In the Raw (7 page)

Chapter Twelve

Ethan

I slipped into the back of the lecture hall with seconds to spare. Communication and Restaurant Management made working in the school’s restaurant under the hard-ass chefs look like a walk in the park. I’d take knife cuts, sore arms from lifting heavy pots and grease scars any day over having to “communicate” with others in class.

The professor walked up to the podium in front of the lecture hall and set his notes down. He scanned the class of about twenty-five students with the same sour expression he always wore. We all knew he came from the corporate sector of the restaurant business and had little patience for chefs.

As I looked over the students seated in front of me, a familiar shock of sandy-blond hair five rows ahead of me caught my eye. As soon as the professor cleared his throat and turned on the projector screen behind him, Lassiter turned in his seat and glanced around the room until he saw me. He was wearing one of his stupid pink dress shirts that shouldn’t have made him look so damned edible. My fingers twitched as I imagined popping the buttons open one by one as I stripped it off his body. He nodded at me, then turned back around.

I should have felt bad about the way things ended on the phone last night, but the more distance I put between me and Golden Boy, the better. I was getting my notebook out when the professor cleared his voice again to get the class’s attention.

“For the next few weeks, we’ll be focusing on the marketing side of the restaurant industry. This business isn’t all about creating new dishes and great menus. It’s about restaurants selling an image to the public so they can generate enough capital to create dishes to win over their clientele. Repeat customers represent repeat income and it’s your job as chefs to keep them coming back. To reinforce a lesson many fail to understand and therefore see their restaurants close within the first year, this project will force you to focus on the restaurant concept and design aspect of the business.”

He turned on his computer and the screen behind him illuminated with charts and graphs. As he lectured about the maintenance costs of running an independent restaurant, I zoned out and began to doodle on the page in front of me. Restaurants were a money pit. Without financial backing and an owner with a good mind for business, a lot of independent places went down in smoke before they even hit the one-year mark.

“As you can see, selling yourself is a huge draw for the industry these days. Look at Bobby Flay, Wolfgang Puck, Emeril Lagasse. Their talent in the kitchen is indisputable, but it’s how they’ve marketed their name that’s made the difference between being good chefs and being profitable chefs. The project you’ll be working on will underscore this concept. How will you market your cuisine? What steps could you undertake to get your restaurant’s name out to the general masses? And once it’s out there, how will your menu highlight the differences between your restaurant and the one down the street? What will make your patrons want to come back for a second and third visit? You and your assigned partner will develop a marketing strategy for a fictional restaurant you create and present it to the class.”

Several new slides scrolled across the screen depicting different well-known chain eateries and a several famous independently owned cafés and restaurants.

“The notes and guidelines are in the packet I’ll be handing out shortly. Now, to assign your partners.”

My head whipped up the mention of the words
partner
and
presentation to the class.
Group work and cooperation with others was not my strong point.

Fucking fantastic.

The professor began calling out the names of students in the class and pairing us up in alphabetical order. As I looked around the class, my eyes settled again on Lassiter’s shock of blond hair. I drew in a breath. “No way.”

“Frederickson, you’ll be working with Hendley. Jackson, you’ll be with Kinsey. Lassiter, you’ll be with Martin. Pham, you’ll be with...”

Of course. I turned my head in time to see Lassiter’s blue eyes find mine, his expression either disgust or resignation. Either one would have been appropriate after last night’s phone call. After a moment of sizing each other up, he looked down, gathered his things and left his seat to make his way to the back of the lecture hall to join me.

When he approached my chair, I slid my notebook out of the way and gestured to the empty seat next to me.

“Lucky me. I get to work with the golden boy in not one but two classes on top of tutoring this semester. The culinary gods must hate my ass so much they’re bent on torturing me.”

His face fell as soon as the words left my mouth. I was being an ass but I couldn’t seem to stop. My unwilling attraction to him made me feel vulnerable and if there was one thing I hated more than being a failure at something, it was giving someone else power.

He sat down next to me and looked me directly in the eyes. “Look, I know I’m the last person you want to work with. I get it. I’m not sure what I’ve done to piss you off, but I’m hoping we can focus on this project. I need a good grade on this and if you can’t be professional enough to work with me, I’ll have to ask Professor Flannigan for another partner. I’ve worked too damn hard to let your mood swings jeopardize my grade.”

His watched me steadily. I felt shitty when his words sunk in. Lassiter had never been anything but nice. He’d gone out of his way to help me, despite my attitude. He’d treated my sister with kindness and had the balls to stand up for himself when I’d been nothing but a total asshole to him. I drew in a deep breath and looked down at my notebook.

“I’m sorry for being such a dick. Again. I’m used to working alone or with Claire. She always tells me my social skills suck. Sometimes I don’t know how to say shit without sounding like a total asshole. So, yeah. I seem to be apologizing a lot around you.” I paused to make sure he understood I was serious. “But look at it this way. At least neither of us has to be with Reed Jerkoff over there.” I nodded over at the jackass who was rambling on about himself while his bored partner doodled on her notebook.

He snorted at my words. “I’m glad you’d rather work with me instead of Reed the Suck-Up Jackson. Trust me, if he was any farther up my ass I’d be walking funny.” His face flushed and he looked away embarrassed. I chuckled under my breath, thinking inappropriate thoughts that had nothing to do with Jackson and everything to do with Lassiter’s ass.

Chapter Thirteen

Jamie

I cursed my choice of words as I willed away the flush I knew had spread across my face. Hanging around Ethan and his sister had rubbed off on me in more ways than one. Mentioning my ass to the guy I was attracted to was mortifying. I sat down in the chair next to him and cleared my throat. “Can we pretend I didn’t say anything awkward and move on to planning our project?”

Ethan chuckled and rolled the sleeves of his T-shirt up over his elbows. He leaned forward, watching my face intently. “Anything to make this project less painful, Lassiter. What are your thoughts on what our mythical restaurant should be like? Should we throw some ugly tacky shit on the walls and call it decorations?”

I watched him, a sinking feeling settling low in my stomach. Nothing could be more disappointing than Ethan Martin sitting close enough to touch while he expected me to confirm I was a soulless marketing drone. I knew he despised my dad, but I had hoped he’d realized I wasn’t my father. Last night’s conversation with my dad came crashing back and I let out a deep breath.

“No. Actually, I was thinking more organic, farm to table with creative dishes based on daily local availability. We could hit the farmers’ market for ingredients and suppliers. Maybe do the same thing they do, hand out samples? Something outside the box with the flexibility to design menus around the deliveries we’d get daily. People like fresh and new cuisine and the regulars could always request their favorites off the standard menu. Or is it too much coming from a soulless wannabe like me?”

Ethan stared at me, slack-jawed with shock. I sighed and leaned back in my chair.

“I’m not my dad, Martin. I’m trying to get far away from his chain restaurant equivalent of a big box store. I want people to ask where the ingredients in my dishes came from and be able to give them the name of a local farmer. I want my meat supplier to be able to show me their animals actually ate grass and didn’t fester in some filthy, overcrowded feedlot. I want to support the local economy and have better-tasting, healthier food. I want to create dishes my dad’s chains could only dream about and never replicate.”

I took a deep breath and slowly let it out. He was still silent. He sat there, silently appraising, his expression unfathomable. I sighed, almost ready to throw in the towel and ask Flannigan for a change in partners. At this rate even Reed would be more helpful than Ethan.

“You know, for this project we’re supposed to work together, Ethan. Any ideas, or should we part ways now and call it a day?”

He leaned forward in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck as he said sheepishly, “Actually, it sounds like the perfect plan to me. I love the farm-to-table concept and I have a few friends who have booths at the market we could talk with for more ideas. I know I want to focus on farmhouse cooking that’s fresh, seasonal, simple and local with my own creative spin on it.”

“Careful, that sounded way too close to a sound bite.” I laughed as he turned red this time. “Write it down.” When he actually did as I asked and scribbled some notes, I commented, “I do have good ideas every once in a while, Martin. We may have different backgrounds but we’re not that different as chefs, you know.”

He chuckled and made a few more notes without looking up at me. “Don’t get all touchy-feely on me, Lassiter. I can’t handle the after-school-special shit. And yes, I will admit we do have similar ideas. But—”

Reed’s nasally voice interrupted us. I turned to catch the last of what he was saying to his partner, Stacey, as he spoke loudly. “I don’t think you get it, Stacey. Flannigan asked us for a brand, for the marketing side of the restaurant business. Restaurants need money. A lot of money. The brand we pitch needs to be about more than just the food; it needs to project a memorable image. What I’m envisioning is giving the world more Reed Jackson. Flannigan will love it. Think of the marketability, think of the sales and profits we could rake in with my brand.”

Both Ethan and I shuddered at his words. His partner looked miserable as Reed continued to ramble on with his master plan. Ethan set aside his notes and groaned. “I don’t know about you, but that sounds like the worst version of hell on earth imaginable,” he joked in a low voice.

“Hell is Reed’s face on everything.” I shivered. “Yeah, our project is going to kick his project’s ass.”

Ethan laughed and nodded at Reed. “I’d rather work the line and wash dishes in my spare time than work with Reed Jerkoff.”

“I’d rather work the line, wash dishes and get a lecture in French on making crepes from Boulanger than work with Reed Jerkoff.” I laughed.

“I’d rather work the line, wash dishes, get a lecture and have my balls cut off than work with Reed Jerkoff.” Ethan winced and covered his crotch as I laughed.

He barked out a laugh and leaned his muscled forearms on the table. “Well, maybe not having my balls cut off. Even Reed’s not worthy of physical mutilation.”

When said Jerkoff turned to shoot Ethan a dirty look, we both doubled over laughing. I straightened when my knee bumped Ethan’s under the desk, the laughter dying in my throat as his eyes met mine. For a brief second, I caught a small glimpse of attraction. The memory of my shower the other night surged back in full force as a slow burn started low in my stomach.

When the professor called our attention to the front of the class, Ethan looked away and cleared his throat. He bent his head and scribbled down some more notes. Scholarship competition or not, I thanked whatever culinary gods above had assigned us as partners for this project, hoping I’d see him look at me with the same desire I felt. Not as a rich kid, but as someone who was worth wanting, not for what I had but who I was. I wanted him to treat me like an equal, someone he respected, not the golden boy he thought I was.

Chapter Fourteen

Ethan

After an already long day of class, I stood amongst a small group of people I recognized from the culinary program outside the classroom in which the scholarship’s preliminary competition was to be held. A cranky and still sick Claire clutched the travel mug of tea I’d made for her and I fidgeted. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Lassiter sitting against the wall, head bent over our textbook, no doubt trying to cram in as much minute shit as he could.

“Will you hold still?” Claire whispered as my foot tapped impatiently.

“What? I can’t help it.” I sighed and shook my head.

“I’ve had a crapload of cold meds and you’re still making me nervous, E. Settle down. You’ve got this.” She cocked her head at the rest of the people milling around the hallway. “This should be basic stuff we learned our first year.”

“I know. But it’s still important and you know I hate tests.”

I turned my head, feeling like I was being watched. Lassiter nodded and looked away when the door to the classroom opened. I shifted my weight and cracked my neck as I followed Claire into the room and waited for our instructions.

Boulanger walked in with two other white-coated chefs and stood in front of the assembled group. They hadn’t told us ahead of time who would be judging the competition, only that it would be during the week at night after class due to judge and facility availability. One, I recognized from one of my other classes but the other wasn’t familiar.

“Good morning. I recognize all of you from our classes over the years, but I shall introduce myself and my esteemed judges anyhow. This is Chef Linda Shultz, award-winning chef.” The intense-looking, tall, blonde chef with spiky hair nodded and smiled. I’d had her as an instructor for several classes last year and she was strict but fair. She’d owned a string of restaurants and bakeries but had quit to teach.

“Also judging your dishes today is a good friend of the school and owner of Sharpe’s on Fifth, restaurateur Calvin Sharpe.” Short and round, his dark skin set off by the white starched jacket, he reminded me of a kindly grandpa.

“Last but not least, I am Laurent Boulanger. In addition to being handsome and charming, I am the instructor for pastry and I will be your third judge for today.”

Several people chuckled nervously at his joke and I had to hand it to him. Boulanger was my favorite instructor even though he taught my most hated class. He paused and I looked around, drawing in a deep breath as I saw everyone else’s attention focused on Boulanger. Except Lassiter, who looked away as soon as I made eye contact.

“Competition for this scholarship is fierce. The ten of you competing for this opportunity today have demonstrated your interest and dedication by submitting with your application package, your grades, your letters of recommendation and personal essays. Each of you had to be recommended by at least one instructor from the school, so please know you are representing both them and yourselves. Throughout the entire competition we will be judging you on your conduct, attitude, the ability to meet deadlines and personal integrity. The student who wins this competition will have earned a semester of intensive classes here on campus and the opportunity to study abroad for a semester at the Institute’s sister school in Paris.”

He paused and looked around the room.

“For this round and all rounds we will be evaluating your professionalism, organizational skills, personal safety and adherence to all sanitation practices and protocols, knife skills, and basic French techniques. We will judge the three dishes you will be preparing for us today on taste and appearance as well. We will expect you to present your finished dishes, which include salad
niçoise
with seared tuna, steamed mussels in a white wine, tomato and fennel broth, and steak
au poivre
with herbed frites. Since all of you have made these recipes several times over the course of your education at the Institute you will do this all by memory. Now find a station and begin. You have ninety minutes to prepare your small presentation plates.”

Fuck.
Ninety minutes for nine plates. I took a deep breath and laughed softly when Claire winked at me.
You can do this
,
Martin.
These recipes are cake.
You’ve made them a thousand times and you can do this better than anyone else here.

Well, almost anyone. I glanced over at Lassiter. I was the more creative of the two of us, but he was more consistent. We’d see which won out in the end.

“You may begin.” Boulanger pushed a stopwatch and the beep echoed in the quiet room.

For a second we all stood there like idiots before his words sunk in and we scrambled for our stations. Claire ended up in front of me and Lassiter was two stations over.

I took another steadying breath and tied my apron around my waist as I got to work. Timing was everything. All three dishes had to be the perfect temperature at the end of the ninety minutes. I’d be lucky to get this shit done on time but if it meant I had a shot at this scholarship I’d happily bust my balls. When I glanced around the room, Lassiter was intent on his
mise
and even Reed was serious for once.

What caught my eye was my baby sister. Claire was moving slow and sluggish, having to pause for rattling coughing fits. She nodded at me and went back to work.

Thirty minutes later I had all my
mise
completed and was draining my fries for the steak frites for the first round of frying when Claire bent double with the loudest coughing fit I’d heard since she had gotten sick. Wheezing and red, she waved over Boulanger, who spoke to her quietly. I cursed loud and colorfully when she sadly shook her head and untied her apron.

When Claire finally met my eyes she shrugged and tried to give me a halfhearted thumbs-up.

Claire was out.

When I looked around, Lassiter’s expression was worried and he mouthed,
Is she okay?

I shrugged and tried to focus. Worry for Claire warred with my competitive instincts. I should walk right now and check on her. But if I did, my chances for the scholarship were totally blown.

Boulanger stopped at my station, leaning in to speak softly. “Mademoiselle Martin has removed herself from the competition. She requested I inform you she will consult a doctor and wishes for you to continue.”

He squeezed my shoulder in sympathy and moved on when another person in the group hissed with pain, clutching her bloody finger.

I drew in a deep breath and closed my eyes.
Do this for Claire.
Don’t fuck this up now
,
Martin.
Nothing was going to stop me making it through this round. When I opened my eyes, Lassiter was watching me again, a worried look on his face. I nodded in response and pushed thoughts of anyone else out of my head as I focused on grinding out the required dishes.

Since I’d finished my
mise
, at the end all I’d have to do was fire the steak and tuna medium, do the second fry on the potatoes, add the mussels to the broth and assemble the salad. Sneaking glances at the clock, I knew I’d timed everything perfectly and still had time to get everything out hot and cold at the end, though I knew it’d be a rush.

An hour later, sweaty, exhausted and on edge, I was finishing adding my garnishes and wiping down my plates when Boulanger called out, “And time is up, competitors. We look forward to tasting all of your hard work. Leave your completed dishes at your stations and we will post the results in approximately one hour.”

The other two judges stood behind him, faint smiles on their faces. I wiped my face with my arm and tiredly made my way to the front with the rest of the group to shake the judges’ hands. On the way out of the room, I glanced over at Lassiter’s station and sighed. His plates were almost as well presented as mine. Almost.

As soon as I hit the hallway, I had my cell phone out and was dialing Claire as I stalked up and down the hallway, waiting for her to answer. I felt my body tense.
Come on.
Answer the phone.

When Claire finally answered, I could barely hear her mumbled string of words over the background noise. “I’m at the student health center waiting for my prescription, okay? It’s nothing serious, just bronchitis, but I have to go. Hope you kicked ass.” She ended the phone call as I cursed and I was seriously tempted to hurl the stupid piece of plastic when I heard Lassiter’s voice behind me.

“Is Claire alright? Her coughing sounded pretty nasty in there.”

I fought the urge to bite his head off, as he honestly didn’t deserve it. He obviously cared about Claire too. But I wasn’t in the mood for chitchat.

“She’s at the doctors and they gave her meds, so she’s okay,” I said softly and leaned against the wall. I let my body slide down and my head thumped back as I closed my eyes again. I knew Lassiter had joined me when I smelled his cologne and heard a rustling next to me.

“She’ll be okay, Ethan. She’s tough. Hell, you know she’s probably yelling at some poor pharmacist to hurry up right now.”

Against my will, I chuckled. He was right. Claire usually possessed more patience than I’d been gifted with, but I didn’t pity anyone who got in her way after this long-ass day.

We sat there in silence while some of the people who’d competed joined us and others milled around the hall, waiting. I had to hand it to Lassiter—at least he didn’t try to make small talk.

After what seemed like forever, I heard Lassiter’s voice next to me and blearily blinked my eyes. I jerked away from his body, sitting up with a start when I realized I’d fallen asleep with my head on his shoulder.

“Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you,” I mumbled, embarrassed. “How long was I out?”

“Not long. Boulanger just posted the results.”

I yawned and stretched, still exhausted even after my catnap and pulled myself to my feet. I stood next to Lassiter reading down the list. Only the top five would make it to the next round.

“Jacob Silva.”

“Kailey Fowler.”

“Elizabeth Rios.”

“James Lassiter.”

“Ethan Martin.”

“Fuck yeah,” I crowed. Lassiter’s grin echoed mine and I stuck my fist out. For a second he didn’t react. When he finally curled his fingers into a fist and bumped it against my own I grinned wider.

“Congrats, Lassiter. Now I get the chance to kick your ass in the next round.”

“You can try, Martin, but you know I’m better at baking than you are.”

I snorted at his words. “Whatever. You’re the one who tutored me so if I suck, you suck.”

When I heard Reed’s voice behind me, I felt the brief flash of camaraderie I’d shared with Lassiter fade. “Martin made it, but I didn’t?” He sniffed. “Well, I know who Boulanger’s favorites are now.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, with two more judges besides him? I call bullshit on your theory.”

“It’s a pity your sister dropped out of the running, but it’s for the best. It’s not like she belongs here anyhow. This competition is for the cream of the crop and she obviously doesn’t have the chops to be here.”

White-hot rage shot through me at his words. When I turned on him, Reed stumbled back against the wall. No one talked shit about Claire. No one.

“Jackson, don’t you ever talk about my sister. She has more talent, drive and determination than you have in your little finger. More brains too.”

I balled my fingers into a fist as Jackson’s face blanched in fear but I froze when I felt Lassiter’s hand on my arm.

“If you punch him like he deserves, he’ll go whining to the judges about how you hit him, Ethan. It’ll cost you your spot. Don’t let him ruin everything you’ve worked for.”

I stepped back and shook off Lassiter’s hand.

“Fuck off, Reed.”

Jackson straightened himself up to his full height and attempted to look tough. “It’s for the best. I’m much better at the business side of things anyhow.”

When he wandered off to annoy the hell out of someone else, I stuffed my hands in my pockets and took off. Claire was out of the running for the scholarship, I’d had some weird moment with Lassiter and I needed to work my ass off to pass the next round of competition. What I didn’t understand was why I was happy Lassiter had made it to the next round as well. He was my direct competition, so why were we suddenly starting to feel like a team?