Chapter Nine
Bethany
Dessert Course
Nick’s kisses have played in my head for days. Although we talked on the phone and texted a few times since the gala, tonight will be the first time seeing him since our first official date. Even though it will be the two of us along with twenty plus other students, I’m counting the minutes.
As usual, most students are already perched at their cooking stations by the time Mandy and I arrive. The excitement in the air is palatable—this is our last night of class, and every student has shown up, ready to cook the final course—dessert.
The buzz quiets when Nick enters the room. Tonight, he’s dressed in the white chef jacket paired with crisp black pants. His stubble looks more pronounced as if he didn’t have time to trim his usually well-manicured beard. It makes him look even more rugged. A sexy, mountain man chef.
Nick strides to the front of the room, faces the class and smiles. “Welcome to our last class! Are you ready to graduate?”
Everyone claps loudly and most of the class members reply with a chorus of “Yes we are!”
“Wow! We better get started then.”
Several people laugh at Nick’s reaction to the excited response.
As Chef McHottie looks around the room, our eyes meet briefly, and he acknowledges my presence with a grin that’s magnetic, nearly making my legs buckle.
“Ah! Mr. Thomas, we are honored with your presence tonight.” The man nods as if he’s had perfect attendance, not acknowledging the chef’s little dig. Nick’s eyes continue flitting around the room as if he’s doing a headcount. “No one is missing tonight, so that must mean one thing.”
“What Chef?” someone in the class shouts back.
“You all love chocolate.”
Everyone laughs.
“Seriously, chocolate raspberry crepes are one of my favorite recipes. Crepes filled with fresh raspberries, drizzled with dark chocolate, and topped with whipped cream.”
The room buzzes with anticipation while my mouth waters. Dessert is my weakness, especially one that sounds so decadent.
Following a short pause, the chef adds, “Oh, I forgot to mention that dark chocolate is loaded with nutrients and can deliver antioxidants that may help protect against heart disease.”
One student yells, “Go healthy chocolate!” and the rest of the class laughs.
Nick grins. “We all know chocolate is the traditional gift of love. It’s tied for first place, along with roses, as the most romantic gift you can give. This dessert is the perfect ending for your Valentine’s Day dinner. Come join me at the stove and I’ll demonstrate how to make perfect crepes.”
Noisy chairs scrape against the floor and excited conversations fill the room as students walk to the front, discussing the tasty sounding dessert. We watch Nick whip up the crepe batter—with those sexy forearms on display—pour a small amount into a sauté pan and roll it around to evenly coat the bottom. After waiting for only a minute or two for the crepe to cook, he slides it out of the pan onto a plate.
The crepe is thin and perfectly round. He deftly adds a line of raspberries in the middle, rolls the crepe into a picture-perfect tube. Next, he drizzles the dark chocolate, that he had pre-melted earlier, back and forth across the crepe. Chef DeLuca not only makes cooking look easy, but he also exudes charm and male magnetism at the same time. A difficult combination for any female in the room to resist.
“Chef Nick, I can’t wait to savor the flavor!” one student shouts when Nick passes the plate around so we can have a closer look at the completed dessert.
He cocks an eyebrow and says, “I believe that’s my line.” Everyone laughs.
The class disperses, rushing towards the bank of stoves circling the room. There’s a bit of a scramble as students jockey for position. We’re all chomping at the bit to get cooking after that demonstration—the crepes look so delicious. I can’t wait to taste them.
Mandy and I somehow manage to find an open stove, then get out the pans we need. I start melting my chocolate at a low temperature. Nick warned us to keep the burner turned low because the chocolate will scorch easily.
Whisking the crepe ingredients together is easier than I thought it would be. I have mine done and ready to start cooking before Mandy does. Trying to mimic Nick exactly, I pour a little batter into the pan, swirl it around and put it on the burner. I watch it carefully then slide my first completed crepe onto a plate. It’s a little lopsided, but overall, it looks good. I’ll hide the imperfect shape when I roll it up with the raspberries.
After glancing around the room to see what the other students are doing, I decide to cook all my crepes at once and then roll them. That seems to be the most popular approach.
“I’m jealous. Your crepes are prettier than mine,” Mandy teases. She holds up a plate and shows me her first attempt which looks like a fat, lopsided oval.
“The secret is in the wrist action,” I say as I coat my pan evenly with a thin layer of batter, swirl it—that’s where the wrist action comes into play—forming a perfect circle. With an exaggerated flourish, I clunk the pan noisily against the burner, shattering the mystique that I’m any good at this. We lock eyes and giggle.
In about ten minutes, I’ve cooked six beautiful crepes that are waiting and ready to be filled. I’m way ahead of most of the other students who are still mixing or cooking their crepes. I do a mental fist pump at my prowess. I’m a cooking superstar.
Whoosh!
Jumping at the noise, I turn to my right where I see a large flame shooting towards the ceiling. It’s coming from a student’s pan only two stoves down from mine. My jaw drops and I’m rooted in place as I watch the scene unfold.
The woman begins waving her hands wildly while yelling, “Help!” numerous times. She doesn’t turn the burner off or remove the flaming pan from the stove. Nick is on the other side of the room. He sprints to help her, but he’s too late. The flame reaches the fire detector in the ceiling. Sprinklers activate, and water begins spraying everywhere.
As the cold water hits my neck, goosebumps rise on my skin. Frantic students shield their heads with their hands while running out of the room. Mandy and I join them as we huddle outside the door. The sprinklers stop spraying after the gush of water extinguishes the flame and Nick removes the pan from the burner. He’s soaked. His dark hair drips into his eyes, and the once pristine white jacket is plastered to his chest, showing every muscle. Gulp!
He stands amid the watery mess and motions for us to return. We quietly file back into the room, and stand in front of our stoves. One of the assistants runs over with a towel and Nick dries off as best as he can. No doubt all the female students are holding their breath, hoping that he removes his chef coat and the T-shirt underneath. I know I am. There’s a collective sigh of disappointment when he doesn’t.
My beautiful crepes are a water-logged soggy mess. They were my best effort in the class so far, so I’m very disappointed they’re no longer edible. On the positive side, at least I’m not the one who started the fire.
Nick clears his throat. “If your crepes and ingredients weren’t ruined, go ahead and keep cooking. For those of you who lost your crepes in the water bath, I’ll whip up some so you can taste the recipe.”
A cheer spreads across the room.
***
Nick’s crepes are delicious, but we each only get one small one. No one’s ingredients or crepes survived the sprinkler shower, so he had to cook crepes for the whole class. After eating the tiny crepe, I spoon up the water-logged melted chocolate from my pan and eat a few raspberries, but my hunger persists.
“That taste was just a teaser and I’m still hungry,” I grumble to Mandy.
“Yeah, the whole situation is a bummer. Your crepes looked amazing,” Mandy replies.
“They were my best effort so far and I didn’t even get to taste them,” I bemoan, but not too loudly because I don’t want to make the student who started the fire feel bad.
When class is over, Nick hands out diplomas and shakes each student’s hand as they leave. The process takes quite a while with twenty-plus students, each one chatting for several seconds with the chef. Mandy and I hang back since I want to talk to Nick in private and not in front of all the prying eyes.
He smiles when Mandy and I approach.
“Chef DeLuca, I want it noted that Bethany Hunt was not the one who set off the sprinklers,” I tease.
The three of us laugh, then my stomach rumbles in an embarrassingly loud fashion causing my face to heat.
“Would you like to go get a bite to eat?” Nick says in a playful voice, not hiding the fact that he overheard my noisy body part.
“I’d love to. I only had a PB&J before class.”
Nick rolls his eyes at my go-to dinner.
“Amanda, would you like to join us?” Nick turns to my friend to include her in the dinner invitation.
“No, I need to get home. My laundry awaits. Thank you though.” Mandy exits quickly as if her butt is on fire. She knows my attraction to Nick, so I appreciate her giving a lame excuse so I can go to dinner with him alone . I owe her a Starbucks tomorrow.
The kitchen crew is busy cleaning up all the stations and mopping the wet floor. Grabbing my hand, Nick says, “Let’s go.”
When we get outside, he turns to the right and points down the street. “My friend’s café is only three blocks away. Okay if we walk?”
“Sure.”
The night air is chilly. Thankfully my coat is dry, unlike my clothes underneath, which are still a bit damp. I feel invigorated and not cold after Nick puts his arm around me. We set off for the café at a quick pace.
“I’m very disappointed that you didn’t get to see my crepes. They were the best thing I cooked of all three lessons. I didn’t scorch the chocolate either.”
Nick chuckles. “You can make them for me sometime.”
My heart does an odd little flip-flop at that unexpected comment. I send up a thank you to the cooking gods. Apparently, I’ll be seeing Nick again even though the class is over.
We walk in silence, enjoying being together. Sounds of the city surround us—couples passing by, chatting while walking to some unknown destination, honking taxis, and even a noisy city bus. By the time we arrive at Café Brad, I’m warmed up and even hungrier. Peering into the windows, the café is dark inside and locked up tighter than a drum.
“Oh no! They’re closed.” I pout, disappointment written on my face.
Nick pulls a key from his pocket and grins. “Not a problem when you have the key.”
I squeal in delight. He’s going to cook for me.