Read Online Some Like It Hot by Louisa Edwards - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louisa Edwards
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thing out.” Casting a frustrated look at the third member of the East Coast Team, he said, “Win, you were here. What went down?”
Win straightened up guiltily, unhappiness in every curve of his wiry body. “I don’t know,” he admitted reluctantly. “I mean, we came in, introduced ourselves, tried to figure out where you two had disappeared to, and started shooting the shit about the other teams in the competition. Trading stories, getting background info.” He shuffled from one foot to the other. “You know how it goes.”
Oh, Eva knew, all right. Whenever a bunch of chefs got together in one room, the first thing that happened—after the requisite dick measuring, of course—was gossip.
The restaurant industry was fairly small and tight-knit, even across state lines. Lots of chefs were nomadic, traveling to new cities chasing opportunities in new restaurants, and they tended to all know one another, or at least know of one another.
And from the way that little sweetie pie Win was blushing, Eva could guess at one other component of the gossip.
Some chefs’ conversations sounded a lot like they could’ve been overheard around the watercooler at the offices of TMZ or Star magazine. The only kind of stories those chefs considered worth trading had to do with who’d slept with whom, and how good—or bad—the sex was.
Eva happened to know that the East Coast Team wasn’t the only one with a female chef.
“So who is she?” Eva asked, watching Beck closely.
He didn’t move. Not by the flicker of an eyelash did he betray a reaction, but Eva knew she was right.
The dawning realization in Win’s wide eyes as he darted a glance at his stoic teammate was just the cherry in the Manhattan.
“Okay, it sounds like this was all a big misunderstanding,” Daniel Lunden said, spreading his open hands in front of him and giving a big, hey-we’re-all-buddies-here smile. “Sorry things got out of hand, but you know, it’s a competition. Tempers are high, we’re all feeling the pressure.” He quirked a brow at the hulking Beck. “And hey, the show hasn’t even really started yet. Just wait until there are cameras all over the place and twenty-five chefs sharing one kitchen! This was nothing compared with the clusterfuck that’s going to be. No need to borrow drama when tomorrow’s going to bring enough of its own. Am I right?”
Eva caught several of the chefs—the ones who’d had to put up with Ryan Larousse the longest, probably—nodding. The tension in the room had broken like a stick of dry pasta, brittle and weak in the face of Lunden’s charisma.
She had to admire his style—from kissing the stockings off her in the elevator to defending his teammate to keeping the peace.
Or almost.
“No fucking way,” Ryan spat. “This isn’t over just because you say it is, Lunden.”
“Actually,” Eva said mildly, taking one casual step forward to interpose herself between Ryan and Lunden, “it’s over because I say it is. Come on, Ryan. You wanted to stir some shit and, congratulations, you made shit soup. It’s not my fault if you’re unhappy with the way the dish turned out.”
From the corner of her eye, Eva could tell Ryan wasn’t the only chef gaping at her in astonishment.
Yes, fellas. The lady knows how to swear. Get over it.
“That’s pretty stand-up of you, Ms. Jansen,” Win said. His tentative smile made Eva want to smile back, but she squashed the urge. They weren’t getting off so easily as all that.
“Yeah, thanks,” Lunden added, although his jaw was so tight it looked as if it must’ve hurt to get the words out. “I think it’s time for us to go. We’ll see you all tomorrow.”
Interesting. He didn’t like it when he wasn’t the only one defending his pack. Or maybe he just wasn’t used to it. A little shiver of anticipation tightened everything in Eva’s body for one luscious instant.
There were so many intriguing layers to Daniel—that
Win straightened up guiltily, unhappiness in every curve of his wiry body. “I don’t know,” he admitted reluctantly. “I mean, we came in, introduced ourselves, tried to figure out where you two had disappeared to, and started shooting the shit about the other teams in the competition. Trading stories, getting background info.” He shuffled from one foot to the other. “You know how it goes.”
Oh, Eva knew, all right. Whenever a bunch of chefs got together in one room, the first thing that happened—after the requisite dick measuring, of course—was gossip.
The restaurant industry was fairly small and tight-knit, even across state lines. Lots of chefs were nomadic, traveling to new cities chasing opportunities in new restaurants, and they tended to all know one another, or at least know of one another.
And from the way that little sweetie pie Win was blushing, Eva could guess at one other component of the gossip.
Some chefs’ conversations sounded a lot like they could’ve been overheard around the watercooler at the offices of TMZ or Star magazine. The only kind of stories those chefs considered worth trading had to do with who’d slept with whom, and how good—or bad—the sex was.
Eva happened to know that the East Coast Team wasn’t the only one with a female chef.
“So who is she?” Eva asked, watching Beck closely.
He didn’t move. Not by the flicker of an eyelash did he betray a reaction, but Eva knew she was right.
The dawning realization in Win’s wide eyes as he darted a glance at his stoic teammate was just the cherry in the Manhattan.
“Okay, it sounds like this was all a big misunderstanding,” Daniel Lunden said, spreading his open hands in front of him and giving a big, hey-we’re-all-buddies-here smile. “Sorry things got out of hand, but you know, it’s a competition. Tempers are high, we’re all feeling the pressure.” He quirked a brow at the hulking Beck. “And hey, the show hasn’t even really started yet. Just wait until there are cameras all over the place and twenty-five chefs sharing one kitchen! This was nothing compared with the clusterfuck that’s going to be. No need to borrow drama when tomorrow’s going to bring enough of its own. Am I right?”
Eva caught several of the chefs—the ones who’d had to put up with Ryan Larousse the longest, probably—nodding. The tension in the room had broken like a stick of dry pasta, brittle and weak in the face of Lunden’s charisma.
She had to admire his style—from kissing the stockings off her in the elevator to defending his teammate to keeping the peace.
Or almost.
“No fucking way,” Ryan spat. “This isn’t over just because you say it is, Lunden.”
“Actually,” Eva said mildly, taking one casual step forward to interpose herself between Ryan and Lunden, “it’s over because I say it is. Come on, Ryan. You wanted to stir some shit and, congratulations, you made shit soup. It’s not my fault if you’re unhappy with the way the dish turned out.”
From the corner of her eye, Eva could tell Ryan wasn’t the only chef gaping at her in astonishment.
Yes, fellas. The lady knows how to swear. Get over it.
“That’s pretty stand-up of you, Ms. Jansen,” Win said. His tentative smile made Eva want to smile back, but she squashed the urge. They weren’t getting off so easily as all that.
“Yeah, thanks,” Lunden added, although his jaw was so tight it looked as if it must’ve hurt to get the words out. “I think it’s time for us to go. We’ll see you all tomorrow.”
Interesting. He didn’t like it when he wasn’t the only one defending his pack. Or maybe he just wasn’t used to it. A little shiver of anticipation tightened everything in Eva’s body for one luscious instant.
There were so many intriguing layers to Daniel—that
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