Chapter 8 #2
The only thing Sam cared about winning was Hannah’s heart; how was winning, or losing, this competition going to get her any closer to accomplishing that? How would any of this help her?
“Chef Cooper, Chef Liu.” Daphne turned, looking first at Sam and then at Hannah.
Sam gave Daphne her best if looks could kill glare, infusing it with as much go fuck yourself energy as she could.
A silent promise that if Daphne had shipped Sam up another shit creek without a paddle, Sam was going to find a way, come hell or high water, to end her.
“You have thirty minutes to prepare, plate, and present your desserts to the judges.” She gestured to the giant digital stop clock suspended from the ceiling above the judges’ table at the front of the arena, a red number 30 glowing overhead.
“Your time starts … now! Allez impressionner!”
The clock instantly flipped to 00:29:59.
Go impress , Daphne had said. Go impress whom? And for that matter, where ?
She looked to Hannah and—
Hannah had already taken off, hopping down from the elevated dais where she’d stood and zipping off toward the back of the arena, where a sign reading P ANTRY hung above several rows of metal store racks. Slightly to the left of the pantry, another sign hung over a doorway. R EFRIGERATOR , it read.
At least the place was clearly labeled and, courtesy of the show’s format, which gave the audience watching at home a primer, Sam had a leg up that she hadn’t had with her last wish.
She still didn’t know why she was here, why Daphne had chosen to manufacture a whole cooking competition specifically , when she could have just as easily thwarted Sam’s wish some other way, more easily, even.
But at least Sam wasn’t totally in the dark the way she’d been talking to Coco and Melissa and those police detectives.
Sam knew cooking and she knew culinary competition television.
“Chef Cooper?” Daphne’s brow rose expectantly. “The clock is ticking. Allons-y!”
Sam fisted her hands at her sides, restraining the urge to flip Daphne the bird, and stepped off the dais. To her left was a small but well-appointed kitchen that she made her way over to for a closer look.
What the station lacked in size it made up for with state-of-the-art appliances from high-end brands like Sub-Zero and Wolf.
The kitchen boasted a multiunit range with a wall rail for some of those gadgets and gizmos Daphne had mentioned, a double-oven range, a glass-front refrigerator and matching freezer, even an induction cooktop set into the prep counter.
Atop a small island sat an ice-cream maker and an anti-griddle, a bevy of other lesser-known appliances tucked neatly away on a shelf beneath.
Sam needed a game plan. The way she saw it, she had three options.
She could refuse to compete. She could find the exit and walk out of this studio or wherever the hell she was and find her way back to more familiar surroundings.
Her apartment, maybe, or Glut. She could google herself and Hannah and find her on social media, maybe.
Shoot her a DM and go from there. But what would Hannah think of her withdrawing from the competition?
What if she walked out the door and something happened, and her path never intersected with Hannah’s again?
Hands braced on the butcher-block countertop, Sam stared at the chocolate sheet cake she was meant to transform.
She could stay. She could stay and compete, and she could treat this seriously. Really give the competition her all. Win, or at the very least try. Or she could half-ass it.
Hannah wasn’t much of a cook. At least the Hannah Sam knew, the Hannah who knew Sam, wasn’t.
She preferred eating out to eating at home, and when they did stay in, Hannah wanted to order either salads from Sweetgreen or one of those TikTok-viral luxe sushi boxes from Bondi, or she was happy to let Sam handle the cooking.
Which was fine. Great, even. Sure, the last thing some chefs wanted to do when they got home was cook yet another meal, but Sam genuinely didn’t mind.
She loved cooking. And cooking in the comfort of her own kitchen was a world apart from cooking in a high-pressure, fast-paced restaurant environment like Glut, where even the tiniest mistakes were tantamount to total failure.
Even in this altered reality where Sam was the executive chef of Glut and she and Hannah didn’t know each other, before Daphne had implied as much with her introduction, Sam would’ve been willing to bet Hannah was no Iron Chef.
Of course, Hannah could always take her by surprise, turn out to be some sort of dark horse and take the win, but if she didn’t?
Even the best sports didn’t like to lose.
No one did. Well, depending on the game, Sam didn’t mind.
Like when she played Clue or Boggle with her nieces and nephews.
Sometimes she’d throw the game and lose on purpose, because if they lost too many times it stopped being fun for them and they’d no longer want to play.
Oh, but when she lost they loved to play with their aunt Samantha, would giggle each time she lost and poke fun at her for being terrible.
Without fail, they always begged her to play.
Playing to win wasn’t always the same thing as playing not to lose.
“Not a big fan of chocolate cake?”
Sam jumped, catching the edge of the butcher block with her hip and knocking the sheet pan halfway across the counter.
Hannah stood in front of the stove, in the aisle that ran down the center of what was effectively a galley kitchen.
Like Sam, she wore the standard-issue chef’s uniform, a white double-breasted jacket and black pleated pants with an apron tied at her waist. No surprise that Hannah wore the look well; Hannah wore everything well.
“Sorry.” Hannah smiled sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
“No! No, don’t—don’t apologize,” she quickly reassured her. Hannah was welcome to sneak up on her if it meant she was talking to Sam. That she was giving Sam an opening. Bruise on her hip be damned, Sam wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. “You’re fine.”
Hannah nodded at the sheet pan. “You were glaring at the cake pretty hard.”
“I was just … thinking. About what I’m going to make.”
Better to let Hannah believe she was thinking about cake than tell her what was actually on her mind.
Actually, Hannah, you don’t know me, or remember me, but in an alternate universe—or maybe the primary one?
I’m not super clear on how this all works, if it’s multiverses or—The point is, we dated, and after you broke up with me, I made a last-ditch deal with a demon to get you back.
I figured, if I were a wealthy and successful and competent chef, I’d make for a more attractive partner, and you’d have no reason to end our relationship.
Only, apparently, we have no relationship here.
Do you maybe want to change that? I’ll even let you win this dumb competition.
Just pretty please give me a chance and I swear I’ll spend the rest of my life doing everything in my power to make you the happiest woman on this planet, myself not included because sharing air with you is enough to make me incandescent.
“I bet you have something impressive planned for this round, don’t you? Your pièce de résistance?”
“Not really. I—I hadn’t decided yet.” Sam glanced over her shoulder at the frosted sheet cake and frowned. “Maybe I’ll make cake pops.”
“Cake pops?” Hannah goggled at her. “I’m sorry, the Chef Samantha Cooper, responsible for earning Glut its three Michelin stars, is going to serve the judges cake pops ?”
Sam frowned. She loved cake pops. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing! They’re just a little … basic for someone of your culinary caliber.” Hannah cocked her hip against the counter and dragged her finger through the frosting along the side of Sam’s sheet cake. “Don’t you think?”
Hannah popped her finger in her mouth and sucked off the frosting, giving Sam a look that shot straight to her core.
“A chef of my caliber,” Sam echoed dumbly, staring at the tiny smudge of chocolate at the corner of Hannah’s mouth just beside her beauty mark, thinking about how easy it would be to lean in and capture Hannah’s plush bottom lip with hers.
Lick that frosting right off. “You, uh, you make me sound like I’m some kind of big deal or something. ”
Her laughter petered out quickly when Hannah didn’t join in. Rather, she studied Sam for a moment, her gray eyes searching Sam’s face. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious or if you’re just being humble, which is—no offense—kind of dumb. You’re the best of the best.”
Sam ducked her head. “That’s awfully kind of you, but—”
“ Don’t think that’s me flattering you,” Hannah said. “It’s just a fact. Everyone knows it.”
Sam stared at her, at a loss, unsure of what to say. Hearing those words come out of Hannah’s mouth when only hours ago she had scolded Sam for squandering all her supposed potential was a bit of a mindfuck, and it was going to take her more than a second to get used to it.
She stood a little taller. “Even the best of the best happens to enjoy a good cake pop every now and again.”
Basic didn’t always equal bad. Maybe it wasn’t fine dining, but sometimes basic hit the spot, just like when, on occasion, Sam got a craving so strong for an RC Cola and a banana Moon Pie that not even the butteriest of croissants and fanciest of craft sodas could satisfy.
“Hm.” Hannah narrowed her eyes playfully. “You’re not trying to take it easy on me, are you? Because you shouldn’t. See, I’m not afraid of a challenge. After all, that is why I’m here.”
That was exactly what Sam had been planning on doing.
“No. Of course not. Don’t be silly.”
“Mm-hmm. Sure , Chef Cooper.”
“Sam,” she blurted. “It’s—You can call me Sam.”
Hannah smiled and Sam swore she could hear angels singing. “Sam it is.”