Chapter 5

Chapter Five

On Thursday, Madison parked in the lot at the Lazure Hotel in San Diego, feeling a great deal of trepidation about what lay ahead. She took one last look at her face in the mirror. She'd taken extra care with her makeup and left her blonde hair down instead of up in her usual ponytail. They wouldn't be cooking today, so she'd put on a sleeveless summer dress and high-heeled sandals. She wished she had more of a tan, but since moving to the beach, she'd spent most of her days inside her restaurant. Taking a deep breath, she got out of her car and headed into the hotel.

The lunch was being held in the ballroom, with a buffet and a bar set up for the fifty or so people in the room. She had no idea how many of them were competitors and how many were involved in running the competition, but she hoped she wouldn't have to beat this many people to win the prize.

Feeling a little awkward, she got in line at the bar, thinking a drink might help with her nerves.

And then she heard a husky male voice in her ear. "Going for tequila today?" he asked.

She turned her head to give Gabe a polite smile. She'd only seen him from afar since she'd moved into Ocean Shores on Monday and had tried to convince herself he was not as attractive as she remembered. But she was wrong. His dark, wavy hair, brown eyes, tan skin, and full lips sent a shiver down her spine, making her flash back on the kisses they'd shared, on the way her body had felt pressed up against his.

She swallowed hard, trying to remember what he'd just asked, since he still had an expectant look in his eyes. "I'm just getting wine," she said.

He nodded. "That seems more appropriate for this version of you."

"What does that mean?" she asked warily.

"You seem a lot more uptight, rigid, and distant than you did last Friday night."

"I don't want to talk about that night."

"We had a connection."

"Because we didn't know who each other was. Now that we do, everything is different."

"Everything?" he questioned.

His gaze bored into hers, sweeping her face and dropping to her lips, making her palms sweat. She had the terrible feeling he knew exactly how she was feeling. "Yes," she said tightly, barely able to get the word out. Thankfully, the line moved forward, and she turned to the bartender with relief. "I'd like a glass of chardonnay, please."

After getting her wine, she moved quickly away from Gabe. As she neared the round tables, she realized there was assigned seating, and she found her name at a table of six. She hung her bag around the back of her chair, noting that there was a woman next to her by the name of Lyssa Osorio and a man on the other side of her, Cliff Meecham.

She stood awkwardly by her chair, not sure if she should sit or wait for others to join her at the table. She should probably mingle, but she didn't know one person in this room except for Gabe, and he was the last person she wanted to speak to.

Finally, two men and a woman approached her table. The tall imposing man, who looked more like an athlete than a chef, introduced himself as Cliff Meecham, executive chef at the Bella Vista in San Diego. The second shorter, blond man was Art Boswell, who was a chef de cuisine at the Bankers Club in Mission Viejo. The dark-haired woman in her forties said she was Lyssa Osorio from Conti, an Italian restaurant in Del Mar.

After introductions, they settled around the table, with the two seats across from her finally filled by a woman named Renee Tennant, a tall, willowy redhead, who was the chef at a French bistro, and, of course, Gabe Herrera.

She couldn't believe how often their paths crossed. She averted her gaze from his, turning to the front of the room as an attractive blonde woman stepped up to a microphone, asking for everyone's attention. She introduced herself as Francine Gilmore, the host for the competition. Then she waved her hand toward the table next to her and asked each of the three main judges to stand as she called their name: Tim Hunt, food columnist for the San Diego Tribune , Maryann Carpaggio, the owner chef of Pasta Mia, a renowned restaurant in San Diego, and finally Hank Richmond, the owner of the Valerian Restaurant Group, which owned two restaurants in San Diego and a half dozen more around the country.

She was more than a little impressed and intimidated by the judging panel. And her stress only increased when Francine mentioned there would be additional judges for each round of the competition. In fact, every word that came out of Francine's mouth made her feel more uncomfortable. She wanted to flee, but she couldn't run. She needed to bring customers into her restaurant, and if she could get the attention of these judges, especially the food columnist, that could certainly help.

"I hope you've had a chance to get acquainted with your tablemates," Francine continued. "We've randomly divided you into four teams of six for round one. Your team will prepare three dishes. Each dish will have a protein and a sauce. You'll pick your proteins and sauces from the baskets on your tables. It's up to you to decide what protein to pair with which sauce. You'll have the next hour during lunch to talk to your partner, and you'll have two hours tomorrow afternoon to prep before cooking lunch on Saturday for not only this established panel of judges, but also for another twenty excited foodies from the public, who have won the opportunity to be a part of the competition. Their votes, combined with the judges' votes, will decide the top two teams and the twelve individuals moving on to round two."

Her jaw dropped at that piece of information, shocked that the competition would be cut in half after round one.

"We encourage you to work together and help each other shine," Francine added. "Good luck and happy cooking."

She wasn't happy about anything she'd just heard, especially the part about working with the other five people at her table.

"Well, it looks like we should pick for proteins and sauces," Lyssa said, as she reached for the basket on the table. "Does it matter who goes first?"

"Go for it," Gabe said. "But let's not look at our picks until we've all got one."

"Perfect," Lyssa said as she pulled out a thick, folded piece of paper and handed the basket to her.

She made her selection, then passed the basket along. Once that was done, they unfolded their papers to find their assignment. She had drawn one of the three sauces, a roasted bone marrow jus. As everyone revealed their picks, her heart sank again. The three proteins included scallops, lamb, and duck. And the perfect protein pairing for her would be the lamb, which was Gabe's pick. Although, she could do something with the duck. But before she could say anything, the other chefs were already matching up, and Gabe's dark eyes met hers across the table.

"Looks like it's you and me," he said.

"I was hoping to match with the duck," she replied.

"The red wine and blackberry sauce is better for the duck," Cliff interjected.

"I would agree," Art said with a nod. "It's the perfect combo."

"Okay. I can work with the lamb," she said. And she could work with the lamb; it was Gabe she was worried about.

This first challenge was to make a refined dish worthy of a Michelin-starred restaurant, and she was partnering with the guy who ran a food truck. That sounded snobby even in her own head, but it was also reality. He was probably great at his kind of food, but did he even know how to butcher and cook lamb?

"Why don't I switch seats with you, Gabe?" Lyssa said. "I want to sit next to Renee so we can plot our meal over lunch."

"Sure." He brought his beer and smirking smile to the seat next to hers. "Looks like we're going to be working together."

"We all need to work together," Cliff said, latching onto Gabe's words. "This is a team competition, and we'll succeed or fail as a team. Let's run our ideas past each other, make sure our dishes are as tight as they can be." He paused. "But first, let's hit the buffet table. I don't know about you, but I'm hungry. Then we can start working."

As they got in line at the buffet table, she wished she'd given in to her earlier instinct to bail on this whole competition. But as she looked around the room at all the talented chefs and culinary critics, she knew this could be a great opportunity to make a name for herself in the community. But she would have to win to do that. Losing would hurt worse than never having shown up.

Madison was going to be a pain in the ass.

Gabe knew that with every fiber of his being. He could not have gotten matched with a worse partner. She probably believed she could produce a Michelin-star-worthy meal since she'd just opened a fine-dining restaurant. In fact, he was sure she thought he'd be a ball and chain around her foot, dragging her down to the bottom, when she wanted to soar to the top. But that wouldn't happen.

He hadn't entered this competition to lose. He needed the prize money, and he needed the connections. As the competition went on, the eyes of the local culinary world and beyond would be on them, and there could be other restaurant owners who were looking for a talented chef to bring their unique style and flair to their restaurant space. That could be him.

Secretly, he had to admit that he wasn't thrilled with the challenge. This wasn't the food he cooked. But part of the challenge was stepping outside his comfort zone, and this was an opportunity to show he was a much better chef than anyone might think, especially the woman who was paired with him.

Their team talked in general terms as they ate lunch, with chefs throwing out random ideas for their dishes, but no one quite settling in to exactly what they wanted to do.

Madison had nothing to say, which he found somewhat curious. He didn't know if it was because she was new to the Southern California restaurant scene and didn't know anyone, if she felt like she was above all the other chefs, or if she was just a shy person.

He hadn't found her shy the first night they'd met at Maverick's, but that woman had been so completely different from the woman he'd seen since then. Maybe it was the tequila that had changed her personality. If that was the case, it was too bad because he'd liked that version of her.

When they were done eating, they focused on their partners to speak more specifically about the sauce and protein pairings, and Madison was forced to actually look at him.

"What are you thinking?" he asked.

"I'm thinking that I'm going to make the best roasted bone marrow jus anyone has ever tasted."

"Good. I intend to make the best roasted herb rack of lamb anyone has ever tasted. But we need to work together to complement each other."

"Have you ever made lamb before?" she asked with a doubtful look in her eyes.

"Yes. A few times."

"Do you know how to butcher the meat?"

"I know how to order a rack of lamb from the butcher," he said, irritated with her obvious belief that he had no idea what he was doing.

She frowned at his comment. "This isn't a joke to me. I want to win."

"I want to win, too," he returned. "So, maybe drop the I'm better than you attitude."

"I never said I was better than you."

"It's clear you believe that."

"Well, you have to admit that this first round in the competition is more closely aligned with the kind of food I make than the kind of food you make."

"You have no idea how good of a chef I am, but that's okay. You'll find out."

"You're very cocky," she said.

"You're calling me cocky?" he challenged. "Maybe you should look in the mirror, Madison."

She licked her lips, giving him a guilty look. "Obviously, we've gotten off to a bad start."

"Actually, our start was good. Everything after that has been bad."

A wash of red moved through her face at his words, and that heat in her cheeks reminded him of the woman he'd kissed outside of Maverick's.

"That wasn't me at Maverick's. That was the tequila," she said. "And I don't want to talk about that night. Let's discuss the food. We need to think about the entire plate. I'd like to do butternut squash purée with butter and a hint of nutmeg. It would enrich the meat."

"Braised vegetables," he countered. "Baby turnips, carrots, tender, flavorful and colorful. And I want to do a mint chimichurri for the lamb."

"That will clash with my sauce," she protested.

"It will enhance it," he argued.

"It won't," she said flatly.

"What are you two arguing about?" Cliff interrupted.

It was then he realized that the rest of the table was staring at them. "I'd like to do a mint chimichurri for the lamb," he said.

"Which will clash with my sauce," Madison quickly added.

"Actually, I think that sounds good," Renee put in. "It could provide a fresh and herbaceous contrast to the richness of the jus."

"You can always see how it goes and if it doesn't work, leave it off," Art suggested.

Madison bit down on her lip. "We can talk about it," she said tightly.

Clearly, she wanted to appear to be a team player, but he didn't think he'd heard the end of it. And he had a feeling that if they didn't find some harmony, their dish would reflect that.

Before he could say anything further, Francine returned to the microphone to announce that their time was up. Tomorrow they would meet at the local market at noon. They would have a half hour to shop and two hours to prep for the lunch on Saturday.

After she wished them luck, Madison got to her feet. "I have to get to my restaurant," she said. "I'll see you all tomorrow."

"I'll walk out with you," he said quickly, following her out of the ballroom.

She didn't say a word until they were in the parking lot. "What do you want?" she asked, turning on him with anger in her green eyes. "Why are you dogging my steps? I said I would see you tomorrow."

"We need to talk, Madison. We have to figure out a way to get along. The tension between us is going to hurt our food."

She stared back at him with conflict in her eyes. "I don't see how a partnership between us can possibly work."

"We have to make it work, unless you want to lose in the first round."

"It can't be all your way," she said. "I don't like the mint chimichurri idea."

"I don't like the squash purée. And they certainly don't go together."

Her lips tightened. "I can't spend the rest of the day arguing with you. I have to get to work."

"So do I. Why don't we both think about the dish, and we'll meet tomorrow and come up with a compromise?"

"A compromise won't win. The dish has to sing. It has to be special, memorable, fantastic. It can't be a mishmash of ideas."

"Well, it has to represent both of us, so what's the alternative?" he challenged. "I'm not going to let you make whatever you want, and you're not going to let me do that, either."

"I really hate this whole thing."

"Why did you even enter? What do you need twenty-five thousand for? You've got your own restaurant with money behind you. You don't need this competition. You already have everything you need to be successful." As he threw out the question, he realized he already knew the answer. "It's because the restaurant is failing, isn't it? You're looking for attention, recognition, word of mouth. That's it."

"And you're not looking for all those things?" she challenged.

"I'm mostly looking for the cash. You've seen my line. I have plenty of word of mouth and a growing base of customers. But I want more than a food truck, and I don't have a rich father to find me a rich friend to invest in my business."

She turned pale at his words. "You don't know anything."

"Are you telling me it's not true? Larry Shaw told me he had an obligation to hire you because he was good friends with your father."

"They have a relationship. But I have a lot of experience, and I am fully qualified to run the restaurant." She blew out a breath. "I don't need to explain myself to you."

He could see not just anger but pain in her eyes now, and he felt guilty for his harsh words. "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have said that about your father. I went too far."

"Whatever." She opened her car door. "I have to go. I'll see you tomorrow."

He stepped back as she slammed the door in his face and then sped out of her spot. As he walked to his car, he felt bad about what he'd said to her. He'd made as many assumptions about her as she'd made about him.

Tomorrow, he was going to have to find a way to smooth things over with her. Otherwise, they were going to lose, and he couldn't let that happen.