Читать книгу Falling for Her Rival - Jackie Braun - Страница 8

ONE

Gather ingredients

Lara Dunham moved the sprig of basil a fraction of an inch to the left on a sautéed chicken breast that sat atop a bed of risotto and asparagus tips. Afterward, she took a step back. Standing shoulder to shoulder with the food editor of Home Chef magazine, she eyed the table.

“I don’t know,” the other woman murmured. “It still doesn’t look right.”

Nor did it taste right, but Lara kept the thought to herself. She’d filched a nibble during the setup. It wasn’t merely a trick of the trade that had left her palate dissatisfied. Food used in photo shoots was often undercooked to help retain moisture. No, in this case, the rice needed more seasoning. In fact, it needed a lot more seasoning. But she bit her tongue because doctoring up the recipes wasn’t her call.

She did say, “The square plate isn’t working for me.”

Just as she’d suspected, it was giving off a decidedly Asian vibe that didn’t lend itself to the Italian-inspired dish.

The plate had been the editor’s suggestion; one Lara had taken out of expediency rather than agreement. She knew from past experience with the prickly older woman that it was easier and ultimately less time-consuming to show her that something didn’t work than to insist on something else up front.

Sure enough, the editor made a humming sound before agreeing. Lara held back a triumphant smile and turned to the college intern who was assisting her.

“Bring me the large round one with the wide rim. And let’s swap out the candles and napkin rings.” Again, they had been the older woman’s suggestion. “The silver is too formal.”

Forty-five minutes later, with the food carefully replated and the tablescape tweaked to represent Lara’s vision, the photographer got his shot. It would grace the October cover of the national publication and be seen by millions of people.

“Another fabulous shoot,” the editor gushed as the photographer gathered up his equipment and Lara prepared to leave the magazine’s offices. “I should know better than to give you suggestions. What you come up with always looks better. No one makes food look more appetizing than you do.”

Lara accepted the compliment with a nod. As a food stylist, that was her job and she was good at it. She was much sought after because of her attention to detail, a reputation that she’d earned over the course of nearly a decade.

Perhaps that was why it stung so badly that to her father, Lara remained a colossal disappointment.

Those who can, cook. Those who can’t, style food.

So sayeth the legendary restaurateur Clifton Chesterfield.

He’d paid her tuition to the top-rated culinary school in the country, after which he’d sent her abroad for two years to study cooking techniques in both Tuscany and the south of France. From the time Lara had been old enough to make a simple roux, his plan had been that she would follow in his footsteps and someday run the kitchen at the New York landmark that bore his name. The landmark where he’d spent practically every waking hour of Lara’s childhood.

Was it any wonder that she’d resented the restaurant? Was it any wonder that she’d resented him for choosing it over his family?

So, as a full-of-herself young twentysomething, she’d rebelled. And she’d done so spectacularly.

At thirty-three, Lara could look back and admit that she’d taken her revolt too far. She’d publicly dissed both her father and his beloved restaurant, and then married the only food critic in Manhattan who’d ever dared to give the Chesterfield a subpar rating.

Her marriage to Jeffrey Dunham had lasted only slightly longer than the rise on a first-year culinary student’s soufflé before she’d come to her senses. By then, however, the damage was done. Her father refused to speak to her.

Six years later, Lara was old enough and wise enough to admit that she’d cut off her nose to spite her face. Irony of ironies, she now wanted to hang up her stylist credentials and pursue a career as a chef. She also wanted her dad’s respect, if not his affection. She wanted to hear him say, “Well-done.”

But when she’d approached him a year earlier about a job, he’d broken his silence only long enough to refuse to hire her—not even to do prep work. And since he wouldn’t hire her, no credible kitchen in the city would either. Such was Clifton Chesterfield’s reach and reputation.

Well, finally, she had an opportunity to make her father see her as a serious chef, and Lara wasn’t about to blow it.

With the shoot wrapped, she stepped outside to catch a cab. Barring a traffic tie-up, she had just enough time to make it to Midtown before one o’clock. Of course, she wouldn’t have a chance to grab lunch, but since nerves had tied her stomach in knots, she wasn’t complaining.

Overhead, fat clouds the color of ripe eggplants were huddled together. Any moment, the sky was going to open up and it was going to pour, and she hadn’t brought an umbrella. She tried not to think of the weather as a bad omen, but she couldn’t deny its effect on her hair, which had a hard enough time holding a curl when there was no humidity. It was stick straight now, a glossy auburn curtain that fell even with her shoulders. Before raising her arm to hail a cab, she fussed with the fringe of bangs she already regretted getting at her last salon visit.

When a taxi pulled to a stop a moment later, she dashed for it. She reached for the door handle at the same time a man did. Their fingers brushed and they both stepped back.

“Oh!” Lara gasped, not only because she had competition for the ride, but because the competition in question was drop-dead gorgeous.

While most of the men on the street at this time of the day wore decked-out business attire, carrying briefcases and barking orders into cell phones, this one was wearing faded jeans and a lightweight windbreaker. He looked as if he should have a surfboard tucked under his arm and be heading out to Long Beach to catch a wave. His face was tanned. His hair was a sandy-brown with streaks of sun-bleached blond thrown in. A quarter-inch worth of stubble shadowed his jaw and framed an easygoing smile that seemed at odds with his intense gray eyes.

“Rock, Paper, Scissors?” he asked.

“Why not?” she replied, hoping the rain would continue to hold off while they played.

“On the count of three, then.”

She hiked the strap of her purse onto her shoulder to free up her hands and nodded.

“One. Two. Three,” they said in unison as they each pounded a fist into the opposite palm.

Afterward he was holding his right hand out flat. Lara, meanwhile, was mimicking a cutting motion with her index and middle fingers.

“Scissors cut paper,” she said unnecessarily.

With a shake of his head, the man said, “I had you figured for a rock.”

Hmm. How to take that?

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m disappointed.”

He held open the cab’s door for her. Before closing it, however, he leaned inside. Something in his expression had changed so that it now matched the intensity in his eyes.

“Hey, since you’re costing me my ride, can I...can I ask you for a favor?”

“I guess so,” she said slowly. It wasn’t wariness she felt exactly. More like anticipation. Like a kid on Christmas, getting ready to unwrap the last gift from beneath the tree.

But then he shook his head. “Nah. Forget it. Crazy,” she thought he muttered as he started to straighten.

She tugged him back by saying, “No. Really. Ask. It’s the least I can do.”

He hesitated only a moment. “I’m on my way to something important. It’s kind of a big deal for me. A game changer.”

“A job interview?”

“Yeah. In a manner of speaking.”

She nodded, understanding. So was she. In a manner of speaking. “So, what’s the favor?”

“Can I...?” His gaze lowered to her lips. “Can I have a kiss for luck?”

Lara’s breath whooshed out on a laugh even as parts of her body started to tingle. “I’ll give you props for creativity. That’s a line I’ve never heard before.”

The man pinched his eyes closed, looking both self-conscious and alarmingly delicious. “Yeah. Pathetic. Forget it.”

He started to straighten a second time. In another moment he would be closing the door, beyond her reach, and she would be on her way. Luck? What the heck? Lara figured she could use a little of it herself. And what would a kiss from a total stranger hurt, really? In a city that boasted more than eight million people, it wasn’t as if she would run into him again. So, before he could retreat or she could entertain second thoughts, she grabbed the front of his jacket and hauled him to her.

Their lips bumped clumsily before settling in place. His were firm, the pressure sweet. She expected him to pull back afterward. Mission accomplished. That would be that. She would be on her way. But one of his hands came up. His palm cradled her jaw. The pad of his thumb stroked her cheek. Long fingers tangled in the hair over her ear. A pair of smoky eyes closed as a sigh escaped. His breath was a feather-soft caress on her face. When his mouth dived back in for seconds, she was grateful to be seated since her world tilted on its axis.

“Hey, buddy. You gettin’ in or what?” the cabbie asked in a voice edged with impatience.

It served as a wet blanket to the unexpected bonfire that had flared inside Lara. The man eased away, his smile crooked and slightly self-conscious.

She felt the same way. Public displays of affection really weren’t her thing.

“Nah. The lady won the cab fair and square,” he said as he straightened.

“Good luck,” Lara told him, reaching out to give his fingers a squeeze.

“Thanks.” He studied their linked hands a moment. “You know, I don’t think I’m going to need it after all.”

Afterward, he closed the door and gave the cab’s roof a thump with the same hand that had slid along her jaw. He was no longer smiling when the car pulled away. In fact, he was shaking his head, his gaze on the pavement. But he looked more bemused than annoyed, even as the heavens opened up and Mother Nature wrung out her wash.

It was with an effort that Lara regrouped. It wouldn’t do to be distracted by hot lip-locks with even hotter strangers. She needed to be focused, fearless. She caught her reflection in the rearview mirror. What she looked was frazzled, flushed and a bit dazed. Her hair was mussed, her lip gloss long gone. Still, she considered the pleasure that had the corners of her mouth curving to be a pretty fair exchange for her disheveled state.

She pulled out her compact and used the drive time to touch up her makeup. Aside from lip gloss, she didn’t wear very much, but given the long hours she spent indoors, a little blush on her pale cheeks was a must. The second swipe of mascara she added to her lashes helped keep her eyes from looking tired, even though she had slept poorly the night before.

Nerves.

Today was a big day. Today she would get her first glimpse of the people who stood between her and her rightful place in the Chesterfield’s kitchen.

* * *

Luck.

The only kind Finn Westbrook had experienced since his divorce two years earlier was the bad variety. In spades. Now here he was, running late for the opportunity of a lifetime, and he’d lost his ride in a stupid game of chance. Still, as he watched the cab pull away with the pretty young woman tucked inside, he couldn’t complain.

She wasn’t the sort of female who would have turned most men’s heads, especially at a mere glance. Her looks were too understated for that: small, freckle-dusted nose; arched brows that all but disappeared beneath a fringe of bangs; lips that were not quite as full as was the current fashion; wide-set green eyes that, up close, revealed flecks of gold.

But the moment their hands touched, she’d had Finn’s attention trussed up like a holiday turkey. In that moment, he’d experienced something he hadn’t felt for a woman in a very long time: attraction. The real, punch-in-the-gut kind that knocked the wind out of a guy for a split second before his breathing resumed in a white-hot rush.

Damn, if it didn’t feel good. He’d been dead inside for so long. And that kiss? Heat was still licking through his veins, threatening to consume him. He settled his hands on his hips and shook his head in amazement.

Fate, bitch that she was, chose that moment to offer a swift kick where it counted. The rain that had held off during their game of Rock, Paper, Scissors gushed from the sky like water sprayed from the business end of a fire hose. Still, Finn could only smile. Maybe he should be grateful for a dousing of cold water.