Page 1 of Grudge Match

Chapter One

“Do not forget we have our book club tonight. We’re still newbies, and I’d like to impress the ladies with a few good insights. Make sure you’ve read chapters 1–20, or you won’t be able to fully participate in the discussion,” my best friend, Ramona, prattles as she buzzes by me, gathering her belongings on her way to work. She’s an executive assistant for some big honcho on Wall Street and work often bleeds into life.

I like to call her my professional best friend because that’s how seriously she takes her responsibilities.

“Twenty chapters? I devoured it last night before bed. It wasn’t even two hundred pages. That will be my first point of contention. Why did they choose such a short book? And why aren’t you done?” I pass her in the hallway, half-dressed, carrying a bowl of cereal. With the day ahead, this soggy mess might be my only meal today.

Ramona stops to fasten her scarf and stares at me with a narrowed gaze. “You know Mr. Nielsen made me work late all week. I’m on chapter 18 and plan to leave a few hours early to read the rest. I refuse to be outdone by Sabrina and her ten-minute soliloquy on how last week’s book changed her life. That was the phoniest thing I’ve ever heard,” she seethes as she buttons her coat.

“How much insight could you have on a book named Bad Boss? Besides, you’re always hating on my best friend,” I tease, laughing as I nudge her out the door.

Unamused by my joke, her eyes tighten to a squint, and she pretends to laugh out loud, exaggerating her cackle as she hops off the stoop. Sabrina’s a lovely girl I know from culinary school whose sweet nature seems too good to be true. Ramona swears she’s trying to steal me away. Every Friday she acts like a jealous boyfriend and gets ready for the fight of her life.

If only the men in my life were half as attentive, I wouldn’t be utterly single with no hope in sight. I place my empty bowl in the sink and rinse it off, nearly shuddering at the thought of dating again. No, thank you. I have no interest in playing the field. Until I meet a good man, there’s not much sense in shaving my legs. I refuse to settle for lemons and spend the next twenty years trying to make lemonade.

I’ve got far better uses for my time.

This is my last full semester at the International Culinary Academy and the chefs are riding us hard these final months. With good reason. We’re vying for internships that could make our careers and there’s no place I want more than Paris. The experience would be invaluable and look fantastic on my resume. I dream of working as a private chef and saving enough money to open an authentic French patisserie in my hometown.

It’ll take some time to earn that kind of dough—pun intended—but good things come to those who wait.

On my way back to my bedroom, I quickly peek outside, surprised to see snow falling harder than predicted. The weatherman specifically said flurries, not a freaking snow squall. I grimace and wipe the fog from the glass, eyeing the street to see how much buildup has formed. I hate wearing galoshes, and I despise February. After two long months of winter, and the anticipation of spring filling my heart with hope, I’m not only slammed with the worst weather but bombarded with signs of Valentine’s Day everywhere I go.

I’m accustomed to this weather. Growing up in Vermont, you learn to deal with Old Man Winter, but city cold and country cold are vastly different. For one, city snow is dirty, and the nonstop concrete makes for one hell of a slip if you don’t watch your step. Fortunately, the walk to class is short. Ramona works near Wall Street and the school is a few blocks from the Battery. After a brief stint paying exorbitant prices uptown, we found a cute place near the school and only one metro stop away from her office.

Treading into the school, I shake off my coat and swipe the wet hat from my head. I weave through the crowd surrounding the student lockers and store my belongings. Today’s lessons should be a cinch. We’re reviewing the final part of the creative plate presentation and product organization. I can discuss that stuff in my sleep, and according to Ramona, I often do.

“Hey, Elodie!” Sabrina pops out of a classroom and joins me in the hallway, holding her textbook tightly to her chest. “Did you finish the book for tonight?”

I nod, charging into class and grabbing a seat close to the front. Sabrina follows, giggling as she describes the scene where the heroine takes control of the situation and has her way with the hero. Her summary doesn’t do it justice. Our book club doesn’t often agree to such a steamy book, but our group's Holy Roller was absent last week, and the girls took full advantage.

“I finished late last night. I should have never started that book so late. Once her bully boss apologized, got on his knees, and begged to eat her out, I couldn’t put it down. Where on earth did the author come up with that kind of choreography? That closet seemed tiny,” I whisper and pretend to wipe my brow.

“And the ending! Lord, have mercy! Do you think the author writes from personal experience?” Sabrina asks while turning the pages of her textbook. She finds her spot and slides a pen against the spine to hold it open. “Or do you think she’s blessed with a wild imagination?”

I shake my head and rummage through my purse for a pen. “No, that must be real. You can’t make that stuff up! I bet she’s led an interesting life and now sits back and writes about all her past adventures,” I reply, too naive to know better. I haven’t had an honest-to-God date since my ex-boyfriend Devon invited me to the movies over Thanksgiving break three years ago. Attempting to avoid a scene, that creep thought a packed theater would be the perfect place to tell me he’d met someone else. I wouldn’t have taken it so bad if we didn’t have an audience. My heart was no longer mine to give him. For months, I’d nursed a secret and rather humiliating crush on his older brother, Deacon, who happened to be in town for the holiday, sitting just a row away. I was more upset about his presence than the actual dumping.

I was mortified. I ran out of the theater at full speed to avoid crying in front of a crowd. If he had an ounce of decency, Devon would have followed me to ensure I was okay, but he cut me loose, staying behind to watch the movie’s big action scene. During my pathetic walk home, Deacon drove up beside me and offered me a ride. I said no several times but when he slowed to crawl, holding up traffic to keep pace with me, I finally gave in. My face burns hot just thinking about it.

If Deacon only knew how I felt about him then. If only he knew how much I think about him now. Every romantic hero I read about has his face. In my dreams, every love story turns into ours.

“Are you and Ramona attending the early dinner before the meeting? I heard some of the girls want to grab a bite at that Mexican restaurant in Tribeca,” Sabrina probes, craning her neck to examine my notes. “Holy crap, you’ve got neat handwriting.”

“It’s a definite yes on the Mexican food,” I reply, twirling my pen before jotting a random thought into my notebook. As much as I hate the upcoming holiday, it’s provided loads of inspiration for my upcoming food presentation exam. “Ramona has starved herself most of the week to create a caloric deficit. She plans to go hog wild with some chicken fajita quesadillas tonight.”

Sabrina laughs, and pulls out her phone, swiping the screen for something to show me. “I don’t think it works that way, but I do the same thing whenever you put me in front of Italian food.” She places her phone in front of me. “These are the presentation dishes I’ve practiced at home. They’re simple to cook and colorful to present. What do you think?”

My eyes focus on the photo before me, narrowing with scrutiny as I try to find fault in her example. It’s impossible. Her creativity is unmatched. My eyes drift from her photo to my pathetic sketch and my heart stings with envy. I could work on this project for years and never wield that level of flair.

No wonder Ramona hates her.

I shake my head, annoyed with myself for being such an envious witch, and try to produce a smile. Sabrina works hard and has even less of a life than me—though that hardly seems possible.

“That looks stunning, Sabrina. I bet you’ll win the Paris internship. You deserve it.” I swallow my pride and admit I’ve been outdone. Sometimes I hate being an adult. I’m not ready to always be the bigger person.

“You’re a sweetheart to say that, but you’ve got me beat on taste. I don’t have the special touch or pizzazz all good chefs need to make it to the top. You're dripping in it. And that’s what counts.” Sabrina soothes my wounded ego by giving me a compliment I’m unsure I deserve. I have so much room for improvement.

“Don’t be silly. You’re an excellent cook,” I assert with a pat on her back. She’s phenomenal with fusion cuisine and gives me a run for my money with pastries. I credit her for keeping me on my toes. It’s easy to become complacent when everyone gives you nonstop praise and a chef should never stop fine-tuning their skills.

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