“One of the things I loved most about New York was all the amazing, old-school Italian bakeries,” she continued. “My favorites were always the cannoli, with their just-out-of-the-oven crisp shells and sweet mascarpone or ricotta filling. But I also adored a good cheesecake.” She shook her head ruefully. “There’s just no substitute for Italian-style New York cheesecake, anywhere else in the world. I had a hard time deciding which I wanted to make for you folks today. So I combined the two.” She held up a finger-length cannoli for the audience to see. “These are my cheesecake-flavored cannoli, dipped in chocolate chips and dusted with candied orange peel, powdered sugar, and just a hint of pistachio on top. I hope you’ll like them.”
But she couldn’t exactly hope they didn’t like Blake’s dessert, could she?
While the PAs were passing around plates, she took a taste of his “Empire,” unsurprised to find it was her recipe, down to the smallest measurement. The building-shaped molds, she had to admit, had been a brilliant touch—one she had come up with for the grand opening of one of Blake’s restaurants that had overlooked the city’s most famous skyscraper. She was surprised he’d managed to master the technique.
“Bon appétit, Santa Fe!” cried Vanessa.
Santa Fe dug in.
It was close, especially with the BRBs screeching like a bunch of hopped-up harpies, but Blake’s hijacked mousse trumped Sera’s cannoli.
“Don’t worry, kiddo,” Pauline shouted, cupping her hands around her mouth so Sera could hear (not that she was having any trouble, with her aunt standing a mere fifteen feet away). “You’ll frost his ass in the next round!”
Sera shuddered, trying to squelch the mental image that conjured.
There was another break while the crew put things in order. Vanessa had a touch-up; the crowd had a few canapés. After a flurry of consoling kisses and hugs, the Back Room Babes (dragging along Asher, whom they’d dubbed an honorary member) took their act outside for a breath of fresh air and a chance to cheer for their girl in front of a wider audience of amused Canyon Road shoppers. Malcolm wandered off toward the bar, and Sera saw him help himself to a belt from the Blue Coyote’s top shelf single malt, shooing the bartender off with a ferocious glare. Sam Everett busied himself stowing the remaining liquid nitrogen.
Sera was left alone with her nemesis.
She tried not to look at Blake, afraid that if she had him in her sights, she’d flay his skin off inch by inch with a dull apple peeler. But Blake had no such qualms. He strolled over to Sera’s side of the counter and helped himself to one of her cannoli. “Delicious,” he said, smacking his lips. “Not as good as my dessert, of course, but I will give credit where credit is due.”
This was so patently untrue that for a moment, Sera just goggled. It took her a few beats to gather a breath. “If you’re thinking of stealing this recipe, too, Blake, I warn you—”
“Oh, Sera.” Blake cut her off, painting his face with an expression of pity. “Sera, Sera, Sera. Still delusional, aren’t you? I’d had hopes the fresh air of this desert backwater might have cured you, but I see you’re still the same paranoid, desperate loser I rescued from obscurity years ago—much to my everlasting regret.” He stopped to crunch another cannoli, slurping the filling with a relish that made Sera want to vomit.
“A year ago, you thought you could humiliate me in front of my staff, cuckolding me with some low-life Latin busboy. You thought you could make a fool of me—me!—and walk away scot-free. And today you’re still trying to prove you’re my equal.” He laughed as though the very idea was preposterous. “Well, it won’t be long now until the world sees exactly what I see: a pathetic, fearful, frozen little failure who’ll wind up dipping donuts in some all-night drive-through before long.”
Once, a speech like that from Blake would have driven her to tears—or the nearest bottle. Now, Sera’s fingers curled into fists, and her vision clouded over with a red mist. “You absolute sh—”
Gonnnnnnnnnnnnnggggggggggg!
It was a lucky thing someone had rung the damn gong, because as her vision cleared, Sera saw the camera guys were back at their stations, grinning as they recorded footage of her confrontation with the celebrity chef.
Class, Sera. Remember, you’ll win this with talent and class. Don’t rise to the bait. Rise to the challenge.
“Get set, Chefs. Round Three in two minutes!” Vanessa chirped. “We’re all counting on you,” she whispered to Sera out of the side of her mouth.
Thanks, Vanessa. That’s exactly what this situation needed. More pressure.
Sera shook out her hands, rolled her wrists, cricked her neck from side to side. Her second stomped back to his station, breath more than a little boozy from his own relaxation technique. “Ye haven’t lost yer nerve, have ye, lass?” he asked.
“Not hardly,” she gritted.
Malcolm grinned at her through his mustaches. “That’s the spirit!”
“Everyone ready for the final round?” Vanessa trilled.
The audience, flushed and just a bit glassy-eyed from the treats they’d already ingested, gave a lusty cheer.
“All right, let’s see what the chefs have got up their sleeves this time! Remember, the goal is to show who really understands what ‘bliss’ is all about—when it comes to desserts, of course!” She chuckled amiably. “Personally,” she confided, “I’m hoping for chocolate. Nothing like deep, rich, sensual chocolate to satisfy the senses!”
The audience agreed.
The gong sounded again.
For a split second, Sera had a vision of Robbie Markham, laughing as rubber dildos rained down out of her locker and conked her on the head. She saw Blake, smirking as he took credit for her work, mocking her talent as a chef and her worth as a woman, slamming door after door in her face. She saw herself, surfacing from a blackout with puke on her shirt and no idea how she’d gotten home.
And then she looked out into the crowd. There was Pauline, shaking a pair of maracas and chanting her niece’s name like a woman possessed. There were the BRBs, backing her up with hoots and hollers. And there was Asher, standing stock-still in the midst of them, with a look on his face that was unmistakably… love.
I am so gonna win this thing.
“Forget the Wilde-at-Tarte, Malc,” she told the pie maven, a steely glint in her eye. “We’re bringing out the big guns.”
She took a deep breath. “Prepare to drop the O-Bomb.”
She’d never managed it before. The delicate combination of paper-thin dark chocolate; warm, light-as-air passion fruit curd; and tart, tangy raspberry puree was the holy grail of chocolatiers. Something whispered about, rumored, but never seen—at least not in any of the restaurants Serafina had served in. Over the years she’d attempted it only as a hobby, on her off-hours, but the confection had always collapsed like a first-year culinary student’s soufflé. The warm custard always melted the chocolate shell, making a mess on the plate and leaving what looked like a sad, smashed egg where a perfect sphere of sheer, delicious genius ought to rest.