meet again,” he said in a lame attempt to cover his embarrassment over being caught ogling her butt.
The bright lights teased streaks of copper from her otherwise auburn hair, and idly he wondered if it was as soft to the touch as it appeared.
“That reminds me. I never properly introduced myself.” She rubbed the palm of her right hand on the thigh of her pants before holding it out. “I’m—”
“No need.” A handshake? Really? They’d already kissed. “Besides, I know who you are.”
“Y-you know?” Her eyes rounded at that and her face paled to the point he thought she might pass out.
It was a curious reaction. She didn’t only sound surprised but, well, guilty.
“You’re wearing a badge with your name on it,” he pointed out.
“I... A badge. Right. I’m wearing a badge.” She laughed awkwardly as she patted the rectangular sticker affixed to a chest that, in his estimation, was neither too large nor too small, but just the right size. She motioned to the prep table that they would be sharing. “It looks like we’re going to be working together.”
The idea, like the woman, was way too appealing for his peace of mind, so he clarified, “We won’t be working together, Lara. We’ll be competing against each other.”
“Adversaries,” she said, parroting what he had said earlier.
“Yep. And as I already told you, I intend to win.”
She notched up her chin, not appearing to be cowed in the least by his bravado.
He found her arrogance a surprising turn-on when she replied in a haughty voice, “You keep telling yourself that, Paper. You just keep telling yourself that.”
* * *
Smooth.
Lara patted the badge even as she wanted to give her forehead a slap. She supposed the fact that she was so lousy at lying was a testament to how rarely she did it. Deceit did not come naturally to her. No, that would be her mother.
Even with her father—especially with him—Lara had always been truthful. Blunt and tactless, yes, but truthful all the same.
At least Finn was no longer staring at her as if she’d grown a second head. In fact, he wasn’t looking at her at all. He was going about his business, as should she, since they had only an hour in the kitchen studio.
Satisfied that the oven and stove-top burners worked, Lara turned her attention to the prep table. While all of the contestants had their own ovens, the tables, which ran parallel to them, were ten feet long and intended to accommodate two chefs. All of her preparations, including plating the finished product, would take place on that single length of stainless-steel real estate, and she was going to have to share it with the handsome man who had her mind wandering to other uses for a handy horizontal surface.
“Something wrong?” He stopped what he was doing and looked over at her.
Lara felt a flush creep over her cheeks, one of the curses of having a redhead’s fair skin.
“No. Nothing’s...wrong.” She forced her gaze from him to the prep top, where a couple of containers filled with spatulas, slotted spoons and the like, and some bottles of oil were all that delineated one chef’s side from the other. “It’s just not a lot of space for two people.”
“Worried I’ll take advantage of you?”
She felt her face flame anew as a couple of more inappropriate thoughts threatened to storm the gates of propriety. Worried? More like wishing.
“I just hope you’re not one of those chefs who like to spread out.”
“I’ll keep all of my stuff on my side if you’ll do the same.” To illustrate his point, Finn moved a bottle of extra virgin olive oil to his section.
“Actually, I think we’re supposed to share the oil.”
He glanced at the trio of bottles, which were filled with different varieties, some of which were intended for cooking, others for adding flavor afterward.
“Ah. So I see.” He moved the bottle back to the dividing line. “Are we good?”
“That depends.” She canted her leg out to one side and settled a hand on her hip. She was only half kidding when she said, “When you’re cooking, are you neat? Some chefs aren’t and it’s a pet peeve of mine.”
Indeed, it was one of the rare points on which Lara and her father actually saw eye to eye.
“As a pin. What about you?”
“A place for everything and everything in its place.”
“Then I’d say the two of us will get along fine.”
“Yes, we’re...” Her gaze homed in on his mouth as she recalled their kiss. “We’re very...”
Finn’s smirk told her he knew exactly where her mind had wandered.
“Compatible? Is that the word you’re looking for?”
Oh, she had a feeling they would be that and then some.
She looked away and blurted out the first thing she could think of. “The knives aren’t bad.”
Five of the most essential blades clung to magnetic strips that were mounted on the wall behind each contestant’s stove. Even at a glance, she could gauge the quality. The network had spared no expense.
“Will you be using them?” he asked.
“Please.” She snorted at that. More so than any other utensil in a chef’s kitchen, knives were personal, their weight and balance suited to the user. As such, they were the one item the contestants were allowed to bring with them from home. “Are you kidding?”
He shrugged. “Just trying to get a feel for what kind of chef you are.”
She was the kind who deserved to be heading up the Chesterfield’s kitchen, a job she was going to do her damnedest to earn.
Tristan, apparently having overheard their conversation, said, “Remember, chefs. You’re limited to seven.” He’d been making the rounds in the studio, hands clasped behind his back, his expression reminiscent of a warden’s. “Are you finding everything to be in working order at your stations?”
“So far so good,” Finn said.
She nodded in agreement.
Once Tristan had moved on, Finn said, “I wonder if Ryder will show up next week wearing all of his knives on his belt. The guy’s a trip.”
The visual nearly had her smiling.
“I was going to say scary. Thanks for earlier, by the way.”
She might not have needed Finn’s interference, but she’d appreciated the gesture.
“He was just trying to psych you out.”
Mind games.
For a sobering second she wondered if Finn was playing one now, being nice, friendly, lulling her into complacency with words that were every bit as enticing as his good looks. She didn’t want to think so, but as Tristan had mentioned earlier, a chef could use trickery and deceit as part of his or her overall strategy.
Underhandedness made for good television. Still, Lara couldn’t see her father condoning such behavior in the person tapped to run his kitchen. Of course, Clifton wouldn’t have much of a choice—at least not for one year. She’d read the fine print in the rules. The winner was ensured employment as the head chef for that long, although he or she could be fired for cause before then.
“What made you sign on for this?” Finn asked.
Lara opted for the most obvious answer, which also saved her from having