Page 41 of Burn for You (Slow Burn 1)
32 ounces cream cheese, softened
? cup white sugar, plus 2 tablespoons
1 cup sour cream, divided
1 tablespoon grated orange peel
4 eggs
2 cups clementine wedges
½ cup finely chopped crystallized ginger
Preparation
Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Mix graham cracker crumbs, butter, and ? cup sugar together. Press on bottom of 9² x 3² springform pan and just enough up sides to seal bottom.
Place cream cheese, ? cup sugar, ½ cup sour cream, and orange peel in food processor. Cover and process about 3 minutes or until smooth. Add eggs. Cover and process until well blended. Spread over crust.
Bake 1 hour 20 minutes, or until center is set. Cool on wire rack for 15 minutes. Using spatula around edges to loosen, remove side of pan.
Refrigerate uncovered 3 hours or until chilled, then cover and continue refrigerating at least 4 hours, but not longer than 48 hours.
Mix ½ cup sour cream and 2 tablespoons sugar and spread over top of cheesecake. Top with fresh fruit and crystallized ginger. Store uneaten portion covered with foil in fridge.
TWELVE
BIANCA
Though I wanted to turn and bolt, I didn’t. The man had paid me an obscene amount of money for this job, after all. And I was a professional. I wouldn’t embarrass him in front of all his guests by refusing his request.
Also, I was intrigued by this new Jackson, this well-dressed stranger who spoke so eloquently about honor and selflessness and used words like please.
I didn’t th
ink that word was in his vocabulary.
So it was with curiosity—and a healthy dose of embarrassment—that I walked around the perimeter of the tables and climbed the few stairs to the stage.
Then shock took over as Jackson wound his arm around my shoulders, pulled me against his side, and smiled down at me. I was too busy trying not to keel over in surprise to pay much attention to how perfectly I fit under his arm, how snugly I nestled against the solid bulk of his body.
How hard he was, all over.
I’m definitely hallucinating. Or Jackson Boudreaux has a twin no one knows about.
A twin that had three long, thin, mysterious scars on the right side of his face that his beard had been hiding.
“Pretend like you don’t hate me, and smile,” he said, his jaw barely moving, his lips stretched tight over his teeth. “Please.”
There’s that word again. I’m as lost as last year’s Easter egg. Am I on camera?
Expecting to see myself on a prank video sometime in the near future, I smiled.
Satisfied, Jackson turned back to the audience. “I discovered the magic of Bianca Hardwick’s cuisine when I visited her restaurant in the French Quarter. The food was so good I stayed all night and tried everything on the menu—”
“Maybe it wasn’t the food you stayed for!” shouted someone from the audience, then whistled, one of those catcalls boys lean out of car windows to deliver as you walk down the street.
Three hundred people laughed. My face went molten hot.
