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Authors: Emma Holly
Tags: Romance
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schedule for 1:30. If you suspect your food won’t be ready, please use the phone on the wall to warn his assistant.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem.” Rebecca was slightly breathless from the lovely toys around her.
The guard smiled at her. “Good luck,” he said, exiting politely.
“Am I staying?” Dominic asked, hardly containing his eagerness.
The terms of Rebecca’s tryout allowed her an assistant. She’d been planning to do everything herself. When you had her experience, creating a tasting menu for just one person wasn’t overly difficult. On the other hand, Dominic had sufficient training from his father to carry off simple sauces and fine chopping. Seeing his pleading look, she remembered how eager she’d been to learn when she was his age. If he stayed, she’d have to keep her nerves wrapped up for his sake—which might not be a bad thing.
“You’ll do what I say?” she asked, pointing her sternest chef’s finger. “No getting ‘creative’ with my instructions?”
Practically bouncing, Dominic crossed his heart.
“All right,” she said, swallowing back a surge of adrenaline. “God help me, you’re my sous-chef.”
~
A tasting menu’s purpose was best described as amuse-gueule : amusement for the mouth. Small portions kept taste buds in a state of attention, while creative presentation seduced the eyes. Flavors could be subtle, but they had to communicate. I am basil. I am lamb. Do I not blend magically with my companions? Ideally, courses took diners on a journey: from surprise to delight, from pungent to delicate. Childhood memories could be evoked or exotic global trips. If food was emotion, a tasting menu was a tale packed with adventure. Creating one proved a chef possessed imagination as well as skill.
The journey Rebecca had devised mixed comfort and surprise. Naturally, preparation didn’t occur without hiccups. Adjustments invariably had to be made en route. In the end, however, when the minute hand on the wall clock clicked to 1:29, she felt as confident as she was capable of.
She smoothed the front of her chef’s whites, polished a faint smudge from the first plate’s cover, and turned to face the door. Dominic had set up the little table at which her sole guest would eat. Rebecca believed in working clean. Although later dishes were still in process, very little chaos remained.
At precisely 1:30 and ten seconds, Trey Hayworth entered the kitchen.
He and his business partner Zane Alexander were among Boston’s most glamorous bachelors. In addition to making their mark in commerce, they supported numerous charities. Rebecca had seen shots of Hayworth in his tuxedo climbing out of limos too many times to count. She knew the young CFO was hot stuff.
She hadn’t known meeting him in person would stop her heart.
He was tall and tan and shaped from shoulder to hip like a pro athlete. His black hair was long enough to tie back and as smooth and shiny as if he’d just brushed it. The cuffs of his beautifully fitted Oxford shirt were rolled up to his elbows. An expensive watch gleamed on one wrist, but his soft suede shoes were as scuffed as if he’d kicked around in them for years. The overall effect was one of effortless stylishness, suggesting weekends in the Hamptons or maybe Ralph Lauren ads. He literally looked polished.
Maybe he buffs himself with money , she joked, trying to recover her humor. From what she'd heard, the bad boys had enough of it.
Her cynicism shredded the moment his gaze met hers.
Clear and bright, his surprisingly hot green eyes were the color of bottles deposited on a sunny shore. Glints of amber increased their intensity, as did their lush frame of dark lashes. His thick eyebrows were crazy-sexy—brooding, manly—unavoidably sinking their hooks into her where she was most girly. His gaze seemed to penetrate her soul . . . evidently as preparation for wetting her panties.
“ Hel lo,” he said with a smile that hinted at
“I don’t think that will be a problem.” Rebecca was slightly breathless from the lovely toys around her.
The guard smiled at her. “Good luck,” he said, exiting politely.
“Am I staying?” Dominic asked, hardly containing his eagerness.
The terms of Rebecca’s tryout allowed her an assistant. She’d been planning to do everything herself. When you had her experience, creating a tasting menu for just one person wasn’t overly difficult. On the other hand, Dominic had sufficient training from his father to carry off simple sauces and fine chopping. Seeing his pleading look, she remembered how eager she’d been to learn when she was his age. If he stayed, she’d have to keep her nerves wrapped up for his sake—which might not be a bad thing.
“You’ll do what I say?” she asked, pointing her sternest chef’s finger. “No getting ‘creative’ with my instructions?”
Practically bouncing, Dominic crossed his heart.
“All right,” she said, swallowing back a surge of adrenaline. “God help me, you’re my sous-chef.”
~
A tasting menu’s purpose was best described as amuse-gueule : amusement for the mouth. Small portions kept taste buds in a state of attention, while creative presentation seduced the eyes. Flavors could be subtle, but they had to communicate. I am basil. I am lamb. Do I not blend magically with my companions? Ideally, courses took diners on a journey: from surprise to delight, from pungent to delicate. Childhood memories could be evoked or exotic global trips. If food was emotion, a tasting menu was a tale packed with adventure. Creating one proved a chef possessed imagination as well as skill.
The journey Rebecca had devised mixed comfort and surprise. Naturally, preparation didn’t occur without hiccups. Adjustments invariably had to be made en route. In the end, however, when the minute hand on the wall clock clicked to 1:29, she felt as confident as she was capable of.
She smoothed the front of her chef’s whites, polished a faint smudge from the first plate’s cover, and turned to face the door. Dominic had set up the little table at which her sole guest would eat. Rebecca believed in working clean. Although later dishes were still in process, very little chaos remained.
At precisely 1:30 and ten seconds, Trey Hayworth entered the kitchen.
He and his business partner Zane Alexander were among Boston’s most glamorous bachelors. In addition to making their mark in commerce, they supported numerous charities. Rebecca had seen shots of Hayworth in his tuxedo climbing out of limos too many times to count. She knew the young CFO was hot stuff.
She hadn’t known meeting him in person would stop her heart.
He was tall and tan and shaped from shoulder to hip like a pro athlete. His black hair was long enough to tie back and as smooth and shiny as if he’d just brushed it. The cuffs of his beautifully fitted Oxford shirt were rolled up to his elbows. An expensive watch gleamed on one wrist, but his soft suede shoes were as scuffed as if he’d kicked around in them for years. The overall effect was one of effortless stylishness, suggesting weekends in the Hamptons or maybe Ralph Lauren ads. He literally looked polished.
Maybe he buffs himself with money , she joked, trying to recover her humor. From what she'd heard, the bad boys had enough of it.
Her cynicism shredded the moment his gaze met hers.
Clear and bright, his surprisingly hot green eyes were the color of bottles deposited on a sunny shore. Glints of amber increased their intensity, as did their lush frame of dark lashes. His thick eyebrows were crazy-sexy—brooding, manly—unavoidably sinking their hooks into her where she was most girly. His gaze seemed to penetrate her soul . . . evidently as preparation for wetting her panties.
“ Hel lo,” he said with a smile that hinted at
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