To attempt one now, under these conditions, would be madness.
Sera would make a hundred.
“Spatulas down, Chefs!”
Sera was coated in chocolate up to her elbows, and she was pretty sure she had a glob in her hair. Malcolm had tied his mustaches in a knot under his chin and tucked the ends into his camo-print apron to keep them out of the way. Sweat beaded his brow, and he was breathing hard. Scowling at Vanessa, he defied the host long enough to stick a syringe full of passion fruit curd into the final chocolate shell, squeezing with a delicacy surprising in a man of his bulk. Sera shadowed him with a syringe of her own, holding her breath as she followed the path of the tiny hole he’d made in the chocolate with her own flavor injection of pure raspberry puree. With fingers that shook just a bit, she lifted the half-dollar-sized dessert and placed it, puncture-side down, on a plate with a teeny dollop of the curd to hold it upright. She squirted a shallow moat of raspberry sauce around the rim, just for fun.
On the counter before them stood ninety-nine more just like it—perfect, glossy dark chocolate spheres of deceptive simplicity, resting upon saucer-sized white china plates, waiting for the single bite that would transmute them from mere comestibles into a flavor explosion that had the power to decide the course of Serafina’s very future.
Swiping a forearm across her brow (and incidentally leaving a streak of chocolate behind), Sera looked up as the final gong sounded. The audience was quiet—rapt as if they sensed the significance of this moment, or perhaps were simply in awe of what the chefs had wrought.
She looked over at Blake’s station. He and Sam Everett seemed a bit the worse for wear as well—and judging by the proliferation of plates gently cupping the bottoms of a hundred individual chocolate ganache cakes, each steaming like a tiny volcano and rising from a lake of crème anglaise, they had a right to their exhaustion.
“Well!” Vanessa said brightly. “Looks like you both took my suggestion seriously. Chocolate as far as the eye can see!” She swept an arm expansively to indicate the curving countertop, which was a sea of small plates topped in chocolate confectionery. “What an impressive effort, Chefs! Both desserts look sinfully scrumptious.” She gave a delighted little shiver.
Sera was too tense to appreciate the blonde’s showmanship. Hurry, damn it. Hand them out before they melt… or explode… or disappear into the fourth dimension… She couldn’t believe her luck had held so far. Perhaps it was her last-minute addition of lemon-wafer infrastructure—a tissue-thin lining of sweet, zest-kissed cookie that braced the dark chocolate but would barely provide a crunch, even as it protected the shell from the predations of the warm (and it had to be warm, or the whole experience would be lost) tangy curd and fresh, zingy raspberry at the core. But how long could the waffle-like wafer hold? Talk faster, lady, she silently pled.
Vanessa’s psychic talents were apparently not on par with her other gifts. She turned to Blake with languid grace. “Chef Austin, tell us about these gorgeous little cakes you’ve made. I’m sure the audience is dying for a taste!”
Blake offered his most unctuous smile. “Actually,” he drawled, “as a sign of respect for my competition, I’d like to offer Chef Wilde the first bite.” He held up a plate and waved it in her direction enticingly, like a dogcatcher trying to lure a wary stray.
Sera’s heart stilled. He wouldn’t poison a hundred innocent people just to strike at me, she assured herself. Would he?
Even Vanessa looked unsure. “Well, I… I suppose there’s nothing in the rules against it.” Her eyes cut to Sera’s, sharing her concern but unable to find the shorter woman a graceful exit. “Chef Wilde, what do you say?”
The cameras seemed to zoom in on Sera’s very pores. If I say no, I’m going to look like a total asshole. But if I take the bait…
Shit. Sera grabbed a plate—not the one Blake was holding out—and snatched up the fork one of the PAs proffered. She cut into the gorgeous, ganache-coated cake and forked up a bite. “I’d be delighted,” she gritted. And shoved it into her mouth.
Her taste buds shrieked the alarm.
Alcohol.
Lots and lots of alcohol.
Sera tasted Frangelico and vodka, eighty proof in the pudding if there was a drop.
For the first time in nearly a year and a half, Serafina experienced the burn and bloom of booze hitting her system. Her throat closed involuntarily before she could swallow.
If I spit it out in front of all these people… how’s that going to look?
Suddenly, Sera heard her sponsor’s voice in her head. And if you don’t?
Even a taste of alcohol was enough to call up the old craving—as Blake had to know. She might cook with wine or liquor occasionally—as a chef it was almost impossible not to—but she was careful to thoroughly burn off the alcohol in anything she herself consumed.
Blake hadn’t cooked the booze at all. In fact, he must have added the infusion at the last second, after the molten chocolate insides had a chance to cool to a temperature that was safe to taste but still deliciously gooey.
And it was delicious. Agonizingly, awesomely delicious. The hazelnut and spice liqueur, enhanced by the strong vodka, permeated the dense, fudgy cake and took it to an almost celestial level of potent, pure pleasure.
She wanted to swallow it. If she swallowed it, no one would know. Her addiction, like a lion long caged but never tamed, roared for it.
But Sera had had enough of swallowing Blake Austin’s poison. I’m damned if I’m going to risk my health, my sanity, my very life just so as not to make a scene.
She spat the cake into the nearest sink.
Somewhere, she imagined, Margaret was cheering.
There was a moment of stunned silence—even a few gasps—from the audience. Sera grabbed a glass of water, swished, spat, swished, and spat again before she looked up.
Vanessa held a hand to her throat, fluttering prettily. “Oh my. That bad, was it?”
There were a few uneasy chuckles.
“Not at all.” If I say it tastes bad, she knew, not only do I come off looking like a churl, I put the whole outcome of this contest at risk. And I didn’t come this far to win with a dirty trick. That’s Blake’s game, not mine.
“Actually,” Sera said, wiping her lips with a dishtowel and giving the audience the best smile she could muster, “I must give credit to Chefs Austin and Everett for a fantastic dessert. It really packs a wallop,” she admitted. “The hazelnut liqueur was a stroke of genius, and amps up the chocolate cake like you wouldn’t believe. Thing is—and maybe a few of you out there will understand this—I’m allergic to alcohol.” She paused. In for a penny… “As in, I’m an alcoholic. A sober alcoholic, but an alcoholic nonetheless. So I have to stay away from stuff like that.” She waited a beat. “It’s been awhile since Chef Austin and I worked together. I’m sure he just forgot.”
She dared a look to see how the crowd had taken her confession. Addiction was an awkward topic in the most intimate of settings. Talking about it so openly, in front of a hundred people, most of whom had done some indulging themselves today, was a hell of a risk. But Sera wouldn’t apologize for who she was. Not anymore.
What she saw as she scanned the restaurant made her breath catch. The Back Room Babes were, to a woman, giving her big, silent thumbs-up signs. Pauline had tears streaking down her face, and had leaned her head on Hortencia’s shoulder. Hortencia was petting Pauline’s salt-and-pepper hair fondly, her own eyes wet. Asher had slung an arm around Friedrich, squeezing the slender barista until the boy looked ready to pop, his face fierce with pride.