But when a vision of Ty, with bedroom eyes and a body coated with hot fudge, flashed through her mind, she felt a delicious tremor.
Oh, crap.
When Ashton arrived back at the brownstone, three of the other contestants were chatting in the living room, and a bottle of wine sat open on the coffee table. An Asian man with spiked black locks and an African-American woman lounged on the couch, while a lanky white man with reddish-brown hair and a goatee sat in a chair. The woman was gorgeous, with perfect skin, a megawatt, dimpled smile, and curves women married plastic surgeons for.
“Hi,” the woman said brightly. “Welcome!” Her voice held a clear Texan drawl.
“Hi,” Ashton responded politely. “I’m Ashton Grey.”
“I’m Jolene Johnston. Join us for a glass of wine.”
Ashton grabbed a glass and sat on a leather ottoman. From the chair across her, the redhead introduced himself. “Lance Carpenter.”
“Jin Horowitz,” the Asian man said with a wave.
“I’m just dyin’ for everyone to get here,” Jolene said. “Our schedule is free tonight, so I thought we could have a barbecue and get to know one another.”
“That sounds great,” Ashton said, starting to relax. So far, everyone seemed nice, not at all like the crazies they’d found for the last season’s show.
That’s because
you’re
supposed to be the crazy one this season
, a voice reminded her. She kicked the nagging thought away. If the producers were waiting for her to make a scene, they would be disappointed. She wasn’t about to do anything that would jeopardize her chances of winning.
“Maybe we could each make a side dish, so we can get to know each other’s food,” Jolene suggested.
“I’m game,” Jin agreed. “I make a killer lo mein noodle kugel.”
Ashton knew confusion must have shown on her face, because Jin added, “My mom is Chinese, and my dad is Jewish. I own a restaurant that fuses Asian flavors with traditional Jewish cuisine.”
“What’s your specialty?” Ashton asked Lance, who was bobbing his leg incessantly and looking around the room.
“Whatever,” he said, not looking at Ashton. “Whatever the mood strikes. Something genius.”
Ashton held back a snort. If he’d seen the show before, he’d know that the judges were big on specialties. It was part of building the chef’s brand, like Rachael Ray’s Thirty Minute Meals or Sandra Lee’s Semi-Homemade Cooking. Mr. Genius had better learn to focus before the competition started.
They polished off the wine while chatting about their restaurants. As Lance grabbed another bottle of red, the door swung open and two people walked inside. The first was a dead ringer for Mr. Clean and sported enough bling around his neck to feed a third-world nation. The second was a petite woman with dark hair and brown eyes.
“Hi, y’all,” Jolene greeted. “I’m Jolene. This is Lance, Jin, and Ashton.”
“Duffy Oberman,” the man introduced. His smile revealed a gold front tooth.
“Morgan Chambers,” the woman said, her face pinched and unfriendly.
“We’re going to barbecue for dinner,” Jolene informed the duo. “Why don’t you get unpacked while we raid the pantry? Hopefully the last two chefs will be here by then.”
“Fine, whatever,” Morgan said. She grabbed her suitcase and stomped up the stairs.
“What’s her problem?” Jin wondered.
“I asked her the same thing in the car,” Duffy told them. “She told me she was here to compete, not make friends.”
“Great,” Lance said, rolling his eyes. “Guess she decided to cast herself in the role of House Bitch. Forget about her. Let’s get cooking.”
The group scattered, and Ashton grabbed her ingredients from the well-stocked pantry. As she peeled sweet potatoes for a curried sweet-potato casserole with a brown sugar glaze, the last two contestants entered the kitchen. The first was an olive-skinned woman with long, dark hair and matching eyes, the other a heavyset man of clear Italian descent. They introduced themselves as Elena Ruiz and Anthony Malone.
“We’re each making a side dish,” Jolene told them. “Duffy is on the balcony, barbecuing steaks.”
One side of Elena’s mouth tentatively lifted, while Anthony’s pleasure showed in his relaxed face. “I make a goat-cheese tortellini that has been passed down for generations in my family. You’ll swear you’re in Italy,” he boasted. “Get ready to weep with joy.”
He headed to the refrigerator, while Elena walked slowly and uncertainly to the pantry.
Ashton focused her attention back on the sweet potatoes. Beside her, Jolene expertly cut broccoli rabe.
She’d never been much for small talk, especially when cooking, but getting to know the competition was probably a smart idea. “Are you an executive chef?” she asked Jolene.
Jolene shook her head as she poured sesame seeds into a small pan and set it on the burner to toast. “I write health-food cookbooks.”
Ashton tried not to wince, but she didn’t think she was successful. Health-food nuts took the joy out of food. Really, if butter or bacon wasn’t part of the recipe, what was the point?
Jolene caught sight of her face and laughed. “I’ll convert you yet. When I was in the pageant, my platform was fighting childhood obesity. I actually went to culinary school so I could teach kids ways to make their favorite foods healthier without losing taste.”
“Pageant?”
“Miss America Pageant. I competed as Miss Texas.”
Ashton swallowed hard. “Did you win?”
She shook her head.
Thank God.
“I was first runner-up.”
Ashton wanted to hate her. Jolene was too perfect, too nice, and she cooked health food. But the aroma floating toward her from the orange peel sautéing with the broccoli rabe actually made Ashton want to believe in vegetables again. If the dish tasted as good as it smelled, Jolene was going to be some serious competition.
An hour later, the chefs were seated on the patio, along with a feast.
“Dig into this,” Duffy said, placing a steak on each of their plates.
Morgan looked down at her food and curled her lip. “I think I just became a vegetarian. What the hell is on this?”
Ashton had been wondering that herself. A multicolored crust had been charred on the outside of the steak. If she had to guess, she’d say the temperature of the meat fell somewhere between medium well and cremation. Her stomach did a back flip.
Duffy smirked. “Just eat it. Then, I’ll be accepting your apologies.”
Out of sheer politeness, Ashton cut into the steak. Her eyes widened when she saw the middle was a perfect, pink medium rare. She looked up at Duffy. “How’d you do that?”
He just shrugged. “Taste it.”
She raised the steak to her lips, sniffing before the meat passed through. The rub had peppers, certainly. Black and red pepper flakes. Salt, a little garlic, and minced onion. She took a bite and then swooned. What looked like char had actually been a caramelization. Duffy had created a crisp outside, while keeping the inside soft as butter.
“This is amazing,” Ashton praised him.
“Like foreplay,” Lance added. “I totally want you right now, Duffy. Seriously.”
Duffy’s chest puffed out. “If I had a penny for every time I heard that, I wouldn’t need this competition.” He reached across the table and pulled the plate out from under Morgan’s fork. “Sorry, vegetarian. I’ll just eat this myself. Wouldn’t want to offend you.”
Morgan shot daggers at him and threw down her fork.
Jin grabbed his lo mein noodle kugel and handed the plate to Ashton. “Let’s pass around the sides. Everyone has to taste everything.”
It took only a few bites of food for Ashton to realize that any one of these contestants could be the next celebrity chef. The competition would come down to the person who made the least stupid mistakes.
Not everyone agreed with Ashton’s assessment.
“Chilled avocado soup is an interesting choice,” Morgan said to Elena, her voice patronizing.
Elena shrank back into her seat.
“Green soup is kind of unappealing,” Morgan continued.
“Just like your attitude,” Jin shot at Morgan. “I thought Elena’s soup was delicious. Really refreshing.”
Lance nodded in agreement. “I could have eaten a pot of the homemade salsa you had as a garnish. Some people just don’t appreciate innovation.”
Morgan snorted. “Yeah, really innovative. Just like your coconut shrimp. Never seen fried shrimp before—thank you so much for introducing me to something so unique. I’ll be sure to bring that home to my restaurant with me.”
“What restaurant?” Lance hooted. “You’re just a sous chef. How did you even get in this competition? You’re the only one here who isn’t an executive chef or doesn’t own a restaurant, except for Jolene. And let’s face it, you’re no beauty queen.”
Morgan’s face turned red as snickers rippled around the table, and she stood so fast, she knocked down her chair. “You think you’re so much better than me—you all do. Think what you want. I’m going to crush you.” She fled the balcony after one last angry glare.
Ashton could tell Morgan’s embarrassment was genuine, but she had a hard time feeling sympathy for her. Ashton could only hope the volatile woman was eliminated early.
“Well, I thought everything was delicious,” Jolene broke the uncomfortable silence. “Let’s toast to new friends and a great competition.” The seven remaining chefs clinked their wine glasses.
After they cleaned up, Ashton crawled into bed, exhausted. She longed for sleep, but her mind didn’t want to turn off.
Tomorrow they would start filming. She wondered if she would see Ty. He probably rushed in to do the judging and a few promo shots before dashing off for a date with the latest runway model. She doubted he’d be around much. And if he was, why would she care? She was here for one reason, and one reason only: to make her restaurant the most talked-about place in Chicago.
So why did he keep invading her brain? The only person on this set he would even look twice at was Jolene.
Finally, a good reason to hate her.
…
“Uncle Ty, swing me!”
Ty stared down at the little angel. Her chubby arms were outstretched, fingers clenching and straightening frantically. Powder-blue eyes twinkled with anticipation. “Swing!”
“I don’t know, Laci,” Ty pretended to contemplate. “It’s almost bedtime and—” Suddenly, he grabbed the three-year-old by the waist and swung her in fast circles. Laci squealed and giggled, urging him to go faster.
After a minute, Ty put her on the ground. “That’s it. The flying machine is broken, kiddo.”
Her lower lip trembled. “Why?”
“Because it’s old.”
Before Laci had a chance to use the best tool at her disposal—crying—her mother Ellen saved him. “Time for bed, sweetie.” She bent and picked up his goddaughter. “Say good night to Uncle Ty.”
“’Night, Uncle Ty.” She leaned toward him and wrapped her arms around his torso in a lopsided hug.
“Night, pumpkin.” Ty kissed her forehead, nuzzling her baby-soft skin.
“Are you coming?” Ellen asked Scott, her husband and Ty’s best friend.
“Yeah.” Scott stood from the recliner and turned to Ty. “I’ll be back in a minute. Gotta tuck the kid in.”
While Scott and Ellen put their daughter to bed, Ty wandered around the living room. He’d been in the house so many times over the years, and he still loved to look at the family photos. There was one of Scott and Ellen’s wedding, one of Ellen when she was pregnant, and a picture of Laci as a newborn, being cradled by her parents. In every picture, happiness radiated from their faces.
A tight ache reverberated in Ty’s heart. They were the perfect family.
Scott walked back into the living room. “You want a beer?”
“Sure.” He easily caught the can Scott tossed at him.
“So, what’s going on?”
“What do you mean? You invited me to dinner.”
Scott eyed him. “Something is going on. I can always tell. Spill it. Is it Vic? What did the prick do now?”
Scott wasn’t in show business, so he couldn’t appreciate the shark that Vic was. Ty had met Scott a few months after moving to New York when he’d joined a bowling league to blow off steam. They’d hit it off instantly and had been tight ever since.
“It isn’t Vic,” Ty said. He sat on the couch and popped open the tab. “It’s me. I’m sick of this life.”
“Yeah, it’s tough,” Scott agreed from his recliner. “Money in your pocket, a new babe every night, no potty training.”
Ty grinned. “You wouldn’t miss changing those diapers for anything in the world.”
Scott’s face, dark bronze from working on construction sites all summer, softened. “Yeah. You know what the squirt said to me when I tucked her in? ‘I love you, Daddy.’ Damn near made me bawl.”
Ty nodded. “Tell me again you’d like to switch lives.”
“Point taken. So give it all up. Get married, pop out some kids. Done.”
Ty wished it were that easy. “I have contracts. Breaking them would be a nightmare. And it would screw over so many people. If it were just me…”
“You’re always making excuses.”
Heat pooled under Ty’s collar. “They’re not excuses; they’re contracts. Legally binding contracts. Want me to lose all my money trying to explain to a judge why it was too difficult for me to show up for filming?”
Scott took a few gulps of his beer. “Fine. If you can’t get out of your contracts, then get yourself a girl. Not one of those bimbos you usually hang around, but someone who doesn’t need air pumped into her regularly to stay upright. You’re thirty-five years old. It’s time to settle down.”
An image of Ashton Grey flashed through his mind.
“Dude, you’re blushing.”
“I’m not blushing,” Ty argued.
“You are. What are you thinking about? Did you meet someone?”
“No,” he denied. Ashton Grey wasn’t just anyone. She was a contestant. He was a judge. And there was a little clause in his contract that forbade him from fraternizing with contestants. So, no, Ashton was not
someone
.
But he’d been thinking about her ever since they’d met. When he’d first walked into that kitchen and mistaken her for Andrea, hope had flowed through him for the first time in way too long. She was so unlike the women he usually dated. Not conventionally beautiful; her hair was caught somewhere between blond and brunette, and she’d had it in a ponytail, rather than the perfect blown-out coif of his usual dates. She was taller than the average woman, but inches shorter than a model. Her body was lean, not curvy.