Page 82 of Challenged By You
Just before she shoved in a mouthful of eggs, she paused to ask, “Do you think he had a reason?”
I tossed her my phone. “Here. This is what he’s been saying.”
Reading it, she hummed before saying, “You’re new, T. And you haven’t said anything, but I suspect he has something in his past. Am I wrong?”
“No, but it’s not mine to share.” At least, I thought miserably, until after the cook-off.
“Then think about it. Get well. And when you’re ready, reach out.”
Now, as the train rocks back and forth, her words ricochet inside my mind when I should be thinking of apple recipes to knock his socks off. “We both made mistakes. Do they cancel each other out?”
An elderly woman squished next to me reaches over and pats my knee. “Most times they do, dear.”
I hold on to her words with all my heart as we pull into Grand Central Station. Bending over, I pull my emergency $20 from my wallet and press it into her hand. “Thanks,” I whisper, before I dash off the train.
She may need it; she may not. But somehow, her words mean more than the money.
They’ll help me get through the night ahead.
* * *
The kitchenat Seduction has never been this tense, even when Chef Spencer was still in charge. All of the executive chefs have the same gobsmacked look on their faces I do. It wasn’t real until the main ingredients were delivered to our stations a short while ago.
My stomach churns when I realize this isn’t a list of Jonas’s most hated foods. It’s life telling me we aren’t meant to be together in living color. With a horrified spin, I realized the items my coworkers are struggling to incorporate into a five-star meal had entered the life of Jonas Rice at least once while we were together.
Maybe it wasn’t strawberry jelly that Jonas ate in Central Park, but it was jelly nonetheless. And right now, the appetizer chef is turning the jar over and over in his hands, wincing.
The white bread on the salad station we fed to my kids at the zoo is causing a baffled look on the salad chef’s face.
And then there are, of course, the pounds of Gala apples to be peeled in front of me.
The only thing I can’t lay claim to are the raw Rocky Mountain Oysters the entree chef is cursing over. But then, those might be the balls Jonas thought he might have handed to me. A crazed giggle escapes before I turn my back on the others.
Leaning my gloved hands on top of my station, I shove aside the mental and physical pain to rack my memory to think of any hint of how I can help out my team. “Can someone turn on some damn music in here?” I shout. “It’s so quiet I can’t think.”
There’s a murmured appreciation from those in the know. The rest of the kitchen staff just raises their brows as Taylor Swift comes through the speakers. “You were beginning to be all I wanted,” I murmur as I pick up the first apple and test its weight in the palm of my hand. I’m just about to slice it in half to determine if the seeds are dark, denoting its ripeness, when suddenly it hits me.
Jelly. White bread. Apples. “Country dinner!” I scream at the top of my lungs. I groan as I hold a hand to my aching jaw.
Immediately three chefs and Chef Sterling are in my space. “What are you yelling about?” Sterling demands.
Babbling, I point to each of the chefs. “All of our foods can be combined into one cohesive meal.”
Sterling’s eyes narrow to slits. “Walk me through it.”
I don’t take the time to argue.
“Mrs. McPhearson brought over a bunch of magazines while I was home last week. And one of them talked about Southern comfort foods.” I tick on my fingers. “Grape jelly meatballs. Cornbread salad. Jambalaya. And freaking all-American apple pie. We can’t cook something that’s not cohesive. We have to play to our biggest strength—the fact we’re an amazing team, something I’ve been bragging about to Jonas Rice in every interview I’ve given. So, let’s put our heads together and come up with a play off an old-fashioned country dinner that will send him scurrying back to his computer.”
By the time I’m done, there’s a pervasive relief among all of us. “At least, that’s what I’m thinking.”
Sterling is about to open her mouth when suddenly there’s a clamor at the back door. “Why is no one cooking? Isn’t Jonas Rice supposed to be coming here shortly?” A curvaceous brunette shrugs into a chef’s coat and twists her hair up before tucking it beneath a net and a tall white cap. When she turns, I gasp as the impossible beauty of her features. She might be one of the sexiest women I’ve ever seen. But what is she doing walking into our kitchen as if she owns it?
Then Sterling groans, “You just had to come, didn’t you, Mia?”
Mia? This woman is Chef Mia Palazzo? Suddenly my idea doesn’t seem quite as brilliant as it did just a few moments ago. Anxious, I wait for the introductions. Chef Palazzo doesn’t hesitate to shake my hand, nor does she shy away from asking, “Are you going to be at the top of your game with that bump, Chef Paxton?”
“Yes, Chef.”
