Chapter Four
Bethany
Entrée Course
The anxiety building in my chest has intensified each day leading up to today’s cooking class. What new humiliation will I have to endure? Is my next act to burn the place to the ground? I’m determined to be vigilant when working around the stove this time. One bright spot keeps my spirits aloft—I’m looking forward to flirting with the hunky instructor. Especially now that I’m free to date whoever I want.
Most of the students avoid eye contact with me as Mandy and I enter the room. The previously boisterous group becomes silent when we walk in. Several women begin whispering to each other and giggling. My walk of shame to our station seems to last forever.
One kind gray-haired lady comes over and introduces herself. “Hi, I’m Dorothy. I was once a hopeless cook myself, dear,” she says as she pats my back. “My George almost starved to death our first year of marriage. After 50 years, I’m much improved. Now I only set off the smoke alarm in the kitchen about once a month.”
Mandy laughs while Dorothy and I exchange hugs. We’re cooking-challenged kindred spirits. As she returns to her station, I turn and peek inside the ingredient basket.
“We’re making stuffed Cornish Game hens with cranberry relish,” Mandy says excitedly.
Okay, so how difficult can that be? No roasting or wrapping. Stuff the little chicken and toss it in the oven. Easy peasy! I smile at Mandy, then scan the recipe card to make sure my elation is warranted. Nothing written on the card rings an alarm. I relax for the first time since entering the room.
Chef Nicholas strolls in looking even sexier than last week, if that’s possible. He’s wearing a black T-shirt that hugs all those glorious muscles. Food Network’s logo is nestled above his left pec, drawing attention to his very fine chest. Tight black pants and black boots complete the outfit. Today he looks like a rugged cooking ninja—the scruffy beard makes me light-headed. Obviously, I came to the wrong conclusion last week when I thought he wasn’t outdoorsy. This version of Chef Nick looks like he could track down a grizzly, kill it with his bare hands, and roast it over an open fire. My heart does a flip-flop in my chest.
“Welcome everyone! Are you ready to tackle the entrée course?” He smiles as he looks across all the tables. Each female returns his smile, ready to swoon at his feet. “What happened to Mr. Thomas?” Nick points to the one open spot at a station near the back.
Mrs. Thomas turns crimson at his comment. “He had to work late. Hopefully he’ll show.”
We’ve all had the experience of a boyfriend or husband bailing by claiming he had to work late. The crowd nods in sympathy.
Nick smiles. “Okay, let’s get cooking. I’ll show you how to stuff your hens first.”
Murmurs drift around the room. Someone makes a steamy comment about stuffing hens and I blush. I think I also hear something about wanting to be a hen to his rooster. Aren’t these women here to learn how to cook a fancy meal for their sweetheart? They shouldn’t be flirting with the chef.
Undeterred by the rather embarrassing, innuendo laden comments, Nick picks up a hen and starts the demonstration. I watch closely so I don’t struggle with this step when it’s my turn to cook. After his 10-minute demo filled with lots of good tips, we’re turned loose to retrieve our hens from the fridge.
“That looked easy enough,” I say to Mandy as we place our hens on the butcher-block table.
She grins. “Says the lady who burned her pastry and sliced her finger open.”
“Shh. Don’t remind everyone of the fiasco from last week.” I nudge her with my elbow and give her my sternest kindergarten teacher look. Mandy laughs.
We occupy ourselves for the next few minutes removing the plastic packaging around the chicken and making the stuffing. I measure the bread cubes and pour them into a mixing bowl, then proceed to mix in spices, exactly as Nick instructed. Four cups seem like a lot of bread for this tiny hen, but I don’t question the recipe. My confidence grows as I glance around the room to see everyone else doing exactly what I’m doing. For once I’m not lagging behind.
Now that the stuffing is prepared, I’m ready to fill the tiny bird lying on the table. Grasping her legs, I pull open the cavity where the stuffing is supposed to go. Nick said to use our fingers to push the bread crumb mixture inside. “Don’t be afraid to stuff the bread tightly into the opening,” he warned.
I take a fortifying breath, then push the bread mixture into the cavity. As the opening fills, it becomes more and more difficult to add the remaining bread mixture, but I’m determined to stuff this little chicken as full as possible, until I’ve used the entire four cups. I’m going to follow the recipe to a T.
The bird’s skin is moist, so I adjust it in my hands in order to get a better grip. Feeling like a seasoned chef, I stuff the last of the bread mixture into the opening using every ounce of strength in my arm and hand muscles. I think I even used my legs like you do when lifting a heavy object. Apparently, one needs to be strong as an ox in order to be a chef.
Oh no! I gasp as the slippery fowl squirts from my grasp, flies across the table onto the shiny floor, and slides into a pair of black boots.
The room goes silent as Nick looks down at the hen now resting at his feet. Mandy is shaking with suppressed laughter while I’m turning a bright crimson from my neck to the part in my hair. My eyes lock with the chef’s brown eyes for a brief moment. He bends over, picks up the hen from the floor, and walks over to our station. Maybe I can sneak under the table without him noticing?
“Miss Hunt, I believe this is yours,” Nick says while his lips twitch with what I suspect is internal laughter. He inspects the poor bird as I wait in mortification. Every eye in the room is watching our exchange.
“Nice job stuffing the bird. You really packed it in,” he says with a small chuckle, in a volume only loud enough for me to hear. “The four cups were just an estimate, because each bird’s cavity will be a different size.” He offers this statement in a friendly tone and with a smile. I wish he’d have given the class this helpful tip before I used all my strength to cram every bit of that stuffing into my hen.
“No harm, no fowl,” he adds with a flirty wink. Or maybe he has something in his eye?
My embarrassed brain doesn’t register the pun for several seconds, but I feel the wink all the way to my toes.
“Just wash off the hen and you’re ready to put it in the oven,” he adds.
I beam at his encouraging words and the fact that he didn’t scold me for dropping the hen at his feet. Our hands touch when he places the bird in front of me. A tingle runs from my fingertips all the way up my arm. Looking directly at Nick, his eyes reveal a touch of surprise, telling me that he also felt something on the exchange. I try to focus on what Nick is saying and not how good he looks; time stands still while we gaze at each other, me doing most of the gazing. All that masculine strength standing beside me and the pheromones bombarding me overwhelm my ability to pay attention.
“The twenty minutes bake time is a rough estimate. Check the doneness of the bird by jiggling the back legs. They should fall off easily.” Thankfully his words sink in because he’s just given me great advice for making sure I don’t burn up the chicken.
“Thank you,” I eventually reply, breaking the spell between us.
He nods, returning his attention to the rest of the class.
“That was hot!” Mandy whispers after he’s out of earshot.
Acting unfazed by the interaction with Chef McHottie, I walk over to the sink to wash off the bird. My heart pounds in my chest. Conversations swirl around me as the other students return to preparing their hens, taking the focus off me. If I don’t burn up the little fowl, I’ll call this cooking session a win.
***
Laughter and conversation fill the room when the class breaks for the night. Surprisingly, my Cornish Hen was delicious–lightly browned and cooked to perfection. The stuffing was steaming when I pulled it out of the bird–at the perfect temperature for eating.
My plate was one of the best looking in the class with the hen carefully placed in the center of the platter, a tasteful-sized lump of dressing and two spoonsful of cranberry relish evenly placed around the hen. Nick winked at me when he inspected my plating effort. I felt like the winner of Chopped .
Mandy and I sit and chat after the session is over. When we realize that we’re the only students left in the classroom, we collect our things and get ready to leave.
“Miss Hunt, may I have a word?” Nick says as Mandy and I start to walk out the door.
My loyal friend quickly excuses herself to go to the restroom, leaving me alone with the gorgeous dark-haired instructor. “Meet you by the front entry,” she says with a grin and a thumbs up sign.
His presence is intoxicating. Wearing my ballet flats, we appear to be the same height. My six-foot frame doesn’t tower over him, so he must be about six feet tall in his boots.
“Yes, Chef DeLuca?” I smile politely while my heart is pounding itself out of my chest.
“Call me Nick.” His voice sounds intimate and sexy. A vision of kissing him pops into my head.
“Call me Bethany,” I reply breathlessly.
“Bethany, your chicken was done to perfection and your plate looked fantastic. You have an eye for good presentation.”
My eyes widen at his unexpected praise. I feel my face heat. Is it getting hot in here?
“All those kindergarten art classes I teach has taught me about the importance of presentation.” I cringe wondering where that awkward comment came from.
He smiles and his eyes crinkle at the corners, making him look even more attractive. “I admire teachers, especially those who teach small children. My niece is a handful.”
Grateful that he’s trying to make me feel comfortable, I say, “Thank you.”
He nods and we stare at each other for a good, long moment. A little too long, really. Just when the silence stretches tighter than a guitar string and I’m ready to spout something about the weather, he asks, “Are you enjoying the class?”
A nervous giggle loosens my lips. “Yes, aside from burning my pastry last week and throwing my hen at your feet tonight,” I blurt, pointing out all my blunders.
He laughs, a sexy rumble coming from deep inside his chest, making the back of my neck tingle. I feel like fanning my face.
“All minor issues. Who’s going to benefit from your cooking? Do you have a special someone to share your new cooking skills with on Valentine’s Day?”
Oh, my goodness! Is this his way of finding out whether I have a significant other?
“Sadly, no. I just broke-up with my sort-of boyfriend, although when I signed up for the class, we were still kind of dating.” Nothing like using all the weak adjectives to describe our relationship. “Our mothers have been pushing us together since we were two.”
I pause my babbling when he arches an eyebrow, but that doesn’t deter me. “I think I was just a convenient friend who has good manners and wouldn’t embarrass him, when he needed a date to one of his fancy office shindigs.”
“I’m sure that isn’t true, Bethany. You’re a gorgeous woman.”
My eyes widen as I bite my tongue, forcing my lips to remain sealed lest I tell him any more humiliating details about my love life. The warmth flowing through my body at his compliment leaves me speechless.
A slow smile crosses his face, and I detect a curiosity-filled glint in his eye. Somehow, I haven’t turned him off with my rambling. I may have, in fact, intrigued him. My heart pounds in my chest as I wonder what’s coming next.
“I have a gala on Friday for Food Network. They’re holding it at the Plaza Hotel. Since I’m here just for the class, I don’t have anyone to accompany me. Would you like to go?”
My mouth falls open in shock. “You mean a date?” I squeak.
“Well, that’s what it’s called when two people go out together, right?” He grins.
As his words sink in, my heartrate increases two-fold. This hunky, celebrity chef is asking me out. To a fancy gala. My mind spins as I mentally search my closet for something to wear.
“I’d love to go.”
Nick clasps my hand. “Excellent! My driver will pick you up at 7 pm.”
I provide my home address, and we exchange cell phone numbers in case anything changes.
I smile and wave, then hurry off down the hall to meet Mandy. She’s going to faint when I tell her about my date with Chef McHottie.