17. Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Seventeen
Emma
“Had enough yet, thief?”
“Can you move out of my light? Your ego is blocking my view.”
And by view, I mean the lawn absolutely filled to the brim with sportsmen, some of whom have decided to take their shirts off and play a scrimmage next to the lakeside. I’m not complaining.
He scoffs as I pull my hair back to tie it in a bun, and his attention shifts to my collar bones. This is my weapon. If he gets to torture me every day in the kitchen, I’ll torture him the only way I know how.
It’s the only thing he’s not good at hiding. He may hate me, but I have something he wants. Only he won’t take it.
I know that fact is important, but I just can’t figure out why. It’s the only clue I have about how this man really operates. It’s evidence of a truth he’s trying to hide.
I shake the thought of Dacre out of my head, and I paste a satisfied smile onto my lips.
The smell of bonfire hangs in the air, and a cool wind blows from the lake. The fire illuminates the murky green of the lake against a periwinkle sky.
“Hey, Em! I’m ready to eat!” Parker calls with a wave.
Parker’s voice snaps Dacre and me out of our staring contest, and he walks away.
It’s our first real test in the culinary program.
Like an exam, but scarier because if we don’t keep up here, we get more than a bad grade.
We don’t have those in the culinary club, it’s more of a points system.
Like getting gold stars in early school years, but Dacre, Verity, and Luther don’t give out points easily, and when you mess up, they deduct points.
If I hit the midterm with low points, well .
. . I don’t even want to give Dacre a reason to kick me out.
Parker gives me a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Olivia says good luck.”
“I bet you wanted her to come, huh?”
His smile drops, and he rubs the back of his neck. Bingo.
“A little. But it’s gonna be fun. The guys have been looking forward to it all week. You nervous?”
“No.”
I’m watching Dacre get the others into position. The culinary club, a group of ten people, is responsible for feeding all the athletic teams tonight, which includes Parker’s Rage team. The dance company is here, too, but I heard Olivia is going overboard practicing for her new performance.
Dacre’s got his sleeves pulled up, and he’s issuing orders. I should really go, but I can’t help but stare at the tattoos on his forearms and the way his hair is falling into his face as he barks orders. I’m seconds away from being his next victim.
Parker follows my line of sight and smiles.
“Don’t you dare,” I say, finally snapping the buttons closed on my jacket.
He claps his hands together and chuckles. “I’ve seen nothing. Go out there and kill it.”
I think of my mom as I depart for the others and how she’d love Parker’s cheerleader spirit.
We’re using the guest lodging kitchens, which are small in comparison to our full kitchen in the culinary club.
The cabins by the lake are often used for opposing teams or special guests, so they’re well kept.
Not like the run-down “vacation” cabins we used to rent sometimes at the lake in Groveshire for outdoor family bonding.
Luther stands at the front, directly before the kitchen door, along with Verity and Dacre.
“Everyone, listen up. You will each be in charge of a full, three-course meal. Each team will get a section of the meal. This isn’t some laid-back barbecue. Think of this as your chance to impress us.”
Someone raises their hand and says, “Does that mean you won’t be helping?”
“Nope, we’re gonna sit on our asses and judge you. We curated a list of recipes that you will be following. You will need to keep up a good tempo. There’s about one hundred hungry people out there, all waiting to be served by the prestigious culinary club, and it’s up to you not to embarrass us.”
There’s whispering among the group and the playful chanting from the teams outside tiring themselves.
“All right, any questions?”
I try not to look at Dacre. I really do.
But it’s as if we’re magnetically attracted.
We’re opposite in so many ways, and no matter how hard I try, things always end the same.
Our eyes meet across the room, giving me a hint of mystery I can never figure out and this cursed hollowness in my sternum when he looks away.
“All right, then, get to work.”
“Ah!” I snap my hand away from the burning baking sheet for what has to be the third time tonight.
“Behind.”
One of my teammates presses into me, and my face is nearly touching the hot door of the oven. I scurry to the sink to run cold water over my inflamed fingers.
We just got done baking the bread, and now it’s time to prep for dessert. Bread on a time crunch was a nightmare, not to mention the recipes all involved potions and special ingredients like luxe dust. Things I’ve never heard of, let alone know how to handle properly.
At least I’m not the only one freaking out.
All my teammates are in equal disarray. It’s because we didn’t establish a leader, and being left to our own devices means we’re running into each other.
I was assigned to measuring, which means my archnemesis, potions.
The first load of loaves out of the oven didn’t rise.
At all. They were flat pancakes, and I had to redo the whole batch.
This is my wheelhouse, and yet I’m struggling. The watchful gaze of the Top Three is ever present, but I’ve barely noticed them in my growing panic. I know they’re tracking points. How many were deducted for the bread?
Dessert is a crystallized sugar cake with edible pearls.
I stare at the recipe card, waiting for my brain to kick in.
Crystallized sugar cakes take three different types of potions, and one of those potions is made by combining two other potions.
There wasn’t wide access to them in Groveshire, and the ones we did have weren’t anything my dad was interested in me picking up.
They work a little like sauces, often meant to enhance a dish in different ways.
There’s no one-size-fits-all potion that makes a dish amazing.
It has to work with the ingredients. You can make potions for anything, like a concoction meant to increase the saltiness by a certain percentage.
A lot of times, they’re more effective than, say, adding the salt itself because it’s enhanced from the raw form.
My hands shake as I fumble with the vials and measure.
I can do this. This night has been a struggle, but it doesn’t mean anything.
My hands slip, and the liquid drips into my bowl of flour.
“We’re behind. Emma. We need to get the cake into the molds.” I don’t recognize the voice.
I have to scrub the whole bowl. Why is this happening?
“I know I . . . I have to redo it.”
I can’t believe I have to redo it.
“What? No way.”
“I know.” I fling the bowl, batter and all, into the sink, and it flies across the back of the sink and into the air, peppering the white coats of my teammates with the glittering black batter from the cakes.
“I’m so sorry!” I say.
I reach for a towel to help them, and my pinky hits the side of the cooling pan on the countertop.
“Just hurry up. We don’t have time. Do you want me to do it?” one of the girls asks.
“No, I’ve got it.”
The entire kitchen is a war zone from top to bottom. The sink is full of dishes, and the countertops are cluttered with dirty plates. It’s a blur of dirty white coats, and screaming faces of disappointment.
I thought I could do this. I thought I liked this. But the pressure from the challenge is like cinder blocks tied to my feet. I can’t move.
Dacre was right. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t deserve to be here. I’ve let my whole team down.
“Dinner is underway. We need an ETA on the cakes.”
The room is a blur, and the only thing I hear is the timer on the oven and the isolated voices clamoring for my attention all at once.
“Emma.”
“What are you doing?”
“I need air.”
“What!?”
I shed my apron by the door and go for some fresh air. There’s a back way out of the kitchen that leads right into the woods, the perfect escape from this nightmare. I won’t have to face Parker, and I can avoid a tongue lashing from Luther and Verity until tomorrow morning.
I can’t believe I thought I was good at this. Me? A chef in the city?
I’ve got the first few buttons undone on my jacket as I reach the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Dacre’s voice is icy cold in the humid, sticky air.
Of course. I don’t know why I thought my watcher would ever not notice my absence.
“I . . . I need a minute.”
I keep my attention on the door, inching my fingers closer to the doorknob.
“Stop.”
I do. His footsteps grow closer.
“Look at me.”
I spin and reluctantly tilt my chin up to meet his eyes.
The pools of emerald are softer than I imagined.
“You’re letting your group down.” His voice is even, and there’s something reassuring about it that claws at my panic.
He positions himself to block my way to escape, but I need to go. I can’t do this.
I try again to maneuver around him, and he places a hand on the doorframe, pinning me to the wall.
“Why do you care?” I spit.
“Answer the question, Emma. Where are you going?”
“I’m walking out. They’re better off without me. I’ve messed up everything all night.”
“If you walk out of here right now, I will not let you forget it. You think it’s bad now, but I will pester you every single day for the rest of the semester because you are better than this. Leaving means you are failing your teammates and you’re failing yourself.”
I swallow. His face is inches away, chest pressed against mine. I’m not sure whose heart is beating faster. But I feel it hammering against my breasts.
“Yes, Chef.”
His jaw hardens as he steps back. “Good. Get to work.”
There’s warmth in my cheeks that spreads down my legs in beat with my heart. My core is tight as I reenter the kitchen.
Everyone at my station is in a state of panic. I start by cleaning the counter while I gather the rest of my ingredients.
Taking a deep breath, I tighten my apron.
“I’m sorry, team. I’m here. Let’s do it.”