Sheldon of Yellow Wall restaurant. He made her nervous, so Jill plastered a fierce grin on her face and tuned out everything that was said. It was hard for her not to react viscerally to criticism, so during week one, she had learned to focus her attention elsewhere and simply respond to tone and then throw out the occasional ‘yes, Chef’ when needed.
‘Thank you, Chefs,’ Kat Stephens said. ‘You can go to the pantry and wait for the final elimination.’
Her stomach clenched and her fingers twitched. Jill knew her stomach would be a ball of knots until the verdict was laid down. It wasn’t so much the 50,000 dollar prize she was interested in – it was the title of Best Chef. And that was because of the hoopla with her sous chef Tom, who was also the person who handled purchasing. She’d fired Tom when she found he’d been buying inferior ingredients than stated on the menu. And pocketing the difference.
It had been an embarrassment, one she’d like to get past even if everyone else in the world had gotten past it already.
‘Don’t sweat it, Calvert. It’ll only be four hours or so.’ Cole said it right into her hair as they all filed out. She even felt the tickle-tug of his lips catching on some of her pony-tailed strands.
There was a hot rush of moisture from her body and she tried her best to ignore it. It was nothing more than a chemical reaction. Stress and adrenaline and OK, so he wasn’t hard to look at, but still.
‘Yeah, yeah. You sweat it,’ she snapped and moved faster. But not before she felt the slight brush of his hand on the flare of her hip. Even her bulky chef’s coat couldn’t buffer her from that.
Inside the blue room they all took a seat in their folding chairs. You’d think they could give them something more comfortable. But that didn’t make for good TV, apparently.
‘I think it’s me,’ Ginger said from one of the middle seats. She was a black haired, gothesque, young thing with spreaders in her earlobes and a stud in her lip. But sweet as pie, Jill had found out.
‘Why you?’ she asked, softly. It was then that she realised her eyes were pinned to Cole’s biceps and the way they flexed gently as he rubbed a circle on his well worn jeans. A nervous tic of his she’d noticed right off the bat. Any time they had to wait he would sit and draw endless spirals on his pant leg. Now, it seemed her nervous tic had become watching his biceps and his forearms flex and dance as he did it.
That really wasn’t a nervous tic but it was a freaking unprofessional and mortifying pastime.
God.
‘I think I over spiced. And I did meat. He did a stew heavy on veg and lean protein and rice and flat bread and all that jazz.’ Ginger sighed after a sharp nod to Cole. ‘And you,’ she went on, ‘did a dessert. Brilliant! And Toby did that lamb and yogurt appetizer and …’ The young girl shrugged. ‘That’s all bullshit. I think it’s me because I feel like it is.’
‘Gut instinct,’ Toby said, brushing a bit of pepper off his pristine white coat. ‘You’re probably right.’
‘Toby!’ Jill said. She caught Cole watching her, head cocked, half smile on his nice lips. He wore black plastic framed glasses – the current nerd glasses as her niece called them – but she knew he’d been wearing them for ages. And they suited him. He was big and imposing and handsome in a little-boy way and something about those glasses just completed the whole hot package.
And she loathed him for it, and for the fact that three nights in a row she’d had dirty dreams about this man. And three times in a row she’d woken up to find her body shaking, her cunt desperate and her heart racing. Three times she’d had to masturbate to the image of him going down on her or fucking her or God, yes – rolling her in raw sugar and licking her clean.
It was just … shameful.
Cole Roberts was her competition. He was cocky and irreverent and downright spooky Zen sometimes. How in the
‘Thank you, Chefs,’ Kat Stephens said. ‘You can go to the pantry and wait for the final elimination.’
Her stomach clenched and her fingers twitched. Jill knew her stomach would be a ball of knots until the verdict was laid down. It wasn’t so much the 50,000 dollar prize she was interested in – it was the title of Best Chef. And that was because of the hoopla with her sous chef Tom, who was also the person who handled purchasing. She’d fired Tom when she found he’d been buying inferior ingredients than stated on the menu. And pocketing the difference.
It had been an embarrassment, one she’d like to get past even if everyone else in the world had gotten past it already.
‘Don’t sweat it, Calvert. It’ll only be four hours or so.’ Cole said it right into her hair as they all filed out. She even felt the tickle-tug of his lips catching on some of her pony-tailed strands.
There was a hot rush of moisture from her body and she tried her best to ignore it. It was nothing more than a chemical reaction. Stress and adrenaline and OK, so he wasn’t hard to look at, but still.
‘Yeah, yeah. You sweat it,’ she snapped and moved faster. But not before she felt the slight brush of his hand on the flare of her hip. Even her bulky chef’s coat couldn’t buffer her from that.
Inside the blue room they all took a seat in their folding chairs. You’d think they could give them something more comfortable. But that didn’t make for good TV, apparently.
‘I think it’s me,’ Ginger said from one of the middle seats. She was a black haired, gothesque, young thing with spreaders in her earlobes and a stud in her lip. But sweet as pie, Jill had found out.
‘Why you?’ she asked, softly. It was then that she realised her eyes were pinned to Cole’s biceps and the way they flexed gently as he rubbed a circle on his well worn jeans. A nervous tic of his she’d noticed right off the bat. Any time they had to wait he would sit and draw endless spirals on his pant leg. Now, it seemed her nervous tic had become watching his biceps and his forearms flex and dance as he did it.
That really wasn’t a nervous tic but it was a freaking unprofessional and mortifying pastime.
God.
‘I think I over spiced. And I did meat. He did a stew heavy on veg and lean protein and rice and flat bread and all that jazz.’ Ginger sighed after a sharp nod to Cole. ‘And you,’ she went on, ‘did a dessert. Brilliant! And Toby did that lamb and yogurt appetizer and …’ The young girl shrugged. ‘That’s all bullshit. I think it’s me because I feel like it is.’
‘Gut instinct,’ Toby said, brushing a bit of pepper off his pristine white coat. ‘You’re probably right.’
‘Toby!’ Jill said. She caught Cole watching her, head cocked, half smile on his nice lips. He wore black plastic framed glasses – the current nerd glasses as her niece called them – but she knew he’d been wearing them for ages. And they suited him. He was big and imposing and handsome in a little-boy way and something about those glasses just completed the whole hot package.
And she loathed him for it, and for the fact that three nights in a row she’d had dirty dreams about this man. And three times in a row she’d woken up to find her body shaking, her cunt desperate and her heart racing. Three times she’d had to masturbate to the image of him going down on her or fucking her or God, yes – rolling her in raw sugar and licking her clean.
It was just … shameful.
Cole Roberts was her competition. He was cocky and irreverent and downright spooky Zen sometimes. How in the
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