Chapter 6
Chapter Six
“ T hree down, two to go.”
Reese smiled at the perky blonde sitting next to her in the television studio’s green room. The woman had been chattering nonstop ever since she and Reese, along with three other apprentice hopefuls, had been herded into the room to await their turn to audition.
“I’m so nervous,” the blonde confided. “I love Michael Wolf. I can’t wait to meet him.”
Reese merely smiled. It wasn’t that long ago she’d felt the same way. Now she knew better. The only reason she’d decided to show up for today’s audition was to spite Michael. She had no interest in sharing a stage with him or winning any money. Her game plan was simple: knock the judges’ socks off. If she won the competition, she’d politely decline the apprenticeship by citing “irreconcilable differences” with Michael, which would put him in the awkward position of having to explain himself to his colleagues.
Revenge is a dish best served cold , Reese thought with wicked satisfaction.
When it was her turn, she followed the production assistant down a long, narrow corridor and through an open doorway that brought them to the set of Howlin’ Good .
Despite her newfound loathing for Michael Wolf, Reese couldn’t help feeling a rush of excitement as she started down the aisle toward the kitchen at center stage. With its gleaming white cabinets, granite countertops and high-end stainless steel appliances, the set of Howlin’ Good had become as familiar to her as her own kitchen. To be here in person was surreal.
Her fascinated gaze took in a kaleidoscope of cameras, lights, monitors and microphones. A network of lights hung from the ceiling, facing in various directions and at different angles. There were several technicians milling around, checking lighting, adjusting equipment and giving instructions to one another.
A small group of people stood chatting around a table that had been erected in front of the stage. The judges, Reese realized when she spied another popular chef whose cable show she often watched.
For the first time since her arrival at the studio two hours ago, she began to feel nervous.
The feeling only intensified when she glanced around and saw Michael emerge from a doorway to the right of the stage. He was followed by his executive producer, whom Reese had met that morning, and a man wearing a headset and carrying a clipboard.
As Reese watched Michael stride purposefully toward the stage, she wondered how anyone could look so mouthwateringly good in a plain black T-shirt and jeans. The shirt clung enticingly to the ripped muscles in his chest, and the jeans rode wickedly low on his hips and hugged his thick thighs.
As if sensing her hungry appraisal, Michael turned his head, his dark eyes scanning the crowded set before homing in on hers.
Reese’s breath caught. She could feel her pulse thudding as his gaze wandered over her, taking in her white ruffle blouse and linen slacks before easing back up to her face. Though his expression didn’t change, there was no mistaking the subtle challenge that glinted in his eyes.
Reese lifted her chin defiantly, answering with her own silent message: Bring it on!
A smile played at the corners of his lips before he glanced away to finish conferring with his producer.
“You’re on in three minutes.” The production assistant led Reese onto the stage, where a cameraman clipped a tiny microphone to her lapel. “For the audition, you’re going to assist Michael with preparing a basic recipe. As I told the other contestants, the judges are more interested in your stage presence and the way you interact with Michael than your culinary skills. So just relax and be yourself.”
“Good advice,” Reese murmured, trying not to notice that dozens of strangers were watching and critiquing her every move. She was relieved that she didn’t have to audition before a live studio audience.
Michael awaited her at the large center island that was the focal point of the kitchen. It featured a restaurant-style electric cooktop and enough counter space for him to spread out his ingredients and display his culinary masterpieces at the end of each episode.
As Reese took her place beside him, he slanted her a faintly mocking glance. “Think you can keep up?”
She smiled sweetly at him. “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”
Before he could respond, the director began his countdown. “Five, four, three, two?—”
On cue Michael flashed his trademark grin into the camera—the slow, wicked grin that melted women the world over and kept their eyes glued to their television sets. “Today we’ll be whipping up a classic Southern favorite—shrimp and grits. As any true Southerner knows, eating grits is a way of life. But they’re not just for breakfast anymore, and today we’re gonna show you why. But first I’d like to introduce you to the lovely Reese St. James, who’ll be assisting me in the kitchen today.”
Reese smiled and waved as the people gathered around the set applauded loudly in an effort to simulate a live audience.
“Reese hails from the Lone Star state,” Michael said, smiling so easily at her no one would’ve believed they were enemies. “Houston, right?”
“That’s right,” Reese said cheerfully. “It’s a pleasure to be here with you, Michael. Feel free to put me right to work.”
Michael grinned at the judges’ table. “I like ’em eager and ready to please,” he drawled with a suggestive wink that earned him a round of wicked laughter.
Not to be outdone, Reese picked up a piece of chilled shrimp from a bowl on the counter. “So what’re we working with today, shrimp? Er, I mean chef .”
More laughter filled the room.
“That’s right, Reese,” Michael said, plucking the shrimp out of her fingers and dropping it into the bowl. “Today we’re working with shrimp. I’ve got some big, fat, juicy?— ”
Reese fanned herself with her hand, drawing another burst of raucous laughter. Someone even whistled.
Shaking his head, Michael muttered under his breath, “Good help is so hard to find,” which elicited some sympathetic chuckles.
“What do you want me to do, Michael?” Reese asked breathily.
He looked her up and down slowly, then raised his eyes heavenward. “Lord, why do you tempt me so?”
More chortles and catcalls ensued.
When the noise had subsided, Michael said to Reese, “Why don’t you stir those grits on the stove?” As she moved to comply, he explained to the audience, “Most folks use instant grits, and that’s fine if you’re really pressed for time. But I’m a purist who believes that the best grits are stone-ground and cooked slowly in butter and cream for at least two hours.”
“Two hours?” Reese echoed in surprise.
“Absolutely.” He met her gaze, his voice dipping low. “The slower the better.”
Reese’s belly flip-flopped as the onlookers reacted with wolf whistles. This time she really did need to fan herself.
“So while your grits are simmering on the stove,” Michael continued, dragging his gaze from hers, “you need to spice up your shrimp. Being a Southern boy, I like mine really spicy. So that means plenty of Cajun seasoning, as well as Italian seasoning, paprika, salt and pepper. You’re gonna sprinkle the combined spices over the shrimp until they’re good and coated. And then you’re ready to sauté them bad boys.”
As he pulled out a large pan and joined Reese at the stove, he said gruffly, “Keep stirring, woman. I don’t want my grits sticking to the bottom and burning.”
Reese gave a mock salute. “Yes, sir.” Under her breath she muttered, “You can kiss my grits.”
As laughter erupted around the set, Michael leaned close to her, his hand cupped to his ear. “I didn’t hear that. Did you say something?”
Reese batted her lashes innocently. “I said, ‘You’re the boss.’”
His mouth twitched. “Yeah, I thought so.” Turning on the burner next to hers, he said, “In a large pan, you’re gonna add two tablespoons of olive oil and minced garlic. Heat it up and stir for about thirty seconds, then throw in your seasoned shrimp?— ”
“ Throw ?” Reese interrupted skeptically. “Are you sure you should be telling viewers to throw anything into a skillet of hot oil?”
When Michael just stared at her, she said grimly, “I’m a doctor. I’ve seen more than enough third-degree burns caused by household cooking accidents. Might I suggest you find another verb?”
He gaped at her a moment longer, then nodded tightly. “All right,” he agreed, addressing the camera. “You’re gonna ease the shrimp into the pan?—”
“Ooh, much better. I like ease .”
Michael looked at Reese as if he wanted to clobber her over the head with the pan. “Anything else?” he inquired through clenched teeth.
She grinned sheepishly. “Nope. I’m good.” The audience chortled as she hunched over the pot of grits and stirred with renewed vigor.
“As I was saying,” Michael continued with exaggerated patience, “after you add the shrimp, sauté them for about three minutes—just until they’re tender. You don’t wanna overcook them. When they’re done, remove them from the pan and set ’em aside in a bowl.”
“But not in the same bowl that had the raw shrimp, right?” Reese interjected. At his blank look, she hastened to clarify herself. “I mean, I know seafood doesn’t warrant the same cross-contamination concerns as poultry, but just to be on the safe side…”
“Of course,” Michael said with a steely smile for the camera. “You’re going to place the cooked shrimp in a different bowl. Just like I did.”
“Wonderful. Mmm, those look delicious,” Reese breathed, eyeing the mound of sautéed shrimp. “Can I have?—”
“No,” Michael snapped, moving the bowl out of her reach. The audience laughed while Reese pretended to pout.
Deliberately ignoring her, Michael continued, “Now comes the roux, which is basically a cooked mixture of flour and fat that’s used to thicken many Cajun dishes. So here’s what you’re gonna do, folks.” He explained the next few steps, demonstrating as he went along. “After you’ve cooked the roux, add a teaspoon of Worcestershire sauce and hot sauce. I usually make my own hot sauce, but if you’re looking for a shortcut, a good brand I recommend is Texas Pete?—”
“Hey, I think I know him!” Reese piped up brightly.
This set off a new wave of laughter.
Michael shook his head at the ceiling, but his lips were quirking as if he wanted to smile but wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. It didn’t matter, though. Reese knew he was having as much fun as she was, even if he’d sooner eat stewed lizard guts than admit it.
Grinning, she removed the grits from the burner. “What’re you gonna do with those?” she asked, pointing to another bowl filled with neat cubes of sautéed country ham.
“Watch and learn.”
Michael heaped a few spoonfuls of grits onto a plate and topped it with several sizzling pieces of shrimp. Next he poured a liberal amount of the roux sauce over the shrimp and added a sprinkling of ham, then presented the finished dish with a dramatic, “ Booyah! ”
Reese joined in the vigorous applause that swept around the set. “ Now may I have a taste?” she entreated him. “Pretty please?”
Michael grinned lazily. “Sure. Why not?”
He scooped up a forkful of shrimp and grits and brought it to her mouth. Reese opened automatically for him. As her lips closed around the fork, his gaze darkened.
She let out a soft groan. “Mmmm. That is sooo good.”
Watching her intently, Michael sampled a bite, licking their shared fork in a way that hardened her nipples and spiked her pulse.
Their gazes held for a long, charged moment.
“Cut!” the director called out suddenly. In a voice laced with amusement, he added, “Would someone please bring me a glass of cold water? It’s hot in here!”