Some Like It Spicy

Some Like It Spicy

a Perfect Recipe novel

Robbie Terman

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright ©
2013 by Robbie Terman.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 109

Fort Collins, CO 80525

Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

Edited by
Stacy Abrams

Cover design by Jessica Cantor

Ebook ISBN 978-1-62266-147-3

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition
July 2013

The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
People
magazine,
US Weekly
, Victoria’s Secret, Page Six, Lincoln Town Car, Mr. Clean, QVC, The Today Show, Prada, Dockers, Smurfs, Oscar,
Seinfeld
, New York Yankees,
Hairspray
, Cole Haan,
Entertainment Weekly,
Velveeta, Jimmy Choo,
The View
, Jell-O, Pottery Barn, iPod, KitchenAid,
Victorian Homes
magazine, Cristal, Ambien,
E!
, Neiman Marcus, Tic Tacs, Subway, YouTube, W Hotel, WWE,
Atlanta Journal
,
The Wizard of Oz.

To Grandma Plotnick, for being one of my greatest critics and most ardent supporters. I wish you were here to share this with me.

Chapter One

Insulting someone who carried a big knife was never a good idea. Especially if that person could debone a chicken with her eyes closed.

For executive chef Ashton Grey, cooking was more than a passion, it was the very reason for her existence. So when a customer complained his filet mignon was undercooked, Ashton would have preferred to stick the customer under the broiler rather than ruin a perfectly fine cut of meat.

“Ashton, put down the cleaver and fire a new steak,” Jenna Rawley, her best friend and business partner commanded.

“I’m talking to him.” Ashton stepped toward the door, only to be stopped by Jenna. Blond and petite, wearing a designer black dress and her trademark pearls, Jenna looked like the type of woman who would fall over if a feather hit her. But Ashton knew her friend’s four older brothers had taught her where exactly to put the hurt on, and if she tried to rush her, Jenna could have her flat on her back within seconds.

“You’re not going out there,” Jenna said, referring to the dining room. “We agreed after the last time—the kitchen is your domain; the front of the house is mine.”

“Well, he’s eating my food in the dining room, and I have a right to defend myself.”

“If you think you can get past me,” Jenna said, raising an eyebrow. “I dare you to try.”

Ashton backed away and leaned against a stainless-steel counter. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, going through a few quick breathing exercises she’d learned from a brief stint in anger management. The long, deep intakes of air, followed by slow exhalations, loosened the knot in her chest. “Fine. I’m going to cook him a new filet myself, and it will be the best damn steak he’s ever eaten.”

Pierre, her sous chef, bristled, and she assured him that she wasn’t implying he’d made a mistake. But Sweet Home was her restaurant, with her name on the menu, and she didn’t want an unhappy customer spreading around town that she didn’t know how to properly cook meat.

After Jenna left with the new dish, the tension in Ashton’s neck eased.
Just a couple more hours to get through dinner service and this awful day will be over.

The complaining customer had merely been the icing on a particularly crappy cake. One year ago today, her beloved nana had died, and the shock of her sudden death still hadn’t dissipated. Nana had always been her biggest supporter—not only in life, but also in death. Without Nana leaving her this house to turn into a restaurant, Ashton would never have been able to afford to open Sweet Home.

And on this already horrible day, when she longed to bury her sorrow in work, the restaurant was dead. Not on life support. Dead. As in flatlined.

Ashton glanced at the clock on the wall. Nine on a Saturday night. By this time, a successful restaurant would have been bursting at the seams, filled to capacity with a waiting list half a page long.

She had four tables filled.

If she peeked into the front of the house, she could see whether any new parties had come in. But she couldn’t bear to face the reality, to see the restaurant she had worked so hard for as quiet as a mausoleum.

Behind her, a different noise echoed in her ears—boredom. Pierre tapped his foot rhythmically against the tiled floor. Her three line cooks muttered and hissed in Spanish. Even the high school student she’d hired as a dishwasher, usually so eager to please, now made water chimes with the glasses instead of washing them. He actually wasn’t half-bad, if one didn’t mind an earsplitting version of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.”

Ashton refused to turn around, to glimpse the looks in their eyes she’d seen far too often lately: the look of defeat. If she turned around, if they caught her gaze, she knew someone would ask to be cut for the night. But if she let even one person leave,
especially
on a Saturday night, she’d finally be forced to admit the truth she’d kept locked away, deep in the pit of her stomach, for months.

Juan, one of her line chefs, mustered the courage to speak. “Hey, Chef, my girl wanted to see this movie, and I was thinking…”

Ashton turned on her heel to face him. “The grease traps need to be cleaned, Mr. Alvarez. I think now is an excellent time to do it.”

His eyes popped as his jaw fell several inches. “But, Chef—”

“If you want to change the oil in the deep fryer after that, then keep talking.”

Juan’s mouth snapped shut but his face spoke volumes: a ticking jaw, pursed lips, and laser-beam eyes. He threw a clean, white dishtowel on the floor, and then banged a pan against the stainless-steel prep table as he walked away.

Ashton turned her gaze on the remaining chefs, meeting their stares head-on. One by one, they all averted their eyes.

If only her employees knew how much she hated acting like a hard-ass. But she’d learned early on if a chef didn’t maintain control of her kitchen, then the chaos would reflect in the food. Being female in a male-dominated profession made it even harder. She couldn’t let her staff get away with any hint of disrespect or let them slack off for a minute. Her reputation, and that of her restaurant, depended on it.

A loud shout from the front of the house caught her attention. “If I wanted to eat a cow while it was still mooing, I wouldn’t be paying thirty bucks for you to cook it for me!”

The August heat wave currently invading Chicago was nothing compared to the boil that rose up the back of Ashton’s neck. She stalked to the door and peered into the dining room. Jenna stood by a table of four, where a thin man with a receding hairline and thick glasses gestured frantically.

“I’ve had a better piece of meat at a fast-food restaurant,” the man yelled. “Where’d the chef get her degree? Online?” He let out a laugh, the sound somewhere between a cackle and a snort.

She’d heard an awful laugh like that before—when she’d told her father she was going to culinary school. As anger shot through her like a bolt of electricity, she shoved the door open so hard, it banged against the wall.

The few other patrons whipped their heads around, following Ashton as she stormed to the man. As she walked, she yanked the thermometer from her jacket pocket. Ignoring Jenna’s furious glare, she stabbed the center of the filet. A triumphant smile curved her lips. One-hundred-forty-five degrees.

“Since this steak is cooked to a perfect medium, I can only assume you actually want well done.” She knew she sounded smug but didn’t really care. It was Jenna’s job to sweet talk the customers. Hers was to serve great food. Which she did. Every time.

The man’s beady eyes popped from his skull. “That isn’t medium. It’s rare. Did you even graduate from culinary school?”

“
Why waste your money on culinary school? You’ll just fail.”

Ashton put a hand against her head, as if she could push out her father’s hateful words, but they were imprinted in her brain no matter how hard she tried to forget them.

Jenna grabbed her arm. “Go back to the kitchen,” she whispered hotly. “Please, Ashton. Don’t make this worse.”

She jerked away from Jenna’s grasp. “I’m very sorry, sir.” Her voice rose and became more punctuated with each word. “Let me fix this for you immediately.” She picked up the steak with her bare hand and threw it into the fireplace like a major-league pitcher.

As she flipped the switch to turn on the gas logs, she glanced at the portrait of Nana hanging over the mantle. “Sorry, Nana,” she muttered. “I know you don’t approve of throwing food in your house, but I think even you would say he deserved it.”

She looked back at Beady Eyes, whose jaw had slackened into—finally!—stunned silence. “Take the meat out in about ten minutes. It should be just to your liking. Enjoy.”

As she started to return to the kitchen, she heard a familiar voice from her childhood drift to her ears. “You’re a disappointment.”

She whipped back in the direction of the man. “Excuse me?”

“I said you’re a disgrace. And the food here is horrible. I could do better myself.”

Ashton clenched her teeth until her fillings ground into dust. Heat speared upward and dots of anger formed in front of her eyes as sanity and reason fled from her brain. She ripped off her chef’s jacket and threw it at the man. “Here.”

The man lowered the jacket from his head and stared. “Excuse me?”

“Congratulations. You’re the new chef. Go back to the kitchen and get to work.”

Beady Eyes glanced at his companions, who looked as though they’d rather be anywhere but here. “I…I…”

“What?” Her heart pounded against her chest like a meat tenderizer. “
Now
you have nothing to add? I thought you said you could do better. Go ahead.”

“Ash.” Jenna put a hand on Ashton’s shoulder, but she jerked it off.

“Well?” She raised an eyebrow. “Let’s go. Now!” She slammed her hands down on the table. Her right palm hit the handle of the steak knife balanced on the edge of the plate and, as if in slow motion, Ashton watched the knife sail through the air, then come down. The knife slammed into the wood chair, point-side down…

Directly between the man’s legs.

Gasps bounced off the walls, and then silence fell over the room. Ashton stared at the knife as rational thought doused her like a bucket of water. A blend of horror and shame leaked into every pore of her body.

The man sat in the chair, motionless, a stunned expression frozen on his face.

When Ashton reached to grab the knife from between his legs, Jenna grasped her by the shoulders. “Get out of here,” she snapped through gritted teeth. “I’ll take care of this.”

“But—”

“If you want to avoid a lawsuit, do as I say.” Jenna gave her a none-too-gentle shove.

Feeling like she was in a trance, Ashton stumbled back. She saw their few remaining customers pointing and whispering; one woman even had her cell phone in hand, pointed at Ashton, no doubt filming her humiliation. Her dad was going to love this.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Nana’s portrait. She swore she saw disappointment in Nana’s eyes.

Blinded by tears, she raced through the kitchen, up to her office, where she sank to the floor. This was the end. She’d ruined everything. All because she couldn’t control her temper.

A knock on the door made her heart jump. “Not now,” she called to Jenna, who undoubtedly wanted to kick her ass. She couldn’t blame her, either. It wasn’t just Ashton’s money invested in the restaurant.

The door opened, but it wasn’t Jenna who peered in. A willowy brunette dressed entirely in black stepped over the threshold. Ashton recognized the woman who’d filmed her.

“This is my private office,” Ashton said. She rubbed the moisture from her eyes as she rose. “If you want a refund for your meal, the manager will take care of it.”

The woman shook her head. “That’s not why I’m here. My name is Sally Germaine. I’m the producer of
The Next Celebrity Chef.
”

Oh, God. Could this get any worse?

“I liked the way you handled yourself out there,” Sally said. “You’re tough, and you don’t take any crap. We’re starting filming on the new season in a few days in New York City, and one of our contestants had to back out at the last minute. I’d like you to take her place.”

“Wha…what?” Ashton stammered. “You want me to be on television? After what just happened?”

Sally smiled in a way that made Ashton’s palms sweat. “We’re about ratings, and the more controversial the contestants, the higher they go.” She held up her phone. “My bosses are going to go wild when I show them what I filmed. You’re exactly what we’re looking for.”

The last thing Ashton wanted to be was controversial. She’d spent her life trying to deal with her anger, not use it for “ratings.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

Sally reached into her pocket and pulled out a card. “Think it over. Our contestants become stars. Your food is fantastic, but based on the number of customers you had tonight, I’m guessing word hasn’t gotten out. This could be a mutually beneficial relationship.”

“I can’t believe I missed all the fun,” Chloe Nelson, their third partner, complained before popping a chocolate truffle in her mouth. She, Ashton, and Jenna lounged on Chloe’s couch, catching her up on the previous night’s debacle. As the pastry chef of the restaurant, Chloe finished work before dinner service started.

“Yeah, it was loads of fun,” Jenna replied drily. “I had to stop the guy from calling the police. He claimed Ashton tried to kill him.”

Chloe swatted the air and wrinkled her nose. “If she’d wanted to kill him, he’d be dead.”

Heat rose to Ashton’s face. “Can we forget the whole incident ever happened? Jenna calmed him down and he left. End of story.”

“What about the invitation to be a contestant on
The Next Celebrity Chef
?” Chloe reminded her. “You
have
to do it.”

Jenna nodded in agreement. “This could put us instantly on the map.”

Or it could make Ashton a laughingstock. The contestants on the first three seasons of
The Next Celebrity Chef
were petty and backstabbing. They’d done everything in their power to make their competition look too incompetent to perform even the most elementary technique.

And if the chef could manage to get a dish to the table in time, the judges were ready to tear it apart. Too dry, too salty, lacks acid, lacks taste. Compliments were few and far between. If she wanted to have her teeth kicked in, she would make dinner for her father.

“Not going to happen,” Ashton reiterated. She wanted to save the restaurant, but this was going too far. “If you think it’s such a great idea, Chloe, then you do it.”

“I’ve been making only pastries since we finished culinary school,” Chloe said. “There is no way I’d make it through the competition.”

“Then I guess we’re coming up with another plan.” Didn’t they understand? If she’d gotten so out of control over one man sending back a steak, how could she handle criticism from three judges at once? There had to be another way.

“There’s no other way,” Jenna said, echoing her thoughts. “Peter called today.”

Ashton’s heart rate doubled. Peter was Jenna’s brother and their accountant—the chances of a call from him being a good thing were about as likely as her finally admitting that Krab with a K did taste like the real thing.