Page 68 of Turn Up The Heat

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“Igotta admit, Sunshine. When I first saw you, I didn’t think for a second that you could hold your own.”

The fact that Adrian’s face only held slight disdain was weirdly comforting to Bellamy as she stood, exhausted, at a food-splattered kitchen station deep in the bowels of the resort.

“What do you think now?”

“I think you’d better clean up your work station before Chef di Matisse catches you. You’re a fucking mess.”

Bellamy wrinkled her nose at him, but only to cover up the grin she’d been dying to unleash. She still wanted to pinch herself at the fact that she’d spent two hours working on a list of techniques and test dishes in a professional kitchen. It blew the tiny yet functional kitchen in her condo out of the water, and she was still kind of in shock that Adrian had let her come down here even after she’d told him she was just an armchair cook with no professional experience. It didn’t seem to matter, as nobody had questioned her presence while they’d worked side by side on the same test dishes. Bellamy remembered that they were overhauling the restaurant. How freaking cool was it that she was getting to reap the benefits of menu-testing firsthand?

“You’d better hope your cooking’s better than your kitchen management. I’m not kidding about the mess.” Adrian tapped his foot impatiently, but Bellamy could see traces of a smile under the few days’ worth of dark stubble on his face.

“You’re a real sweetheart, Chef Holt. Really. I’m swooning over here,” she muttered, starting to tackle the mess in front of her. He couldn’t be serious about Carly catching her. Chef di Matisse would probably be pissed if she knew Adrian had let her come into the kitchen just to mess around, but she didn’t want to leave any signs that she’d been there, just in case.

“If you want to have a prayer in the kitchen, you’d better be able to handle it. Nobody pats you on the head in this business, that’s for damn sure.” Adrian flicked a glance over the cavernous kitchen, bustling with movement and smells and sounds. He tipped his platinum head at her before turning to walk down the row of stainless steel counter space, each with stations that looked like different variations of the one Bellamy was currently cleaning.

“By the way, I gave one of your test dishes to Carly. She’ll be back from her break in five.”

Bellamy stopped breathing. “You never said…I mean, you didn’t…she’s not supposed totasteany of it!”

She scrambled for wits that seemed to have no intention of surfacing. Adrian’s impromptu invitation to come show her stuff in the kitchen was supposed to be a fun-and-games kind of thing. She didn’t even have formal training, for Chrissake!

Adrian crossed his arms over his retaining wall of a chest and eyed her. “This is a kitchen, not a playground. What do you think all of these people are doing here?”

“Um, working?” Reality started to sink in, hard and fast.

“They’re competing for jobs, sweetheart. This isn’t a swanky cooking class just for fun. This is the nitty-gritty, right here.” He creased his forehead, knitting his brows into a dark slash over his eyes. “Clean up your station. Anything for dishwashing goes on the tray under your table. You can take it back there.” Adrian thrust a meaty finger toward the back of the kitchen.

And he was gone.

“Don’t feel bad. At least Chef di Matisse saw yours. Some people’s test dishes didn’t even pass plating earlier. Chef Holt pitched one based on smell alone.”

Bellamy swung around to see a tall brunette in splattered chef’s whites meticulously scrubbing down the work station next to her.

“Are you serious?” Bellamy reached out to brace herself with both hands, the coolness of the table seeping into her palms. Oh, God. Oh God, oh God, oh God.

The girl nodded, but didn’t even break stride with the bowls in front of her. “And he’s not even the hard-ass of the pair. Chef di Matisse sent two people home before lunch without even tasting their stuff. You don’t get where she is without being tough as nails.”

Bellamy broke out of her panic long enough to furrow her brow. “But when I met her last week, she was so nice,” she said, confused. Theyweretalking about the same woman who had patiently listened to Bellamy prattle on about plank salmon, right? Oh, this was going to be really, really bad.

One brown eyebrow arched up from behind the adjacent workstation. “Let me guess. You weren’t working for her then, were you?”

“I’m not working for her now,” Bellamy said, trying to swallow the knot of fear that had taken over most of her throat.

“Oh, yes you are. Or, at least, you’re trying to. Look out.”

The girl had no sooner given the set of swinging doors at the head of the room a pointed look than they flew open in one heart-sickening swoosh.

“Adrian!Pleasetell me that we have fresh produce. That stuck-in-a-snowstorm excuse is wearing thin. I can’t make something out of nothing over here!”

Chef di Matisse glided through the kitchen with graceful strength, her dark eyes scanning the entire kitchen in less than ten seconds. “I’m not having messy work stations, people. Sloppy stations equal sloppy food. Neither one of those is happening in here.”

She continued moving through the kitchen, stopping to shake her head, her chestnut-colored French braid swishing down her back as she peered into a bowl at someone’s work station. “No, that’s not going to cut it. I can’t put remoulade that looks like that on anything, I don’t care how good it is. People eat with their eyes first, and if it looks like Elmer’s paste, that’s what they’ll taste. The recipe’s right in front of you. Do it again. Right, this time.”

Adrian leaned in to murmur something in Carly’s ear, and both sets of eyes lasered in on Bellamy’s workstation, which was still dotted with dirty mixing bowls and utensils. She scrabbled to collect them and wipe down her station with blinding speed, then bent low to snatch the tray from under the counter.

“You made chicken piccata.”

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