the matter? You look almost nervous.”
“I’m hardly that. I just don’t believe in counting my chickens before they’re hatched.”
“Um … all three judges liked our food. It’s a safe bet that we’ll be asked to stay,” Staci said.
“I want to hear what he’s saying to the others. This is a competition. Just because we made a good dish doesn’t mean the other competitors didn’t as well,” Remy said.
She nodded. And for the first time really looked at the other chefs and the dishes they’d put together. Everyone wanted this chance to make it to the next level. Everyone wanted to win and she had to remember that.
The chefs next to them had made a dry rubbed brisket that they had sliced thin and steamed. “Sounds iffy to me,” Staci said. “Brisket needs to be slow cooked.”
“I agree, but Pete seems like he’s enjoying it.”
She had to admit the restaurant critic did seem to be enjoying the meat. But Hamilton made a face and spat his portion back out. “Dry.”
“It is dry,” Lorenz agreed. “But it’s admirable that you tried to do a brisket in the time allotted and I love the spice combination in the rub. Whose recipe is that?”
“Mine,” the tall, skinny chef said.
“Good job, Dave. It really flavors the meat and to be honest makes up for the dryness,” Lorenz said.
“I enjoyed it,” Pete said. “The barbecue sauce you made covers up the lack of moisture in the meat.”
“Thanks,” Dave said.
The judges finished up their tasting and they were all told to clean up their stations while a final decision was reached. Remy was introspective as he worked quickly and efficiently. She watched him moving and then realized what she was doing.
She always had the worst timing in her infatuations and it seemed the worst taste in men. She’d let a man ruin her cooking career once. Was she really going to let that happen again?
“Don’t worry, chère, whatever happens today, you can cook and no one can take that from you,” he said. “I enjoyed working with you today.”
“Me, too,” she said.
They were all told to move back to their stations as a final decision had been reached. Remy stood next to her and this time he squeezed her hand as Hamilton started talking.
“We’ve sampled some truly fine dishes given that we asked you to work with a chef whose style was different from yours and gave you a time restraint. We know you can all cook; this competition is designed to take you beyond that. Therefore the winners of this challenge and staying in the competition are …
“Staci Rowland and Remy Stephens,” Lorenz announced.
Remy tugged her close for a victory hug but he held her a little longer than he should have and when she pulled back there was a new awareness in his eyes.
REMY MADE SURE HE WASN’T in the same Escalade as Staci when they left the studio and were driven to the Premier Chef house in Malibu. They were in a luxury home that overlooked the Pacific.
The water was bluer than his beloved Gulf of Mexico but the scent of salt in the air reminded him of home. There were production assistants in the house when they arrived. And they were all directed where to go in the eight-bedroom house. They’d be sharing two to a room to begin with and the producers had already assigned them into pairs. Remy was in a room overlooking the ocean with Quinn Lyon.
“Dude, do you mind if I take this bed?” Quinn asked.
Remy shrugged. “That’s fine. Where are you from?”
“Seattle. I’m the executive chef at Poisson … one guess what our specialty is?”
Remy smiled. There was an easy-going nature about Quinn and he reminded Remy of one of his Cajun uncles who was a shrimper. “Fish, right?”
“Hell, yes. Your accent says you’re from the south—where?”
“Nawlins’,” he said.
“Where do you work?”
“Currently, I’m between jobs,” he said. It was sort of the truth since he’d taken a leave of absence from Gastrophile.
“That’s cool. I saw you working today, you keep a neat station,” Quinn said.
“I began cooking with my dad and he’s a tyrant in the kitchen.”
Quinn laughed. “My old man was a logger, didn’t know anything about food.”
“How’d you come to be a chef?”
“Dropped out of high school,” Quinn said. “Started as a dishwasher and worked my way up. I never thought I’d be a chef when I was a kid. I mean, girls cooked where I came from, you know?”
“No, I don’t. The women in my family can cook but the kitchen has always been filled with men. I can’t remember a time when anyone thought I’d be anything but a chef.”
“What’s your family think of you being unemployed?” he asked.
“Not too fond of that. But getting on this show will probably help ease their minds,” he said. The truth was his parents didn’t know where he was right now. But he figured that Remy Stephens’s family would be happy that he was cooking with the chance of employment at the end of the show. “What about your family?”
“My wife’s great. My dad moved to Alaska so he’s not that involved with my day-to-day life,” Quinn said. “I don’t know if I should unpack or not.”
“I am,” Remy said. “My grandmère is superstitious and she’s always said that if you believe you’ll succeed you will and vice versa.”
“Ah, that’s confidence not superstition,” Quinn said, unzipping his suitcase and starting to unpack. “But I think you’re right. Better to act like I’m here for the long haul.”
“Definitely,” Remy said.
Quinn had a picture of his wife and one of him with his dad holding up the biggest fish that Remy had ever seen. Quinn kept up a quiet conversation while he moved around the room and Remy learned the other man was thirty-eight and was contemplating an offer to become the chef owner of Poisson. Something he wasn’t too sure he wanted to do.
Remy didn’t give the other man any advice. He’d learned that decisions that significant had to be made intuitively. Otherwise doubt and resentment followed.
Quinn’s cell phone rang and he smiled. “It’s the wife.”
“I’ll leave you alone,” offered Remy.
The bedrooms were all on the second floor of the house, which sat, nestled on a cliff overlooking the Pacific ocean. Remy went downstairs and saw that several contestants were
