Free Some Like It Hot by Louisa Edwards Page B

Jules said, standing taller. “Guys, huddle up. Max?”

    Winslow bounded over like a young basketballer moving down center court, Beck following more slowly. Beck had been slow, in general, since the fight the day before, and it had Danny worried. Not about lingering injuries or anything—Danny hadn’t seen much of the fight for himself, but by the time he’d stepped onto the scene, Beck had been pretty much wiping the floor with that snot-nosed band of jumped-up wannabe badasses.

    But Beck seemed to lack his usual laser focus; the impenetrable fortress of calm surrounding him had definitely been penetrated.

    As Max started his inspirational speech about what a great team they were and how much it meant to him to get to cook alongside such talented blah blah blah, Danny swept the other teams gathering in the kitchen with a critical gaze.

    There were the Limestone guys, competing for the Midwest region, leaning against the stainless-steel countertops along the back wall like a gang of roughneck kids staking out a street corner. Their various black eyes, cut lips, and bruised cheekbones only added to the look. They had the home-field advantage, and they knew it.

    And it was not nothing, that advantage. As Danny took in the massive size of the kitchen, which he hadn’t really had a chance to do yesterday, what with one thing and another, he realized how helpful it would’ve been to have familiarized themselves with the layout.

    Much less to have cooked in it every day for years—to know it better than their own apartments, the way the Midwest Team did.

    Keeping one ear open for the pauses in Max’s speechifying that might signal a cue to nod or cheer, Danny studied the wide, rectangular room. It was set up with five rows of freestanding prep tables, one row for each team. Five large white cutting boards per table interrupted the spotless gleam of stainless steel.

    The back wall, behind the lounging Midwest Team, was all corner-to-corner convection ovens, black and serious looking. A bank of refrigerators occupied the wall to Danny’s left, while a line of gas cooking ranges under enormous ventilation hoods marched along the wall to his right.

    An opening in the back right corner must lead to the dry-goods pantry, where things like sugar, flour, honey, and rice lived, and the walk-in coolers that housed eggs, milk, proteins, and veg.

    Three of the Lunden’s Tavern kitchen could fit in the main room alone, easy. Maybe four if you counted the pantry and walk-in areas.

    Danny’s guys, used to the complicated choreography of moving with one another in the cramped confines of a Manhattan restaurant kitchen, weren’t going to know what to do with all the extra elbow room. He worried that it would be a major stumbling block. He worried that they’d get lost, lose their drive and intensity, in the open air of the high-ceilinged room.

    But most of all, he worried that the unblinking lens of the video camera glaring from the front of the room would spell disaster.

    So much could go wrong. Danny pressed his lips together and rolled his shoulders, cracking the tension from his neck. He’d just have to make sure to keep everyone together, pointed in the right direction, and going strong. The same thing he did every night at dinner service back home, basically, only this time in front of three renowned celebrity judges, a camera crew, and the woman whose flashing gray eyes and delicate floral scent haunted him.

    That perfume she wore was the only delicate thing about her, Danny mused, finally letting his gaze fall on the one person he’d been studiously avoiding ever since entering the room.

    Eva Jansen stood at the front of the kitchen in deep consultation with a schlubby guy with a mustache, wearing a wrinkled short-sleeved button down, and a headset. She’d already been here when the teams started filing into the competition kitchen, giving marching orders to that slight, willowy assistant of hers, Drew