks and nicks that had long since scarred over. If his hands were any indication the man could cook.
She stared at his face perhaps a little longer than she should, unable to look away from the beard stubble on his face, which gave him a rugged sexy appearance. When she glanced back at his eyes she saw that he’d lifted one eyebrow at her.
She dropped his hand and rubbed hers on her jean-clad leg. What the hell was wrong with her today?
“Oh, like that little mouse in Ratatouille,” she said. Her niece loved that film and after they’d watched it together Louisa had insisted on having ratatouille for dinner.
“Ratatouille? The vegetable dish?”
“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
