Chapter 21 #2
“Welcome to Love is in the Kitchen!” she announces with professional enthusiasm. “Today you’ll be preparing classic French coq au vin with sides, appetizer, and dessert. You have ninety minutes, and the winning couple receives a romantic dinner for two in the captain’s private dining room.”
Ninety minutes to create a three-course meal while maintaining romantic harmony and competitive edge. This should be interesting.
“Your cooking wine and tasting wine are at each station,” she continues, “and remember—teamwork makes the dream work!”
Ransom’s radio crackles to life with the kind of urgent static that means someone’s evening is about to get significantly worse. I’m guessing mine.
“Security to the bridge immediately,” Quinn’s voice cuts through the kitchen’s romantic atmosphere like a cleaver through baked Brie. “We have a situation.”
Ransom’s expression shifts from lusty husband to professional security officer in record time. “I have to go.”
“Now?” I ask with clear disappointment. I can’t help it. I’ve been looking forward to ninety minutes of uninterrupted husband time.
“I can’t leave you partnerless,” he says, clearly torn between duty and domestic bliss.
“If you do, I’ll have to withdraw from the competition,” I sigh, already calculating which other activity I can crash to salvage my evening. There’s always the movie theater. Or the silent disco. Or the ice cream parlor. I think we all know which delicious dairy direction I’ll be headed in.
“I’d be happy to step in as Trixie’s partner,” Wes offers from the judging area with the kind of gallant gesture that makes every woman in the room swoon his way—me included. A little. Okay, a lot. But in my defense, I really wanted to participate in the culinary madness about to take place.
The entire kitchen goes silent except for the sound of wine glasses being set down and competitive couples suddenly paying very close attention to our domestic drama.
Ransom’s jaw tightens with the internal struggle of a man weighing security emergencies against potentially dangerous romantic implications.
“It’s just cooking, Ransom,” Wes continues with a touch too much diplomatic charm. “What could possibly go wrong?”
“Fine,” Ransom agrees with reluctance. And judging by the look on his face, you’d think he was authorizing a treaty with questionable terms. “But if you burn down my wife, I’m holding you personally responsible.”
“Well, well, well!” Nettie practically shouts with glee. “Look who’s trading one handsome partner for another! Way to go, Trix!”
Elodie laughs. “Honey, you’ve got more men fighting over your cooking skills than Julia Child!”
“Is this a cooking competition or a romantic triangle with garnish?” Tinsley snorts, which interestingly enough, gets a few chuckles from the other couples. “This is ridiculous.”
“Correction: this is delicious,” Elodie purrs with predatory satisfaction. “And we haven’t even started cooking yet.”
Bess nods. “Trixie, you’ve managed to create more steam in here than one of those commercial ovens.”
A small applause goes off as if they were watching premium entertainment.
Tinsley snorts once again. “Looks like some people get to have their cake and eat it, too.”
The temperature in the kitchen drops approximately twenty degrees as everyone processes the barely veiled accusation hanging in the herb-scented air.
“It’s just cooking.” I protest, which sounds about as convincing as someone claiming they’re on a diet while stealing fries off someone’s plate. Not that I’m stealing Wes—or the other way around.
Wes approaches our station with a confident stride as if to say he’s navigated more challenging waters than kitchen politics, before rolling up his sleeves to reveal forearms that probably have their own fan club among the female passengers.
“Shall we get started?” he asks with the kind of easy charm that makes the whole room offer up a spontaneous applause once again. They’re a happy group, I’ll give them that.
The timer starts, and suddenly the kitchen erupts into organized chaos that’s equal parts cooking competition and relationship analysis in real time.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” I ask as Wes begins organizing our ingredients with professional efficiency that puts my usual kitchen disasters to shame.
“Captain’s duties include emergency meal preparation,” he’s quick to tell me as his hands move with the kind of competent precision that suggests he’s equally comfortable navigating storms and sauces. “Plus, I spent summers working in my uncle’s restaurant in Maine.”
We fall into a natural rhythm that’s frankly alarming in its ease—he handles the technical aspects while I focus on prep work and trying not to get distracted by how well we work together.
Our teamwork flows so well, it’s as if we’ve been cooking partners for years instead of reluctant substitutes thrown together by maritime emergencies.
Meanwhile, the other couples are providing enough entertainment to power the ship’s comedy shows for a month.
Nettie has already set something on fire—I’m not sure what, but smoke is rising from their station while her partner looks simultaneously terrified and charmed by whatever chaos she’s unleashing.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a sauce situation at station three!” she announces like she’s providing play-by-play commentary for a sporting event.
“I haven’t seen this much sizzling since my third husband’s poker nights!” she continues, which gets uncomfortable laughter from the couples who aren’t sure if that’s a cooking reference or something more scandalous.
Elodie and her gentleman have apparently decided that seduction is more important than food preparation, their wine disappearing faster than their ingredients while they create what can only be described as an artistic disaster that somehow still looks elegant.
Tinsley continues to treat the competition like a military operation, barking orders at her silver fox while consulting her clipboard with such seriousness, you’d think she was coordinating international relief efforts.
“Timing is crucial!” she declares, pointing at her timeline like it holds the secrets of culinary success. “We need the protein started in exactly three minutes and forty-seven seconds!”
Claudette and Mark’s station resembles a passive-aggressive marriage counseling session disguised as food preparation, their tense perfectionism creating an atmosphere that could curdle cream. And they can probably use that curdled cream in their recipe, too.
“That’s not how you dice onions,” Claudette says with the kind of critical aggression that suggests she’s commenting on more than vegetables.
“Sorry,” Mark replies, his forehead tattoo glistening with far too much nervous sweat. “I’ll do better.”
Jazz and Rob’s Zen cooking philosophy is meeting harsh reality as Rob meditates over vegetables while Jazz panics about timing.
“The universe will provide the proper seasoning,” Rob announces with cosmic confidence while their sauce threatens to burn.
“The universe needs to provide it faster!” Jazz shoots back with desperation, as if watching enlightenment go up in smoke.
But Bess and Rex are actually producing something that looks edible, their sweet romantic moments and patient teaching creating the kind of partnership that makes the rest of us look like amateurs.
“Trixie, honey, that’s not how you hold a whisk!” Nettie calls out as I attempt to tackle our sauce. “Let the captain show you!”
Wes moves behind me to guide my hands, and suddenly, the entire kitchen’s attention focuses on us like we’re performing dinner theater instead of cooking competition.
“See?” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear as he demonstrates proper whisking technique. “It’s all in the wrist.”
The wine is making everyone progressively more relaxed and honest, which leads to confessions flowing as freely as the alcohol, while competitive edges soften into giggly cooperation.
“You two work together beautifully,” someone observes from another station.
“Like you’ve been cooking partners for years,” another voice adds.
“Maybe she should trade up,” comes a whispered comment that makes my cheeks burn.
That’s when multiple disasters strike simultaneously—fire alarms, sauce explosions, and what appears to be a complete dessert collapse at station two.
The kitchen erupts into chaos that requires all hands on deck, and soon enough, the competition is forgotten in favor of preventing an actual catastrophe.
Wes immediately takes charge like he’s managing a major ship emergency instead of a kitchen disaster, directing traffic and coordinating damage control with the kind of natural leadership that makes everyone follow his orders without question. He is the captain, of course.
And now that we’re working together under pressure, it reveals something that terrifies me—we’re incredibly good at this. Not just the cooking, but the partnership, the teamwork, the way we anticipate each other’s needs and move around each other like we’ve been doing this for years.
“Time!” the head chef calls out, and the kitchen erupts in exhausted cheers and nervous laughter as couples step back from their creations with varying degrees of confidence.
“Boy, that was really something,” I say with an exhausted laugh.
“Something pretty great.” Wes winks my way, and I can already hear Ransom loading bullets in his chamber.
The judging happens quickly, with the head chef moving between stations to taste each couples’ interpretation of classic French cuisine.
Some dishes are more successful than others.
Nettie’s station still smolders slightly, while Elodie’s creation looks like abstract art that may or may not be edible.
“The winning couple,” the head chef announces with dramatic flair, “demonstrated exceptional teamwork, perfect seasoning, and a coq au vin that would make even Julia Child proud—Trixie and Captain Crawford!”
The kitchen erupts in applause and good-natured groans of defeat as Wes and I exchange a look of surprised triumph that feels more intimate than it should, given our audience.
“Your prize,” the chef continues with a knowing smile, “is a private romantic dinner for two in the captain’s exclusive dining quarters this evening. Wine pairings, personalized menu, and complete privacy to enjoy your culinary victory.”
The implications hang in the wine-scented air like expensive perfume mixed with potential scandal. A private dinner. Just the two of us. In the most romantic setting on the ship. I’m sure Ransom will be thrilled.
“How wonderful,” Tinsley says with the kind of forced enthusiasm that could make a game show host look sedated. “I’m sure you’ll both enjoy your... prize.”
Ransom appears in the kitchen doorway just as Wes and I are sharing a perfect moment of triumph over our successfully rescued coq au vin with high-fives and a quick embrace.
I pull back just in time to see the expression on my husband’s face, which suggests he’s processing information and perhaps reaching for his weapon, while the rest of the kitchen witnesses what might be the most dangerous love triangle on the high seas.
Because when your husband catches you playing house with another man, the only thing getting cooked is your marriage—and someone is about to get burned.