“It might have done me some good, back there a minute ago!” she exclaimed, before once more looking around for the culinary despots against whom they were, apparently, staging a coup. Her voice was again calm and quiet as she said, “I’ll just study up. It will be fine.”
“But you’re forgetting an important detail. There hasn’t been another season like this one. We don’t have anything to study. Not really. At least not anything that will help us.”
“I think what would help most of all is if you didn’t show me up—”
“Good grief, woman!” he shouted. “I said it wasn’t intentional!”
The room, which had been abuzz with the energy and sounds of diligent preparation, grew silent, and all eyes were on them. When neither of them said a word, and just stood there awkwardly—Max with his hands in his pockets, Hadley with eyes and a smile darting apologetically around the room—the buzz resumed. Max looked down and focused on his breathing. Their argument had been good-natured, but he couldn’t afford even the misperception of being out of control.
Hadley, apparently, wasn’t too worried about his reputation. He looked up at the sound of laughter erupting from her. “Sorry,” she coughed out through the coughing fit.
He pulled his hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms across his chest. “It’s not funny.”
She nodded and tried to control her laughter, but she had completely lost it. Finally, she took a deep breath. Then another. The sound ceased but the overly amused look on her face made it clear she was the one out of control. She wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes and placed her hand on his arm. “Really. Sorry.”
A new shade of pink made its way up her neck. He wasn’t sure what that one represented, but he knew he liked it more than all the others combined.
Hadley cleared her throat and pulled her hand away. “Anyway, we’ll be fine. It’s not like this is a competition. It’s not like they’re going to try and use us against each other. Renowned isn’t that kind of show.”
Max wasn’t too sure about that, but he was absolutely positive that he needed a moment alone to collect himself before he stood with her in front of any camera. “Go powder your nose like you were told.”
She smiled and turned away, and once again he couldn’t stop himself from watching her go—which didn’t at all help him in his attempts to make himself cool and collected and ready for television.
“Oh, hey, Max?” she asked, poking her head around the corner he had just watched her disappear behind.
“Um, yeah? What’s up?” he asked with forced nonchalance as he pretended his attention had been anywhere else.
“I like the beard. It makes you look much less like an uppity prep school bully.”
She was gone before he could reply, which was good. Words were failing him.
14. Stew for two hours.
HADLEY
“For the last time,” I seethed, “would you please get out of my way?”
Above the level of the island, where the camera was capturing every move Max and I made, I gently nudged him with my elbow. Below the camera line, I stomped on his toes, which caused him to shoot me a glare of surprise and frustration. But at least he acknowledged I was there. I’d barely been able to move my arms to prepare my signature dish. I’d never met such an insufferable kitchen hog in my entire life.
“Then you take your bouille mixture and stir in your sugar.”
“So much sugar,” Max added under his breath.
“Chef Hadley, darling, just a reminder,” Chef Simons said kindly. “No need to look into the camera, or even walk us through the steps of your recipe. This isn’t meant to be instructional so much as a look at your process. Most of this footage will just be used as background.”
I nodded. “Right. Sorry. It’s a habit, I guess.”
“Not a problem. Just pretend the cameras aren’t here.”
Max leaned a hip against the island and crossed his arms. “You softened your butter too much.”
“You’ve got it, Chef Simons. Thanks.” I flashed him a smile. “Is it okay if I also pretend Chef Cavanagh isn’t here?”
Max chuckled and raised his hands as he took a step away from my cooking space.
I didn’t understand what had happened, but he was reminding me of an episode of Beverly Hills, 90210. He was like Jason Priestley, secretly getting along with Andrea, the smart nerdy girl, until his friends were around. Then he had to turn into Mr. Cool Guy.
“Chef Max,” Chef Simons said, and instantly he had Max’s attention. I’m not sure if Chef Simons was Luke Perry or Jennie Garth. “What are your observations thus far?”
“About Hadley’s dish?” he asked, and Chef Simons nodded.
I stopped pouring my vanilla—just for a second—and looked up at him. “Yes, Chef Max,” I said with a laugh. “What are your observations? I can only imagine.”
Max smiled. “This looks delicious. Fattening, but delicious.”
I groaned as I whipped my mixture. “Oh, don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“You’ve been making snide comments this entire time. You’ve been questioning every single move I make.” I slammed my spoon down into the bowl and faced him. “So if you have something to say, now’s your chance. Don’t stop now. Let’s hear it.” I crossed my arms and waited impatiently.
Fat separator. Grinder. Honing rod.
He tilted his head as his eyes connected with mine, and I saw his Adam’s apple bounce up and down. I suppose I was beginning to build up a Maxwell Cavanagh research database in my mind, because I knew what that meant. It meant Max had a whole lot to say, but he was doing all he could to swallow the words down. I softened—just a little. At least he was going to make an attempt not to say every single insulting thing he could think of about my cooking. That was an improvement over the last time we shared a kitchen.
“Truthfully, Marshall,” he began, but his eyes stayed on me. “I was just thinking that I’m beginning to understand why this is Chef Beckett’s signature dish. I’ve eaten many a tarte à la bouille in my day, but usually in a Cajun setting. It is, after all, a Louisiana trademark. But watching Chef Beckett create her version is fascinating. She’s managed to keep all the heart and tradition of the Cajun creation, while adding her own unmistakable Nashville flair.”
Well, color me green and call me seaweed.
“What a perfect characterization,” our host replied. “And having had the pleasure of being served Bouille Hadley on a previous occasion, I can assure you it is every bit as fascinating and delicious as it appears.”
After all his words over the course of the past two hours—so, so many words—Max finally seemed to have run out of them. I stared at him and tried to interpret the strange expression on his face which, at first glance, I would have placed somewhere between him wanting to annihilate me and wanting to adopt me.
I didn’t have time to figure out exactly where on the scale we stood, so I just got back to work.
“It’s called Bouille Hadley?” he finally asked. Of me, I think. I didn’t look up from my ingredients to verify.