Melting Nick’s Heart (Unlikely Catches #5)

Chapter One

Bethany

Appetizer Course

My best friend, Mandy, plops a flyer down on my desk, right under my nose. The brightly colored paper instantly catches my attention. Red hearts and various cooking utensils are arranged on the page in a pleasing pattern. The colorful headline at the top shouts, “ Cook your way into his Heart.”

“A cooking class. Are you kidding?”

Mandy smirks. She knows my cooking skills are in the category labeled: dreadful, atrocious, or horrifying. Take your pick. For me, boiling water poses a challenge.

“Come on. It’ll be fun. Plus, Chef Nicholas is hot! He’s the guy from Cooking with Passion on Food Network.”

I shrug, giving her a blank look. A non-cook like me almost never watches Food Network, so I’m not familiar with him.

Mandy quickly flips over the flyer to reveal a smiling Chef Nicholas DeLuca. With his arms folded, those bulging biceps look like he not only cooks, but also does plenty of weightlifting. Those pans he uses must be way heavier than my gently used Wear Ever cookware set languishing in one of my cabinets. Despite my reservations, my heart summersaults inside my chest. The man is positively swoon-worthy.

Blowing out a long-suffering breath, I accept the inevitable. Mandy always talks me into things that I regret later. “When are the classes?”

She squeals and claps her hands. “Every Tuesday night from now until the week before Valentine’s Day. Chef Nicholas teaches a complete meal, one course each week - appetizer, entrée, and dessert. By the time we graduate, we’ll be able to, and I quote, ‘create a delectable dinner for your sweetheart.’” She points to that statement splashed across the top of the flyer. In bold print, none the less.

I roll my eyes. “Do they provide a money-back guarantee?”

The relationship with my sweetheart—I use the term loosely—qualifies as being on life support. The monitor is currently displaying a flat line, even though our relationship hasn’t died yet. Not officially anyway.

My history with Zachary Taylor goes way back. Our mothers had taken us to Bramble Park to play on the newly installed playground equipment. He was coming down the slide at the same moment I chose to run in front of it. We collided in a tangle of arms and legs. Me screaming at the top of my two-year-old lungs while he sat on top of me. Being large for a four-year-old, I couldn’t get him off of me. Our mothers intervened and became best friends because of that incident. From then on, Zach and I were betrothed in our family’s eyes.

As my mom tells it, “Being named Bethany Bacon Hunt and Zachary Jeremiah Taylor, I knew it was a match made in heaven.” Yeah. Right, Mom.

“Let me check my busy schedule,” I stall for time while I click the Google calendar icon on my laptop, even though I already know what it will reveal.

A belly laugh rumbles from Mandy’s small frame. “You have a wide-open calendar from now until Valentine’s Day. I already checked.”

Frowning, I wish I had put some bogus events on my calendar just to prevent something like this from happening. Even Valentine’s Day is open. Zach hasn’t formally scheduled anything with me yet.

“Oh, all right. I’ll go. They better have good fire insurance. I don’t want to be liable for burning the place down.”

My overly enthusiastic friend beams as she pulls the flyer back from my hand. “I’ll register online today. This is going to be fun.” She quickly runs back to her classroom before I have a chance to change my mind.

I watch her disappear as my kindergarteners start trickling in. Their chatter fills the classroom, and I assist with removing coats and storing backpacks. For now, it’s time for me to focus on why I’m here and I forget about the cooking class and what a terrible idea it is.

An hour later, my tiny students are enthralled in an art project. They’re painting paper plates bright yellow, then adding paper cut-outs and cotton balls to make them look like a somewhat deranged sun. Some sport happy faces while others look like the faces you’d see carved on Halloween pumpkins.

These will grace their family’s refrigerators for the next week, I’m sure. The kids love any project involving paint and glue, and I chuckle as I wander around the room looking at the various designs. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Mandy sticking her head inside my classroom door. She gives me a thumbs up, and my heart drops.

The cooking class is a go and it’s too late to back out.

This little adventure is going to be as fun as going to the dentist. I can’t wait.

***

The Week 1 class features the appetizer course—pastry-wrapped roasted asparagus with lemon dill dipping sauce. There are so many words in that sentence that sound alarm bells in my head–wrapped, roasted, and sauce. All things I can mess up. And I probably will.

Mandy and I arrive at the Cordon Blue Culinary School five minutes early. Yes, they intentionally spelled “Bleu” wrong since they’re a knock-off school and not the real thing. Students are milling about, so we grab the only station left near the front of the room. All the students are women–except for one lone man who has accompanied his wife or girlfriend. That poor man looks overwhelmed with all the chatter and cackling going on. It sounds like we’re in a chicken coop.

The stations are butcher-block-topped tables arranged in two rows of five tables each, with room for two students per table. Stainless-steel stoves ring the outside wall–high-end 5 burner Wolf gas ranges to be exact. No wonder the class costs $100.

Everything is immaculate, spotlessly clean and shiny. If only my kitchen at home were as well-equipped. Although come to think of it, that would be a colossal waste of money. Who needs a fancy stove when you have a microwave?

The classroom looks a lot like the set of the Food Network show Chopped . Non-refrigerated ingredients are in brightly colored baskets, two of them sit in the middle of each table. A giant stainless-steel fridge with glass doors sits against the back wall clearly displaying the ingredients inside.

“White chef’s hats!” Mandy squeals with delight when she notices a pair of white paper chef’s hats on every table. Mandy sets hers jauntily on her head, while I stare dubiously at mine. “Don’t be a party pooper, put your hat on.” Mandy chides. I do so, but I instantly feel like an imposter. Someone who barely knows how to boil water shouldn’t be masquerading as a chef.

Clap! Clap!

Chef Nicholas announces his arrival. Silence falls across the room as each and every female drinks in the chef’s alluring appearance. He’s gorgeous from those disheveled curly brown locks barely peeking from under his hat to the stylish black boots on his feet. This man doesn’t look like the kind of man who attends football games, goes camping, or does outside activities that would get his hands dirty. He is, however, sporting a little scruff. I catch my breath at the ‘pirate meets Food Network star’ vibe that he’s pulling off so well.

His pristine white jacket fits his well-toned body as if it was custom made for him. He’s also wearing a chef’s hat like ours—but his isn’t made from paper—and even that looks sexy on him. Several women sigh loudly, while one older lady looks like she’s about to swoon.

“Welcome ladies! I’m happy that so many of you are ready to learn how to cook your way into your man’s heart.” His voice is tinged with a pleasing southern accent–possibly from his time as head chef of the famed Brenman’s in New Orleans, a fact that the class brochure made sure to note.

His chocolate brown eyes settle on me and my face heats. Mandy elbows me in the ribs and whispers, “He’s flirting with you.” I smile politely while elbowing my friend back. Chef Nicholas has charisma that fills the room and an ego to match, I suspect. One doesn’t become the head chef at a prestigious restaurant at the tender age of thirty (my rough guess) without being charming and driven.

“I see we have one member of the opposite sex in attendance. Pardon me for leaving you out of my welcome, sir.” The men exchange nods across the sea of females.

“Let’s get started. Please pull out the recipe card from your ingredient baskets and I’ll demonstrate how to make today’s appetizer. Afterwards, each of you will make your own dish. I’ll be here to instruct and provide assistance if necessary. Remember during the tasting round to savor the flavor.”

Mandy whispers, “That’s his catchphrase. He says that in all his shows.”

I nod as if I already knew that. Guess I need to do some binge viewing of Cooking with Passion . Believe me, that won’t be a hardship.

Rustling sounds fill the room as everyone hunts through their baskets for the recipe. Mandy quickly spots the card in her basket while I dig through mine for several seconds, eventually locating the card nestled under the asparagus at the very bottom. I glance up to see twenty pairs of eyes staring at my slowness. Waving the card for everyone to see, I say, “Found it!” A sexy grin, revealing two dimples, spreads across the chef’s face. I almost toss him a flirty wink, but Zachary’s face flashes in my mind’s eye and I contain myself.

“Teacher’s pet,” Mandy says without moving her lips. I elbow her in the ribs again.

Clearing his throat, our teacher motions for everyone’s attention at one of the gas ranges. Like a herd of elephants, we rush the stove, hoping to obtain a spot close to the chef. After several seconds of jockeying for position, the room quiets and Nicholas begins the cooking demonstration. Since I’m tall, I politely let the shorter students stand in front of me. Unfortunately, I don’t have a close-up view of the sexy chef. However, from my vantage point, he looks a little shorter than me. I’ll wear my ballet flats next time.

***

Mandy and I watch as all those glorious muscles roast the asparagus in olive oil and then wrap it in golden-brown pastry fresh from the oven. He makes it look so sexy...I mean easy. Whisking the dill sauce in the pan is a heart-pounding experience for most of us. My heart rate accelerates with every flick of his manly wrist. At this point in the demonstration, Nicholas rolls the sleeves of his jacket up and over his elbows. Whew! Who knew that naked forearms are so provocative?

After the fifteen-minute demonstration is finished, we head back to our tables. Several overly zealous students took notes while I went into a Chef Nicholas-induced trance. What did he say about how long to bake the dough so it’s a perfect golden brown? Hopefully that hard-to-find recipe card describes every step.

Mandy already has her asparagus cut into precise six-inch lengths while I’m still trying to locate a knife and chopping board. I’ll need to do my best Julia Child impression like when she chopped those onions in the movie, Julie and Julia. Unfortunately, watching that film is about the extent of my culinary training.

Rushing to catch up, I set the board on the table with a loud thunk! Neatly grabbing a green stalk, I whack the knife into the vegetable like a pro. Afterwards, a ten-inch length of asparagus rests on the board, and I frown. Sliding the knife closer to where I’m grasping my victim, I make what I hope is a six-inch cut, but the knife slips and slices into one of my fingers.

My jaw drops and I watch in horror as blood spurts across the chopping board. Mandy quickly grabs a paper towel so I can wrap the wound to stem the flow.

A female voice shouts “Emergency on station two!” Silence falls over the room as one of the class assistants rushes over with a large band aid and wraps it tightly around my finger. I swear everyone is staring at me. But when they see that the issue has been handled, they quickly return to cutting up their vegetables so they can finish their appetizers. At this rate, I’ll still be chopping while everyone else is savoring the flavor of the pastry-wrapped roasted asparagus with lemon dill dipping sauce.

And to add to my humiliation, the woman assistant requires that I put on a neon blue plastic glove—that literally could glow in the dark—so I don’t contaminate the food any further. This glove is going to remind everyone, including the sexy chef, of my knife disaster for the remainder of the class.

For the next several minutes, kitchen staff thoroughly disinfect my station and provide a new knife, cutting board, and asparagus. I stand awkwardly beside the table during the clean-up wishing I could crawl under the table. Or better yet, disappear into thin air.

“Are you okay?”

Startled, I jump as the chef’s deep musical voice rings in my ear. Turning, I swivel my gaze towards Chef Nicholas. His eyes meet mine. With my high heels, I am slightly taller than the chef. I quickly slouch so we are at eye level.

“I’m fine. Ready to get that asparagus roasted,” I say in an overly confident voice, considering this clumsy student nearly cut her finger off.

He raises his left eyebrow, glancing at the plastic glove, then smiles and walks away.

After cutting exactly two stalks into a jumble of sizes of pieces—a couple might be six inches—I join Mandy at the gas range, and carefully add olive oil to a large sauté pan. No need to start a fire at this point.

“He’s definitely a hunk, but he’s about the same height as you,” she says just above a whisper.

Mandy is a died-in-the-wool romantic where the leading man is supposed to tower over the petite leading lady. They certainly don’t stand nose to nose. Personally, I don’t buy into that stereotype, but her comment makes me feel like an Amazon woman.

My face heats as a blush runs up from my neck to the top of my head. With my light complexion, I probably look like a beet. “He must think I’m a klutz. My knife skills have definitely destroyed my feminine mystique.” I shake my head sadly because I was enjoying the brief bout of flirting with the chef. “Let’s focus on cooking.”

Nodding, my friend whisks her sauce merrily. After several minutes, her nose wrinkles, “Do you smell something burning?”

The sauté pan where I’m roasting the asparagus looks okay—no charring that I can see. But the smell keeps getting worse. Suddenly I remember the dough that I left cooking in the oven. Grabbing mitts, I yank out the pan filled with blackened dough. I was supposed to bake it for only four minutes, just enough time for it to rise slightly and become malleable enough to wrap around the vegetables.

I sigh. My appetizer is a disaster. Mandy giggles next to me as we survey the cooking sheet for any pieces not burnt to a crisp that could be wrapped around the soggy-looking asparagus resting in my pan.

“Miss Hunt, are you having trouble with your dough?” Chef Nick stares at me with raised eyebrows, although I detect a teasing twinkle in his eyes. “May I suggest starting over?”

“It’s Bacon Hunt,” I mutter under my breath. “Of course, let me go get another roll of pastry crust from the fridge,” I say in a fake sweet voice as I storm away.

The man might be gorgeous, but he’s also full of himself.