Page 41 of Julien (Confessions 2)

Just open your mouth and lie that it’s for your mom or some other bullshit like that. But, of course, he wasn’t about making his life easier these days. In fact, he didn’t care much about his life at all.

“I’d rather not say.”

Graham raised his eyes from the golden top of what Julien knew was the best soufflé this man had ever eaten, and pinned him with a disbelieving look. “Excuse me?”

Julien clasped his hands behind his back and repeated, “I’d rather not say.”

A loud snort came from behind him where the other eighteen chefs waited, and Julien didn’t need to turn to know who it was—Brady, the attention whore.

Graham straightened and lowered his arm, the soufflé still untouched. “And what is your reasoning for that?”

Julien cleared his throat as one of the cameramen shifted to the left of him, and he knew that asshole was now zooming in.

Breathe, he said to himself as he felt his chest tighten. You are not going to pass out on fucking television.

And then, keeping his eyes on Graham, Julien said, “I’d rather not say.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Brady said from behind, and Julien curled his hands into tight fists. “Of course the French guy is a pain in the ass.”

Let it go, Julien ordered himself, as he concentrated on staying upright. Ignore him.

Graham narrowed his eyes on Julien, and then crossed his arms over his burly chest. His bald head looked spit-polished shiny, and his chef’s jacket barely made it across his impressive barrel chest as he stared Julien down.

Julien figured that Graham thought the intimidating stance would work, but he was wrong. Julien didn’t give a fuck what happened to him. He was doing this for one reason and one reason only, and he had fiery hair and a much more intimidating scowl than this guy.

“Thornton,” Graham said, “I need something more than that.”

“Why?” Julien said. “The competition called for me to cook my most meaningful meal, not share my whole sob story with a bunch of people I don’t know. Here is my meal: cheese soufflé. The best fucking cheese soufflé you will ever taste, when you decide to try it. If that’s not enough, then send me the hell home.”

Julien knew the editing room would be going nuts with the bleeping out of his words, but he wasn’t about to talk about shit he didn’t want to because it would be good for ratings. No way. Fuck that.

“Can anyone say drama queen?” Brady said, and Julien finally turned his head to glare at the asshole mouthing off behind him.

Brady was a tool of epic proportions and threatened by anyone who knew how to boil an egg. He’d been gunning for Julien since the auditions, and Julien would be damned if he let the fucker provoke him into doing something he didn’t want to—and talking about Jacquelyn was one of those things.

“Thinks he’s better than everyone else. Has since he got here,” Brady said to their fellow contestants before looking back to him, and Julien cocked his head to the side and ran his eyes up and down the jock—minus a cock.

“Better than you, that’s for sure.”

“Just say who the meal’s for already, Thornton. Quit all the dramatics.”

“How about none of your fucking business? That’s who it’s for.”

“Hey,” Graham shouted from opposite Julien, recapturing his attention. “Last I recall, this is my show and you are here because you want to win Chef Master. So is that still the case, or do you want to leave, Thornton?”

Julien’s jaw ticked as he glared across at the host—and one of the most well-respected chefs in the world—and when he saw a flicker of compassion in Graham’s eyes, Julien’s temper bubbled to the surface in full force.

Fuck that. There was no way he was going to be known as the charity case on this show. That was not why he was there. He was there to prove himself and get a goddamn date with Priest—to better hisfuckingself.

“That’s up to you, isn’t it?” Julien said. “But I’m not telling you shit other than that soufflé will be the best thing you taste in here tonight. So take it or leave it.” And without another word, Julien turned on his heel and stormed away from Graham.

He needed to get out of there. He needed some fucking air. He didn’t give a shit that Graham was calling out his name, and just before he shoved open the doors to the exit, he heard Brady say, “Jesus. His name really does suit him. Thornton. What a prick.”

Five seconds after that, Graham Boyd picked up his fork, sank it into the fluffy soufflé, and Julien had been crowned the winner of that night’s challenge by proxy.

After that, he was forever dubbed “the Prick,” a name much less sad and pathetic than the man hidden inside the prickly exterior, and a name he found he had no trouble living up to at all…

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