King of the Kitchen (8 page)

“Is there anything I need to know about Beck before he gets here? The way he takes his coffee? His stance on bacon, crispy or chewy? And most importantly, Spice Girl crush?”

Campbell laughed. “He’s not as cold as you seem to think, Duncan. He’s actually a really good guy. I wouldn’t be friends with him if he was an asshole.”

It was a rejoinder Duncan was getting tired of hearing, and he gave Campbell a flat look, prompting more laughter.

“Okay, you’re right. I would be friends with him even if he was an asshole, because apparently I have a type and assholes are it,” Campbell said with a sunny smile.

Duncan swatted at him with his spatula, then made a face when he realized he was going to have to wash it now. “Go on,” he prompted.

Campbell gave him a put-upon look but complied. “He likes his first cup of the morning ridiculously sweet and milky, but after that any coffee throughout the day is taken black. His view on bacon changes based on how it’s being served—”

“As it should,” Duncan said, nodding.

“—and he had a style crush on Ginger Spice when we were younger, even though his real crush was reserved for one of the guys in 98 Degrees. Don’t ask me which one because they all looked alike to me.”

Duncan pondered his answer for a moment and then nodded in approval. “Probably one of the Lachey brothers. Solid choice. It was the biceps,” he said, a faint smile curving his lips as he remembered his favorite boy bands of the nineties.

Campbell shook his head in what Duncan liked to think of as fond annoyance. He had no idea why Campbell put up with him, since he seemed to vacillate between that and outright annoyance whenever they were together, but somehow the dynamic worked for them. Duncan figured someone who worked so closely with a fuddy-duddy rule follower like Beck needed comic relief from time to time, which was probably what he was to Campbell. They were either joking around or working in silence together, and that was exactly what Duncan needed on occasion. And they never talked about Beck. It was rule number one after Campbell had nearly taken Duncan’s head off for casually insulting Beck once.

Duncan grabbed his phone and started searching Spotify for boy bands, but Campbell cut his plans for a welcoming serenade for Beck short by clapping his hands together and heading for the kitchen. “Frittata?”

Duncan gave his phone a longing glance but put it aside. He had a firm rule about electronics in the kitchen. It was unsanitary, for one—most people had no idea how dirty their phones and other gadgets were, but as a microbiologist, Duncan had seen for himself how much disgusting shit phones picked up, sometimes literally. For another, it wasn’t a good place to be distracted. And the likelihood of dropping an expensive piece of technology into the sink or soup pot was too great.

He knew a lot of chefs who liked music when they cooked at home, but he wasn’t one of them. He liked the quiet, since it was a nice respite from the noisy professional kitchens he spent so much time in.

Campbell understood that. It was another of the reasons he was allowed in Duncan’s kitchen.

They worked together silently, with Duncan raiding the fridge for leftovers he dutifully handed over to Campbell, who had set himself up at the cutting board with one of Duncan’s favorite knifes. That was true friendship, right there. Letting someone else in his kitchen was big, but he wouldn’t even let his own mother touch his knives.

He hadn’t been home much over the last week, so the pickings were pretty slim. Luckily frittatas were a very forgiving medium. He’d seen a
King of the Kitchen
where Beck called it refrigerator Velcro, and even though Duncan was loathe to admit a TV chef could be right about anything, Beck absolutely was in this case. Wilted veggies? Throw ’em in. Almost expired dairy? It’s all good. Frittatas were amazing. There were a few different foods that could successfully help you clean out your stash of leftovers, but frittatas were Duncan’s favorite.

Campbell made a face when he opened up a container that had gone fuzzy inside. Duncan wrinkled his nose and tossed it, Tupperware and all, into the garbage.

“You should—”

Campbell quieted when Duncan narrowed his eyes. He recycled when he could and did his best to minimize waste of all sorts in the restaurants he worked in, but he drew the line at cleaning out moldy things. He’d forgo a plastic bag next time he stopped in at the convenience store on the corner and call it ecologically even.

Campbell shrugged and went back to chopping the ham Duncan had brought home from his mother’s earlier in the week. He’d inherited every ounce of his cooking prowess from his father. His mother could barely boil water, and she’d exist on Lean Cuisines if Duncan let her. So whenever he was in town, he made the hour-long trek out to her place once a week to cook her a good meal and set up some easy-to-microwave meals for later in the week. She hadn’t liked the wasabi-soy rub he’d put on the ham, though, so he’d brought it home with him.

Duncan grabbed the eggs last and started cracking them into a bowl, beating them with a fork until they were nice and frothy. He seasoned them lightly—one mistake cooks made all the time was too much seasoning in eggs, since it was so easy to overpower the flavor of the eggs themselves—and put them aside so he could get a pan heating on the stove.

Campbell scraped the onions and garlic he’d chopped into it as soon as the oil began to shimmer, and the smell of sautéing aromatics filled the small kitchen. Duncan was pretty sure heaven smelled like sautéing onions. Or bacon.

Speaking of, he’d better get that started too. He liked it crisp, which was sacrilege in some circles. He’d once almost brought a restaurant reviewer to tears—not the good kind—by making a bacon-fat foam and calling it bacon on the menu. It hadn’t gone over well, and he’d learned an important lesson in making sure menu descriptions were thorough. Especially when it came to much-beloved things like bacon.

Duncan slipped around Campbell, who’d started sautéing the veggies with practiced skill, and grabbed his huge cast-iron skillet from its spot of honor hanging next to the stove. He’d found the skillet at a garage sale a few years back. It had been a pain in the ass to drag home on the El, but totally worth it. It was blackened and seasoned to perfection, probably thanks to someone’s grandmother who’d likely cooked three meals a day in it for years before the idiot he’d bought it from inherited it and sold it for five dollars. The joke was on that dude, because a well-seasoned cast-iron skillet was worth its weight in gold.

Most people thought a hot pan was the way to go, since bacon had a lot of fat to be seared off. But they were wrong. The secret to perfectly crispy bacon was to start it in a
cold
cast-iron pan. It took a little more patience, but it was so worth it. Once he had the bacon situated just so, he turned on the heat.

“Do you have any parm?” Campbell asked, his head mostly hidden inside the refrigerator.

Duncan took a peek at the sauté pan, nodding in approval when he saw Campbell had added the ham and arranged everything in a nice even layer across the bottom.

“I have aged Mizithra.”

When Campbell eased his head out of the refrigerator and stared at him blankly, Duncan snorted and moved around him to dig into the cheese drawer, coming out with a small block of hard white cheese.

“Kind of a Greek parm,” Duncan explained, unhooking his microplane from its spot on the hanging tool rack. He grated a generous portion into the eggs and gave it another stir with the fork before pouring it over the mixture in the pan. It sizzled and bubbled, and Duncan gave the pan a hard shake to help the eggs evenly distribute.

“If it’s like Parmesan, then why not just buy Parmesan?” Campbell asked, squinting at the cheese Duncan had left on the counter.

“Because I wanted Mizithra, not Parmesan?”

He was pretty sure Campbell was making rude gestures at him, but his back was turned so he could flip the bacon, so Duncan couldn’t tell for sure. He set about making a huge pile of toast—they
were
hungover, after all, which practically demanded carb overloading—and kept a close eye on the eggs, watching them until they were semiset and ready to be popped under the broiler.

The doorbell rang as he closed the oven, and he waved Campbell off to get it. He was Beck’s friend, after all. And Duncan didn’t like leaving things broiling in his kitchen without his own direct supervision.

THEY ATE
brunch in companionable silence, all three of them still nursing enough of a hangover that the quiet was enjoyable rather than awkward. After the last of the plates had been cleared away, though, Beck was all business. Duncan noticed the exact moment Beck shifted from Beck to Beck Douglas; it involved his shoulders actually straightening and his face taking on a pinched expression. Duncan didn’t favor the change at all.

“I think all we need to do is issue a statement that the comments were taken out of context,” Beck said after they’d shuffled through all the printouts and used Duncan’s laptop to scroll through a few new pieces that had popped up since they’d taken a break to eat.

Beck had brought a tablet, too, but Duncan had refused to give him the Wi-Fi password, partially out of spite and partially because he wanted an excuse to sit close to Beck. Both of them using the laptop worked, though it had the consequence of forcing poor Campbell to squeeze in on Beck’s other side. Beck didn’t question why Campbell hadn’t sat between the two of them, and Duncan wasn’t sure if it was because he hadn’t noticed or because he actually wanted to sit next to Duncan.

As it was, Duncan was having trouble concentrating, with the warmth of Beck’s thigh right next to his. It was distracting. He shifted away slightly, trying not to let his libido run away with him. This was important—he could draw hearts around Beck’s name in a notebook later.

“A statement? Who are we, Exxon explaining the Valdez?” Duncan snorted, shaking his head. “I think calling attention to it validates what they’re saying. Even if we say ‘no, no, that wasn’t what happened,’ us issuing statements is going to make us look like they got it right.”

“They did get it right, Duncan,” Beck said with a sigh. “We both actually did say those things. I know Christian is hoping to hear I was misquoted, but I wasn’t. And I won’t lie and say I was.”

Duncan quirked a brow at him. “Keep your shirt on, Mr. Man. I wasn’t saying we should lie. I’m saying if we give a press conference or any sort of official statement, it will make what we said even more damaging.”

“You need to change the story,” Campbell said. Duncan looked over Beck’s shoulder and smiled at him.

Beck threw his hands up in exasperation. “I just said we aren’t lying! We can’t change the story.”

“Not like that,” Campbell said, a bit of steel underlying the patience in his voice. It was one of the things Duncan appreciated about Campbell; he was a bear of a man, but people respected him not because of his size but because he radiated quiet authority. Clearly Beck needed someone like Campbell in his life to keep him grounded, and Duncan could see why they were such close friends.

“We need to change their focus to something else,” Duncan said, wrinkling his nose at Beck when Beck rolled his eyes.

“I hardly think we can call hoping some big news event happens and distracts everyone a plan. I know we aren’t well known enough for the mainstream press to be interested, but it’s all over the culinary press. Even some of the purely gossip sites have picked it up, probably because of
King of the Kitchen
.”

“I’m not saying we wait for some other news event,” Duncan said, shaking his head. Campbell was smiling. That had to be a good sign, so Duncan forged ahead. “I’m saying we control how this story plays out. Sure, a bunch of people saw us get in a high-profile argument. And yes, you grabbing me—no matter how innocent it was, Beck—don’t look at me like that—might have made it seem like there was a physical aspect to the fight. But if we do the opposite of what they’re expecting, the story fizzles before it even takes off.”

Campbell must have sensed how frustrated Beck was getting since he jumped in. “You go out and make sure you’re seen around town with Duncan, Beck. You two go have dinner at whatever trendy spot is impossible to get reservations for now. You meet for drinks out somewhere. Hell, you go feed the pigeons together at the park. Whatever. But you do it in plain view of everyone, and you do it with a smile.”

“See? This way we don’t need to say ‘we’re actually friends, it was a good-natured argument that got taken out of context.’ We
show
them that.”

Beck squinted, and Duncan had to admit he’d finally found an expression that didn’t look gorgeous on Beck’s face. It was a little comforting to know someone as attractive as Beck Douglas could be a bit ugly at times, even if it was only when he was gawking incredulously.

“But we aren’t friends.”

“If you keep saying that, eventually I’ll be hurt, Beck,” Duncan said, holding a hand over his heart. “You never write, you never call. You’re always washing your hair when I suggest we go out. Tell me, Beck, is this all one-sided? Are you going to leave me to waste away here in my apartment, pining for you?”

It was uncomfortably close to what Duncan feared could become the truth if they hung out much more, but Duncan played it with earnest innocence anyway.

“Oh, screw you both,” Beck said, glaring at them. “This plan is ridiculous.”

“But it isn’t, Beck,” Campbell interjected. “Think about it. No one would bat an eye if you and I’d had that argument. We have to find a way to convince them you and Duncan aren’t the arch enemies the culinary world likes to make you out to be.”

Beck scoffed. “We aren’t arch enemies. We don’t even know each other.”

“Exactly!” Campbell crowed, a grin splitting his face. “You don’t know each other. You definitely don’t hate each other. You have no intention of continuing the feud Christian and Vincent have going, right? So what do you have to lose here?”

Duncan watched Beck size him up, like he was weighing the pros and cons of being seen out in public together against the bad publicity that would ensue if they didn’t fix the situation. Duncan barely restrained himself from a victory fist pump when Beck sighed in resignation.