A Taste of Heaven Page 11

  “God forbid. Good thing Chef Brown was here to keep me reined in.”

  Elliott’s sarcastic response lacked emotion, but Sophia could tell his antagonism for the blogger was about to explode.

  She touched his arm lightly, trying to reassure him. Trying to breach his wall and figure out what was wrong.

  He ignored her.

  “Yes,” Mr. Smith agreed, “you are a lucky man, Chef Adamson. I think Sophia was the crowd favorite today.”

  That was clearly not what Elliott wanted to hear. He nodded tersely and refused to make eye contact with her. She wanted to throttle him. They won. They won! And he was still not satisfied.

  “Well, look at her. She’s adorable and plays in the garden. Why wouldn’t she be the crowd favorite?” Elliott glanced at Sophia, and when he saw her barely suppressed anger, he sighed. “Congratulations, Sophia. Well done.” He leaned over and kissed her on the mouth.

  On the mouth!

  The kiss was quick, and filled with gratitude, and also brimming with tension.

  Damn that man.

  Short Chubby Guy yelled, “Grumpy Scottish Bastard wins!”

  The other contestants laughed, but Mr. Smith did not look amused. That would have to be censored out of the final cut.

  Finally the crew wrapped up filming. Elliott walked away, without saying a word to his partner.

  Not a word.

  Damn that man!

  “Mrs. Brown, may I bend your ear?” Mr. Smith asked. “Congratulations on your win today. You really captured the hearts of those children.”

  Sophia shrugged. “I have two daughters and lots of experience cooking for kids.”

  Mr. Smith nodded. “I could tell. But it’s more than that, Sophia. You have a presence in front of the camera—gracious and sweet. Approachable. Your love for gardening and using fresh local products comes through with all of your dishes. And you take the recipes and make them accessible for everyone. That’s not an easy thing to do.”

  Sophia struggled to hide her blush. “Well, I taught my daughters to cook. I guess that requires patience. I never really thought about it.”

  “I’m thinking about it,” the producer answered. “I’m thinking you may have a future in television. I can see you as host of a children’s cooking show. Or a gardening-cooking show. Anything, really. You have that special something that is unpredictable in this industry. You’re beautiful in front of the camera, but also humble and genuine. The Creativity Channel would love to have you on board.”

  Sophia was speechless. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Think about it. After this contest airs, you’ll be a household name. You can use that exposure in any direction you choose. I would be thrilled to have you on our spring schedule.”

  “I’ll . . . I’ll . . . think about it. Thank you for the vote of confidence.”

  “I know a future star when I see one.” Mr. Smith winked at her and ambled away.

  A future star? How ludicrous. Wasn’t it? Could it possibly be real? A fresh new start that wasn’t part of “David and Sophia?” That was just Sophia. Was she brave enough to even consider it?

  Regardless of her future in television, regardless of Elliott’s sour disposition, Sophia was filled with pride. She’d won that contest today. It was her experience with children that made the difference. It was her creative vision on the plate. She had guided Elliott, and not the other way around. She smiled to herself, filled with a growing sense of awe about her own capabilities. Filled with a growing excitement, if not uncertainty, about the future.

  She would ponder Mr. Smith’s offer later. For now she needed to focus on one thing. Reaching the finals of A Taste of Heaven. And unless she figured out how to break down Elliott’s wall of anger, she highly doubted they had a chance at winning.

  Damn that man.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sophia pounded on Elliott’s dormitory door. “Elliott! I know you’re in there. Let me in.”

  “Go away, Sprite.” His words sounded slightly slurred.

  “No. I’m not going away. I’m not going anywhere until you talk to me.”

  “Go. Away.”

  She smacked the flat of her hand against the door.

  He ignored her.

  She began a regular pounding rhythm. He lasted for two minutes, and then he flung open the door.

  “What the hell are you doing? Leave me alone. Alone. Alone. What part of—?”

  She interrupted and pushed him aside. “I’m coming in now. We’re going to talk, whether you like it or not.”

  “Not. I like it not.” He sloshed his highball glass in front of her face. “Care to join me? Since you’re here. Bugging the hell out of me.” His request was dripping with sarcasm.

  “No, thank you. I don’t like whisky. I prefer wine.”

  “How very civilized of you. Miss Priss. Miss Prissy Children-Hugging Garden Fairy Priss.”

  She plopped down on his bed. “Isn’t it nice to finally have the room all to yourself?”

  He sat on the bed across from her. “Aye. A real luxurious treat since Mr. Burnside-from-Oklahoma was eliminated yesterday. Too bad he missed today’s cheese challenge.”

  Sophia cocked her head. “Care to discuss it?”

  “No.”

  “I think you need to. You’re pissed, Elliott. And I don’t get it. You told me you had to win. This is what you wanted. You made me promise. I did everything you asked. We won.”

  “No! We did not win. We did not win. You won. You won. I’m—”

  “You egotistical bastard.”

  “Yes. I am. Do you have any idea how utterly humiliating it is that a little housewife from the suburbs made grilled-fucking-cheese-sandwiches for a bunch of snotty-nosed kids, and we won! What kind of ludicrous contest is this?”

  “Oh my God. You are unbelievable.”

  “Yes, I am. Unbelievable. But unfortunately, those kids wouldn’t know unbelievable if it bit them on their wee little bums. And Jenny the Blogger wouldn’t know unbelievable if it slipped through her collagen-enhanced lips. And—”

  “That’s enough.”

  “Really? I thought you wanted to talk.” He sneered the last word and finished off his whisky. “Uh-oh. My glass is empty.” He walked over to the dresser and opened a bottle of Scotch.

  “Take it easy with that, Elliott. You’re going to be hung over tomorrow. That’s not a good idea.”

  “What the hell difference will it make? I’m just a line cook. Line cooks get pissed all the time.”

  Sophia sighed and slumped down on his bed. This was going to be more difficult than she’d thought. “Elliott, you’re not a line cook. You’re captain of the team, remember? I need your guidance and help if we’re going to win this whole thing. We’re on the way.”

  “Aye. The way to nowhere.” He glanced at her. “You’re looking lovely, lass. All pink-cheeked and tousled. You know what everyone will say when you leave my room.”

  “What? That I’m still alive? Maybe they’ll make me a I Survived Elliott Adamson T-shirt.”

  He chuckled. “Maybe they will.” He swallowed another sip of Scotch. “So you don’t like whisky, huh?”

  She narrowed her eyes. Why was he changing the subject? “Not my favorite drink.”

  “Why not?”

  “I think it tastes like gasoline.”

  Elliott joined her on the bed. He lifted her chin with his finger. “Time for you to get an education about whisky. It doesn’t taste like petrol. It tastes like fire.” He handed her the glass. “This is thirty-year aged Lagavulin, made in Islay, Scotland. It tastes like peat. Like smoke. Rich and thick. Put a small bit on your tongue and let it seep into your soul. Don’t tell me it tastes like gasoline.”

  Sophia rolled her eyes and sipped. “Okay, now can we talk.”

  “Another sip.”

  “Elliott!”

  “Do it. Savor it.”

  She took another sip, and let the fire burn down her throat. If Ell
iott had a taste, she bet it would be this. Hot and smoky and strong.

  “Well? Better?” Elliott’s eyes looked drowsy. Sexy.

  She swallowed another sip. “The color is so beautiful. Like amber.”

  “Hmm. Yes.” He licked his lips.

  “So, about today . . .”

  “No more talking about today. No more talking at all.” Elliott lifted the glass from her hands and set it on the dinged-up table next to the bed.

  He brushed her lips with his fingers. Rough callused skin against her lips, still wet with whisky.

  Sophia wished that gesture didn’t make her breath catch.

  She shook her head. “I sure hope you’re not planning to seduce me. Is that the plan? Get Sophia drunk and have your wicked way with her?” Her voice was ragged. She could hear her heartbeat.

  “That sounds like a plan.”

  “That sounds like a horrible plan. We have to work together.”

  “I worked with my wives.”

  “Your sous-chefs, you mean. I remember. They weren’t allowed to work by your side. I’m not interested in being cast aside after I clean the pots, Chef Adamson.”

  He frowned. “I would never do that to you. You’re . . . different. Not like the others, Sophia. Not like the others.”

  She stood. “I’d better go. Please go to bed. I need you fresh and well-rested for the next challenge. We don’t know what tomorrow will bring.” She walked to the door.

  He followed her.

  Sophia barely turned her head. “Good night, Elliott,” she whispered. Trying to ignore the scent of whisky and peat and Elliott, all mixed together like some intoxicating liquid, ready to slosh right onto her lips.

  His hand pressed against the door, holding it shut. “Sophia.” His voice was rough.

  She closed her eyes. Elliott’s heat and hardness pressed against her back. She swallowed once. Twice. Wishing for another sip of Lagavulin.

  For a sip of him.

  “Sophia.” His voice was barely a whisper. He grasped her waist, bunching up her faded T-shirt.

  “Elliott.” She shivered. “We shouldn’t . . .”

  “I know. But give me this. I promise I won’t fail. Not with this.” His beard brushed against her face, and he nipped her earlobe. “Let’s be honest. You won that contest today, not I. You succeeded where I failed. You led us to victory while I fumbled.” He unsnapped her jeans and slid his fingers into her panties. “But this . . . I promise you. This is something I’m good at.”

  Sophia twisted her neck to look at Elliott’s face. It was filled with so much raw emotion, it took her breath away. You haven’t failed, Elliott. You haven’t failed me.

  “I need this. Let me have you. Just . . . like this.” Elliott dragged his fingers over her pubic hair, touching softly.

  Sophia moaned and nodded. She couldn’t help it. It had been so long, and his explorations felt delicious. Maybe she could indulge.

  Maybe for just a moment.

  She swayed, and Elliott held her up with one arm. The other arm was moving against her. Searching for things she couldn’t resist.

  “Open your legs. Wider. Do this for me, Sophia.”

  And she did.

  She let Elliott Adamson touch her and stroke her and find the sweet spot that pushed her right over the edge. Pushed up against the dorm room door. With his heavy breathing in her ear and desperation etched all over his face.

  And after she cried out and shuddered in his arms, he held her and kissed her cheek, grazing that thick beard over her tears.

  “Thank you, Sophia. Go back to your room and sleep. I promise tomorrow I’ll be the man you need.”

  It was late. The halls were empty.

  She staggered back to her room.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sophia lay in her rickety bed and stared at the ceiling. She stared at the cracks in the plaster that crisscrossed the walls. In all of her forty-seven years, she had never done anything as salacious as last night’s interlude.

  Not in high school, when she groped the soccer player in his basement. Not in college, when she got drunk at a party and slept with her girlfriend’s cousin. Certainly not after she met David. They’d had an active sex life, but it was very conventional. Safe. Expected.

  Last night was both unexpected and secretly thrilling.

  They’d skipped first base. They’d skipped second base. They’d skipped half of third. Only she got her third, not Elliott.

  She covered her face with her hands as a blush ripped over her cheeks.

  Dear Lord! How am I ever going to look at him today?

  Only half of third, but damn. That was a good half. Fast and furious. She ought to be embarrassed by how quickly he’d got her off. But instead she was just curious about the bases they’d skipped. She wanted his hands on her breasts. She wanted his mouth on her lips. But she needed to focus on today’s challenge. Could there be a bigger distraction than the replayed memory of Elliott Adamson’s rough fingers sliding into her panties?

  Probably not.

  She shouldn’t have worried. When she finally ran into Elliott later in the morning—at the Jefferson Turkey Farm—he acted like nothing had happened. Not a stutter, not a blush. Not a suggestive eyebrow raise. Absolutely nothing. Sophia wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or disappointed.

  But she soon realized that Elliott was keyed up in a major way. Interns and camera crew congratulated him on the win from yesterday, and he barely nodded an acknowledgement. Sophia could tell he was embarrassed about the whole event. Even though it finally got them a win.

  She sighed and pushed her hair back into a ponytail. She wasn’t sure what the producers had in mind at the turkey farm, but she wasn’t interested in getting salmonella juice on her hair.

  When they had the eight remaining chefs put on full-length overalls, she started to get really worried.

  “Welcome back to A Taste of Heaven!” Mr. Smith smiled at them and pretended to ignore the camera. “I’m sure you’re all wondering why we’re here at the Jefferson Turkey Farm. And why you’re dressed like that.” He chuckled. “We’re down to the four final pairs—Sophia and Elliott, Michael and Kevin, Brian and Herman, and finally Helene and Nathan. Some of you are very lucky to be here, after yesterday’s surprisingly difficult challenge. Who knew a bunch of kids would throw everyone off their game?”

  As Harold continued to talk, one of the farmers brought out a selection of axes and machetes. Sophia felt light-headed.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered to Elliott.

  “This ought to separate the men from the boys. No fruit flower today, Sophia.” He glanced at her. “Think you can handle this? You look pale.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve watched my girlfriend do it, but . . . I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry, Sprite. I’ve got this one covered.”

  She was more than slightly concerned when she looked at her partner. He had a gleam in his eye.

  Mr. Smith lifted an axe. “Today’s game is a bit messier. And perhaps a bit intimidating.”

  Sophia heard Herman make a retching sound. She didn’t think it was faked for the camera.

  Mr. Smith continued. “Part of the whole farm-to-table concept is following the path of raising animals in a humane and thoughtful way to butchering them and then preparing them for consumption. There are plenty of folks who are perfectly happy to pick up a plastic-wrapped container of chicken breasts at the grocery store, but that’s not how we do things here at A Taste of Heaven.”

  Sophia wondered if she were the only one cognizant of the fact that he was holding a bloody axe while saying that line.

  “The Jefferson Turkey Farm has been in existence for over fifty years. They still employ the same sound practices for raising turkeys they have been following for decades. Today’s challenge is two-fold. One, the contestants must kill, butcher, clean, and section their turkeys. And two, they must prepare a delicious meal with a whole turkey provided by the Jeffer
son Farm.” Mr. Smith rubbed his hands together.

  Surprisingly Elliott laughed. In fact, Elliott looked completely relaxed.

  The other contestants did not look thrilled, although Helene had a small half-smile on her face.

  “So here’s the schedule for today. First, you butcher your turkeys. Two per pair. Both chefs must help to complete this task.”

  Poor Chef Herman gagged again. Sophia imagined the producers would either mask the sound in editing, or highlight his discomfort for the show.

  “And then you cook. Since the turkeys need to rest after butchering, we will be giving you a whole bird that has already been soaked in brine for forty-eight hours. You will prepare these for the judges back at our courtyard kitchen. Judges table today will include not only Tarquin, Jonathan, and Jenny, but also all of the eliminated chefs.” He waved at the audience.

  Sophia saw stark relief etched on their faces. They were probably thrilled they’d already been kicked off the show.

  Mr. Smith continued, “You have the option to work with the whole bird or to section it into parts. Any questions?”

  “Can I butcher more than two?” Elliott asked. He lifted an axe from the pile on the table, hefting its weight in his hands.

  The rest of the contestants laughed nervously, but Sophia realized he was completely serious.

  Elliott turned to the farmer. “Have these been sharpened recently?”

  “Of course. It’s the most humane way to kill the turkeys.”

  Elliott nodded. “Good.” He set the axe down and returned to his place next to Sophia. “Don’t worry, sweet. I’ll take care of the worst part. Just watch me as I butcher the bird. You can copy what I do. It isn’t so bad.”

  “I can do that part. It’s the . . .”

  “The killing. Leave that to me.” He cocked his head to the side and Sophia heard it crack.

  “Um, I have a question.” Nathan raised his hand.

  “Yes, Nathan.” Mr. Smith was busy wiping his hands with the linen handkerchief.

  “Um, how do we get the turkeys? Like . . . get them. You know?”