The Kitchen When it Sizzles

The Kitchen When It Sizzles

By Chrissie Peria

Copyright 2014 Chrissie Peria

Smashwords Edition

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, some places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by Chrissie Peria

http://www.chrissieperia.com

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Acknowledgments

Author Bio

Book Listing

For Cooper

for keeping me company during all those midnight coffee runs

OLIVIA WAS NOT A MORNING PERSON. Mornings, especially Saturday mornings, were meant for sleeping in. So she could hardly be blamed when she headed out for her cooking class dressed in torn denim shorts, a distressed white t-shirt, and sparkly flip-flops (granted they were designer, but still, flip-flops). She didn’t mean to dress down. She had a well-thought-out outfit in mind (silky teal top, skinny jeans, and taupe pumps), but she snoozed her alarm one too many times, so she ended up having to scramble for the closest outfit she could pull together.

It turned out to be a good choice. The flip-flops were better for walking than her pumps, so her twenty-minute walk across the city to the cooking studio took less time than it should. She was relieved at just being five minutes late when she rang the doorbell.

You are too pretty to be the water delivery guy, announced a deep, decidedly masculine voice. Olivia’s eyes flew open to see a shirtless hunk, clad only in low-slung, unbuttoned jeans that barely straddled his hips. Little beads of water glistened over the parts of his lean, well-toned, tattooed torso (appropriately enough, the droplets were on Japanese-inspired waves) that escaped being toweled off. His dark hair was cropped short and his jaw was lined with day-old stubble, screaming I-don’t-give-a-damn-about-how-I-look.

Olivia did a double take. She was expecting Miss Julia, celebrity TV chef, cooking instructor, and her childhood cooking idol. She was really looking forward to meeting the kind-looking, older woman who was as talented in whipping up delicious dishes as she was in gliding about the kitchen in flowing, floral things. Instead, she got this—this—this sizzling specimen of manhood who looked like a rockstar caught in the middle of a sold-out concert.

You aren’t the water delivery guy, are you? he clarified, one eyebrow quirking up, highlighting the faint white scar underneath it. He gave her a once over, starting from the top of her head to the tips of her toes—lingering a little bit too long over her chest area. Olivia cursed herself for dressing like a slob who just got out of bed, never mind that the distressed t-shirt cost about the same as a full course dinner in a swanky restaurant.

Apparently, he liked what he saw because his mouth turned up in a smile, complete with crinkly-cornered eyes that lit up his whole face. Yep. Definitely too pretty to do water deliveries. Perhaps you should come in so we can figure this out? He held the door open for her, and it took every ounce of her self-control to not be drawn to the spider’s web.

I think I got the wrong address, she muttered, rattled by his forwardness on a Saturday morning when she hadn’t had her coffee yet. She took a step back, but he grabbed her wrist to stop her from leaving.

Hold on, I was just messing with you. You’re here for the basic cooking course, right? Olivia? My aunt’s assistant told me about you. He let go of her wrist to open the door wider. Sorry, I was expecting the water delivery guy. He’s the impatient sort, so I rushed out from the shower to make sure I could catch him. I didn’t bother to look respectable, because I wasn’t expecting you until much later.

I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I understand—

Name’s Nathan Olivarez. I’ll be your cooking instructor. Before she knew what was happening, Nate had her hand clasped in a handshake, his large, calloused hand lingering on hers a bit longer than usual. But I prefer being called Nate. Aunt Julia injured her wrist. She can’t cook for the next few weeks, much less teach cooking. She was going to cancel her classes, but since I was in town, I offered to take over.

Olivia couldn’t believe her luck. Or her misfortune. This guy was going to teach her? How was she going to focus with him around? Besides, what did he know about cooking? He looked more at home with an electric guitar than with a chef’s knife. He was every bit the rockstar groupies threw panties at during concerts. Used panties.

Nate took her silence as reluctance. I am a professionally-trained chef, you know. I’m qualified to teach. But if you’d prefer to take your classes with Aunt Julia, we can reschedule you—

No, it’s all right, she interrupted, deciding on the spot. Professionally-trained sounded more than enough for her needs. Besides, she didn’t want to sound fussy when she didn’t know the first thing about cooking. I’m not picky about who’s teaching. As long as I can learn, I’m fine with either one of you.

Great. That’s settled then. Make yourself comfortable. He ushered her towards a clean, modern kitchen straight out of a real estate catalogue, much like her own. But unlike hers, this one had a well-loved feel. A pink Kitchen-Aid mixer stood under one of the wall-mounted shelves. Herbs planted in hand-painted pots were nestled on a windowsill. A postcard with Van Gogh’s Sunflowers was stuck with a magnet on the fridge door. Nate, with his tattoo and stubby jaw line, looked as at home in the very Miss Julia kitchen as a Hell’s Angel in a ballet recital.

She turned to comment on the kitchen’s decor, but she stopped short when she saw Nate walking away to what she presumed was the bedroom. She couldn’t help but be distracted by how tightly his jeans were hugging his well-sculpted behind. One of her eyebrows quirked in approval before she could stop herself.

When he came back moments later, her heart made small flip-flops. He put on a ratty black t-shirt, and his jeans were buttoned properly now, but he was as sexy clothed as he was half-naked. It took all of her willpower to tear her eyes off him, and even when she had successfully done so, her brain was still buzzing. Down girl, you’re here for classes, not another fruitless pseudo-romantic entanglement, she had to remind herself.

So, this is the basic course, but what cooking experience do you have? Nate sidled up, handing her an apron before putting one on himself.

Noodles? She slipped the apron over her head, hiding her embarrassment.

"Great. What sort? Pancit? Chicken noodle soup? Pasta?"

Uhm… three-minute? The just-add-hot-water-in-a-cup kind, she replied, voice shrinking while she fumbled tying the apron behind her waist.

Nate was instantly behind her, taking the apron strings from her hands. Don’t be embarrassed. It’s all right. It’s better this way. You won’t have anything to unlearn. He swooped down by her ear as he finished tying the knot. This way, I get to teach you everything.

A thrill ran down her spine, but by the time she looked at him, the teasing tone was gone and he was all business. Let’s start with basic knife skills first and a lecture on rudimentary tools and equipment. What’s essential, what are nice to have but aren’t necessary, and what are downright useless ploys by manufacturers to sell more things. He unrolled his knife bag on the kitchen counter and began pointing out the various knives.

Olivia stared at Nate, trying to pay attention but getting distracted by his very manly wrists and large hands. This is going to be a long day, she told herself. A very long day.

OLIVIA NADAL HAD MOST EVERYTHING a twenty-something girl would wish for. Stunning good looks (though she wishes she was a teeny bit shorter), an exciting job that paid well (though she wishes she had to do a little less overtime), men lining up to date her (though she wishes they cared more about her as a person, rather than as a trophy to show off—see exhibit A, horrendous ex-boyfriend), and a homey little condo that was all her own.

Olivia loved her condo. It was roomy (for a one-bedroom unit in a posh part of the city), furnished according to her tastes (understatedly elegant, with a few unapologetically kitschy elements—like a darling cat lampshade—included), and was only a fifteen-minute walk from her office, even in high heels. It was the almost perfect home for the almost perfect Olivia.

In fact, the only imperfect part of her new home was the kitchen. Not that there was anything wrong with the gleaming steel and glass, the shiny copper-bottomed pots and matte ceramic kitchen knives (stuck on the most adorable cat-themed knife block)—those were perfect. What was wrong with it was that despite moving in half a year ago, it remained unused. No wonder it still had that furniture store sparkle. Other than the sink where she rinsed off the occasional plate and coffee cup, the rest of the kitchen remained as neglected as the lonely cross-trainers in her shoe closet.

That was mainly the reason why she found herself diligently slicing carrot after carrot into thin strips (the proper term was julienne, according to hot chef instructor) in someone else’s kitchen, instead of staying in bed on a Saturday morning. With her best friend Cheryl’s prodding, she enrolled herself in personalized one-on-one cooking classes with Miss Julia.

It was something Olivia looked forward to. She grew up watching Miss Julia’s cooking shows on TV, and while she was helpless in the kitchen, she could spend hours just drooling over the dishes that the renowned chef whipped up with ease. Cooking is easy-peasy, Miss Julia repeated over and over, a catchphrase that became a mantra to a whole generation of TV viewers.

It turned out that Miss Julia was right. Despite Olivia’s initial misgivings about her ability to focus, she eventually overcame her self-consciousness and managed to learn from Nate. She discovered that she was pretty deft with the knife—all she needed was practice—and she had lots of potential, thanks to her astute taste buds.

In a little over three hours, they were able to cover enough topics to help her prepare a simple meal. Nothing fancy, but with Nate’s guidance (and mountains of cut up veggies from knife skills practice), she managed to whip up a simple egg drop soup, chop suey, and yang chow fried rice. She was marveling at the dishes laid out on the kitchen counter, unable to believe that she had a hand in them, when Nate took out a baking dish from the oven. She didn’t realize she was hungry, but just then, her stomach rumbled.

Sticky Chinese pork ribs, he announced once he saw her sniffing at the sweet aroma wafting through the air. They’re just leftovers I reheated, but I think they’ll go perfectly well with what we cooked. Help me carry these to the dining table so we can eat.

Olivia dutifully followed, getting hungrier by the minute. The thought of a good, home-cooked meal was motivation enough, so the table was set in record time.

Nate was generous with his praises for Olivia’s cooking, his actions mirroring his words as he heaped large servings on his plate. It made her beam with pride, knowing how she made headway in the cooking department after just a few hours under his tutelage. Still, nothing prepared her for Nate’s cooking.

Oh wow, these are the best pork ribs I’ve ever tried. Olivia dropped all pretense and poise, and tucked into the ribs, savoring each bite of the meat as it slid off the bone with just the slightest prodding. She didn’t care that the sticky sweet and tangy sauce got all over her fingers. It only gave her an excuse to lick