He pulled out his laptop and started in on his brainstorming. “What are we going to make for that three-course pie dinner?”Thatwas a much better topic than the constant failures of the Delgado family’s romances. “I wonder if chicken pot pie would be too trite?”
Henry stood in the back row, waiting as the basket of numbers went around. He took a little folded piece of paper when it came around to him but, as instructed, didn’t open it yet.
When everyone had received one, Dexter clapped his hands. “All right, check your number to see which station you’re at. We’ll keep you there as long as we can manage, but when people start to leave, we might have to move you around. Production crew likes you more evenly spread out.”
Henry unfolded his paper: station six. He walked along the aisle bisecting the room and slid into the middle right station.
So of course Tristan took the one in front of him. He wasn’t in that entirely too-tempting gray and fuchsia top, but his jeans still hugged tight and his arm muscles still bulged in all the best possible places under a black long-sleeved T-shirt, and none of that was conducive to Henry winning this competition. Even when Henry won, Tristan just appearing on the show would bring more fame and notoriety and business to the sexy son of a bitch and his damn catering business.
It’s pretty ridiculous to hold a grudge against him because he’s getting the catering gigs. And I’m not. Or because of the awards.But acknowledging that didn’t make the grudge suddenly disappear. If anything, it locked his distaste harder into place.
Right as Henry had started to get some real clientele built up for his own wedding services—cakes, petit fours, all that stuff people wanted to feel fancy on their big day—along had come this hotshot new pastry chef for Carlita’s, and there had gone Henry’s chances of chipping out a spot for his own shop. It had been the first major stumble since he got the shop off the ground, and falling after such a long run of successes had hurt. Bad. Then to have Tristan constantly lauded up at the same level as him? Yeah, it was annoying on the best of days.
It didn’t help that Tristan was so damn desirable. A pastry chef with a body like that? Henry knew firsthand that hauling wedding cakes was a good arm workout, and it showed on Tristan in a perfect way. Running back and forth between stations kept your legs working. Dealing with annoying customers stressed you out, which probably burned calories too.It better. That’s my whole excuse for eating as much ice cream as I do.
Tristan likely had a lot of other muscles worth experiencing up close and personal. And, looking around as the other guys passed him on the way to their stations, Henry could confidently say Tristan was the sexiest one of them all.Andhe was for sure into dudes. And sleeping down the hall from Henry’s hotel room.
Stop it. Last thing I need is another fuckboy.They were cheaper than disposable piping bags back home. All the “marrying types” seemed to be either paired off already or frustratingly not into dick. Henry wasn’t likely to get the kind of relationship his parents had. Not never, but certainly not with Tristan.
Besides, I’m too selfish for a real relationship, right? That’s what fucking Lance said.
“Okay, everyone squared away?” Dexter walked from the front table all the way to the back of the studio, by the doors to the massive pantry room. “Now, I know it’s only been a day or so, but if anyone has a list of ingredients they want, you can hand it in now and I’ll make sure it gets to one of the production assistants.” He sighed and glanced upward. “What else? Don’t try to sabotage anyone, obviously. Not even during these practice runs. You’ll be getting key cards to get you in here whenever you need. They’re giving you free rein, so don’t abuse it and wreck things for the chefs next season.”
Next season, huh?If they were already planning a second season, then this might be a bigger career boon than Henry had planned on.All the more important I stick around.
Dexter clapped loudly. “For now, I think you’ll all want to get cooking. I hope you won’t mind me watching for a while. I want to get a look at what you’re really like, without the cameras going.”
He started to walk away, but Tristan stepped out and stopped him. “List?” He held out an envelope. “I might ask for more later if that’s all right?”
“Fine by me.” Dexter patted Tristan on the shoulder, then headed back up front, folding and pocketing the envelope.
Of course he had a list of ingredients ready.Henry rolled his eyes as he stepped away from his station and into the pantry, a truly massive room at the rear of the set, lit by stark hanging fixtures. There were shelves and shelves of all sorts of ingredients, and three massive refrigerators, one set aside for meat. It was hard to believe there was a whole lot someone wouldneedto bring in from the outside. Maybe specific extracts or oils or baking emulsions, particularly uncommon fruits or—God forbid—weird organs or sweetbreads.
Henry grabbed a container of bread flour, a block of butter and a block of lard, and a miniature jar of salt. He needed to work out the meat pie first, the “entrée” pie for the last hurdle of the round. That one was going to give him some problems. Hell, so would his soup course. They had five hours on filming day to do all of this. On paper, it sounded like plenty of time to make three pies. In reality, it would likely flash past him in a breath.
Which meant practice. Lots and lots of practice.
The first option that came to mind was beef Wellington. Maybe a bit too boring, but the flavors worked, and it was something Henry knew how to make. Nothing better to riff on than that. It used to be his go-to first-date meal... when he’d bothered to date.
Henry had made it a lot of times over the years. Lance had been the last one to eat it who’d actually stayed past a brief tangling of the sheets.I guess I need a higher class of men to appreciate it. Or Cupid’s a vegetarian.
He grabbed some chestnut mushrooms, shallots, a bottle of Madeira, some cream, and beef tenderloin to get chopped up. Tarragon too. Cursed, loveless recipe or not, they were solid flavors no one could complain about.
And hell, maybe someone would taste it and finally decide to settle down with him.
Tristan came back to his station not long after, carrying his own basket of ingredients. He eyed Henry’s station. “Beef wellington’s not exactly a pie, is it?”
Henry shrugged, failing to keep the ice out of his voice. Not that he triedtoohard. “Maybe you shouldn’t assume you know what I’m doing.”
Tristan rolled his eyes and turned back around.
With them working this close to each other, it was going to be a long show.
Tristan walked back and forth outside of the studio. They’d practiced for three days, and he’d seen amazing food. Incredible apple pies, some thin and golden and shining, some half a foot high with flaky, bronzed crusts.
He took a short drag on his cigarette, letting heat and heady smoke fill his lungs. It failed to release the tension balling between his shoulder blades, but it gave him something to do until they let him onto the set.
A cab pulled up next to him. Tristan glanced at it and scowled, because fate was a nuisance on her best days. Out of the cab stepped Henry. He handed some cash to the cabbie, grabbed a receipt, then straightened up and locked eyes with Tristan. “Guess I’m not the only one here early.”
