Hot Shot: A Bad Boy Romance

  HOT SHOT

  Sophie Brooks

  Hot Shot

  Copyright © 2016 Sophie Brooks

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events, locations, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  Note: This book was previously published as Cheyenne’s Chef.

  Sophie Brooks

  sophiebrooksauthor.com

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  Sophie Brooks

  www.sophiebrooksauthor.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Mailing List

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

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  About Sophie Brooks

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  Chapter One

  “EYES ON ME, everyone,” Chef Bryant called out—quite unnecessarily, in my opinion. My eyes hadn’t left him since I’d first become a contestant on Kitchen Tyrant, his top-rated cooking show. I hurried into place, lining up with my fellow chefs in front of the fully-functional kitchen where the show was filmed.

  Callum Bryant paced in front of us, a tall, dark, and over-the-top handsome man. But he hadn’t gotten this show because of his appearance. He was a world class executive chef who earned Michelin stars and owned half a dozen successful restaurants.

  But … his looks didn’t hurt. He had a reputation for dating models and actresses, and everywhere he went, he was accosted by female fans. I blamed his sparkly hazel eyes and his sexy Australian accent.

  “This decision is a difficult one for me,” he began. Difficult for him? He wasn’t in danger of being booted off the show. But at least he wasn’t yelling. In the month I’d been in Hollywood, I’d seen him lose his temper many times. He didn’t put up with incompetence. He was almost as famous for his ability to terrorize young chefs as he was for his culinary prowess and muscular physique. They didn’t call him Bryant the Tyrant for nothing.

  I waited in line with the others, with Ken on my left and Victoria on my right. Victoria reached over and squeezed my hand for luck, but I barely noticed. At age twenty-four, I was the youngest remaining competitor, and I’d already outlasted eight other talented chefs. Now, I was in the top six—seconds away from being in the top five.

  “You’ve all worked hard to reach this point. Five of you will move on. One of you will not.” He glared at each of us in turn. Behind him, the cameras panned up and down the line, but I barely noticed them anymore.

  A small wave of unease hit me, and I mentally knocked on wood. It wouldn’t do to get too confident. I’d overcooked some lamb on today’s show. Chef Bryant had yelled at me about it—saying some pretty nasty things. But he yelled at everyone. Ken had gotten reamed today, too. In general, I felt I’d received far fewer reprimands than most of the other remaining chefs.

  And in spite of his harsh words earlier, the lamb hadn’t been bad. It would’ve been fine, delicious even, by most people’s standards. But not Chef Bryant’s. He insisted on lamb that was melt-in-your-mouth rare.

  Up until that, I’d been kicking ass in this competition. Last week, much to Chef Bryant’s quite obvious dismay, the producers had insisted on Australian-themed entrees. I’d won top prize by making kangaroo medallions with spinach and mushrooms despite having never laid eyes on or tasted kangaroo meat before. All in all, I wasn’t too worried.

  Still, it was rather daunting as Chef Bryant stalked up and down the line, scrutinizing each of us. All of our fates rested in his hands. I supposed I should have been intimidated, but truthfully, I was grateful for the chance to watch him close up. For years, when my friends had drooled over Chris Hemsworth or Zac Efron, I’d only had eyes for Chef Bryant. In the frequent magazine articles about him, he looked as good in blue jeans and a flannel shirt as he did in his chef’s whites. His dark hair always looked deliciously windswept, and his hazel eyes were bright as gemstones peering out from his tanned, rugged face. His crooked grin kept paparazzi forever snapping his photograph—which made his fans, myself among them, very happy.

  And he was built, too. Around six feet of hard, muscular male. He looked as capable of hopping on a horse and riding off into the outback as he did of cooking a meal fit for royalty. I had no idea when he had time to work out, but it was obvious he did. In short, he was the man of my dreams—except when he was a nightmare.

  Chef Bryant abruptly stopped pacing and faced us. “The chef leaving tonight started out strong with technically proficient yet creative dishes. However, this person remained inconsistent in one key area: meat. A chef is only as strong as their weakest dish. And tonight, this chef’s dish left a lot to be desired. My kitchen, my way. This person didn’t follow that way.

  “Therefore, the person being eliminated is … Cheyenne. Your services are no longer needed. Get out of my kitchen immediately.”

  What? No! This could not be happening. I knew my lamb hadn’t been perfect, but, but … I’d been doing so well on the show. Could it really all end after one mistake? I stared in disbelief at those hazel eyes that now appeared to be ice, rather than precious gems.

  “Bugger off,” he said, since I hadn’t moved.

  “Yes, Chef Bryant,” I said, my voice barely audible.

  Victoria leaned over and hugged me. Ken patted me on the back, and the others wished me luck. That must mean it was real. I’d actually been kicked out. I’d never make it to the final five, and I’d never cook with Chef Bryant again. I’d never see him in person again. That last depressing thought finally spurred me into motion.

  Blindly, I ran from the set.

  Chapter Two

  THE NEXT FEW hours were a blur. All I wanted to do was go up to the competitors’ dorms, crawl under the covers, and pray it had been a bad dream. But I wasn’t allowed to.

  There were exit interviews to be filmed, paperwork to be filled out, and bags to be packed. The remaining five chefs said goodbye again, this time off-camera. We’d been together for four weeks as friends, competitors, and survivors of the strange situation known as reality television. I wished them luck, they wished me luck, and that was that.

  A production assistant called me a cab, gave me a hotel voucher, and told me about my flight back home tomorrow.

  But I couldn’t leave.

  Instead of climbing into the taxi, I walked along the parking lot of the complex as the bright California sun crept slowly downward. I didn’t have a conscious destination in mind, but my feet somehow led me to the entrance of the studio. Studying the door I would never enter again, I thought about the set inside, about the kitchen where I’d made magic happen up until today. Tentatively, I reached out. The door was not locked. Without pausing to think, I opened it and went in.

  It was d
ark now. No frantic chefs cutting, chopping, sautéing, and working so hard they forgot about the lights, the cameras. No Chef Bryant barking orders, biting people’s heads off, yet somehow compelling us to create culinary masterpieces.

  And I wouldn’t be a part of it ever again. As much as that thought hurt, what was worse was the look of derision on Chef Bryant’s face tonight. I’d let him down. I’d let myself down.

  How could I have overcooked the lamb like that? In my life before Chef Bryant, before being selected to appear on Kitchen Tyrant, I’d been a sous chef, preparing hundreds of scrumptious meals each week under the head chef at my former restaurant in Kansas City. Sure I’d felt stifled, never having full control of the kitchen, but I done a good job. Being a chef was the only career I’d ever considered. I’d worked all through high school to afford culinary school. Cooking was my calling, and I was good at it.

  Good enough to get to the top six, but no farther, apparently. I briefly wondered who would win the top prize of one hundred thousand dollars and six months at a Parisian culinary institute. Since it couldn’t be me, I hoped it was Victoria.

  I wheeled my suitcase through the kitchen and deeper into the set, past the cameras, the lights, the cables. Eventually, I reached a wall, so I sank down onto the cold concrete floor. I hugged my jeans-covered knees to my chest, but I didn’t cry. It was still too new, my mind was still taking all this in.

  I’m not sure how much time passed. Eventually, my muscles grew too stiff for me to remain on the floor, so I got slowly to my feet. I knew I hadn’t done myself any favors by coming back here. I’d had some great triumphs in this kitchen, but my last memory was of being kicked out. Of being humiliated by my idol.

  I plodded slowly toward the front of the set, pulling out my phone as I went. I’d need to call another cab—I had no idea how far away the hotel was. I’d barely turned it on when a noise made me look up. The front door of the studio, still twenty feet in ahead of me, had just opened. A sliver of brightness from the lights in the parking lot flashed across the gleaming stainless steel kitchen counters. I pressed my phone against my thigh, hiding its screen.

  A shadow cut through the triangle of light and then the door swung closed. I knew someone had entered, but who? No one was supposed to be here right now, including me. Was it a member of the production crew or cleaning staff? If so, wouldn’t they turn on the lights?

  Footsteps. Coming closer. I tensed up, telling myself that there was no reason to be scared. Still, I raised up on my toes, trying to make the most of my five-foot-two height. Then there was a thud and a muffled curse. “Bloody hell!”

  I knew that accent. I knew that voice. Pretty much every television-owning person in the world knew that voice. It belonged to the man who had called my lamb a culinary crime on national television today.

  I couldn’t face him, not after that. I tried to melt back into the shadows, but there wasn’t anywhere for me to go. And he was getting closer. His head turned, perhaps sensing movement.

  “Who’s there?” He was much nearer now. And even though I’d spent my entire adult life with a huge crush on him, he was the last person I wanted to run into right now. Seeing him after he kicked me out was pretty much my worst nightmare on top of my worst nightmare. But it was too late. He already knew someone was here.

  “It’s me. Cheyenne.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I—I just wanted a little time,” I said.

  He strode toward me, looking more celebrity than chef. He had on jeans, a tight t-shirt, and a black leather jacket. He frowned at me. “They were supposed to pack you off to the hotel.”

  “I know. I wanted to see the kitchen one more time.”

  “Well, unless you can see in the dark, you’re shit out of luck. Off you go, you can’t be in here.”

  I transferred my phone to my other hand and grabbed the handle of my suitcase. But Chef Bryant zeroed in on my phone. He held out his hand and demanded, “Give me that.”

  I handed it over instantly. Seven years of watching his show, not to mention eight episodes of participating in it, had taught me to follow his orders immediately, without question. If I hadn’t learned that lesson early on, I wouldn’t have made it to the final six.

  He swiped the screen open, examining it. Did he think I’d been taking pictures of the set? Or that I’d told a news agency that I’d been kicked out? Yeah, like that was something I wanted spread around. I knew the rules. I’d signed all the confidentiality agreements.

  A moment later, I heard a faint ringing from deeper in the studio. Chef Bryant turned on his heel and strode away from me. Tentatively, I followed him out of the kitchen area. Even through my pain, I couldn’t help but admire the way his jeans cradled his ass in the dim light. During a large part of the competition, he’d been too scary to drool over. Since this was my last chance to see him in person, I memorized as much of him as I could.

  The other phone stopped ringing, but I spotted it up ahead on a table, glowing blue. Chef Bryant grabbed it and abruptly reversed course, pushing past me back to the kitchen area. He had a scowl on his face—his usual expression when he was in the studio. I knew he was capable of flashing his white, even teeth in a grin, but I had only seen that smile a few times during the month I’d been here. It appeared more regularly in photographs of him with a gorgeous actress or model on his arm. He looked happy in those pictures. I supposed it was only chefs-in-training and occasionally paparazzi who received the brunt of his anger.

  Back in the kitchen, he tossed my phone on the steel countertop, pocketing his. “Okay, time for you to go back to mummy and daddy in Nebraska.”

  In spite of my current mood, a small spike of irritation rippled through me. “We’re from Kansas.”

  “Yet they named you Cheyenne. This is not my bloody country, and even I know that’s in Wyoming.”

  To my surprise, my temper was growing. I’d spent the past month responding in a nervous squeak when he spoke to me, blushing like a school girl when he praised me, and cowering in fear when he yelled. Yet suddenly, I wanted to stand up to him. Maybe because at this point, I had nothing to lose.

  And who was he anyway to criticize my name? Or my parents? They’d been interviewed for the first episode. Most the other competitors had spouses, significant others, or kids. I didn’t even have a boyfriend, so the only people they talked to about me were my parents. Ever since then, Chef Bryant had managed to bring up the fact that I still lived with my parents again and again, making me feel like a child.

  Okay, so I was definitely getting pissed off. I opened my mouth to tell him to lay off my family, but then something entirely different came out. “I can cook lamb, you know.”

  He leaned against the countertop, folding his arms across his chest. He seemed unfazed by my change of subject. “Sure. In mummy and daddy’s kitchen, while they’re watching the football game on the telly. Or as a chef-in-training at Uncle Frank’s Diner or wherever it was you worked. But what good is that if you can’t do it in a real kitchen with the whole line working at top speed and hungry customers waiting for their food? It’s the difference between being a chef and a cook, love.” His accent was stronger now, as it always was when he was being sarcastic or biting. Which was most of the time.

  My pulse quickened, and my anger transformed into hunger—a hunger to prove myself. There were no cameras on now, no audience watching, but if I could just show him that I could cook that lamb dish right, then I’d at least always have that to hold onto—even if no one else knew about it. This was my last chance to impress Bryant the Tyrant.

  “Let me show you I can cook it.”

  “Show’s over. You had your chance.”

  “Please, it’s really important to me. I want to show you I can do it.”

  “And I want to go home. I’m not paid to massage the ego of failed contestants.”

  He turned his back on me, but this time I was in no mood to enjoy that view. I scooted around him an
d blocked his way.

  “I know I’m a good cook,” I said, looking into his eyes.

  “So why do you care what the hell I think?”

  “Because ... ” It was a reasonable question, one that I couldn’t answer immediately. Today had been so awful. He’d yelled at me, insulted my cooking in front of everyone. In front of all the other chefs. In front of the whole of America once the episode aired. In front of the people who hired chefs for restaurants. No way I’d get a head chef position after people saw this episode.

  And my failure was all I’d remember from this whole situation if it ended like this. The truth was, I’d learned a ton from Chef Bryant. I’d learned a lot about cooking under pressure. What I needed now was a win, a way to redeem myself, if I were ever to have the confidence to set foot in a professional kitchen again, let alone apply for a position as a head chef.

  All of that was running through my head, but what I actually said was completely lame. “Because ... I just do.”

  He snorted.

  I tried again. “Please, I really need to show you I know what I’m doing. That I’m a good cook.”

  “You are a good cook. You’ve been spot on with every fish dish you made. You’re creative. When you won that asinine Australian protein competition, your dish was restaurant-worthy. I haven’t tasted ‘roo that good since I left home. But your instincts were off today with the lamb. I was watching. What, did you think the producers flipped a coin and said okay, the little one is the next to go? You fucked up. You’re inconsistent with meat. One time it’s perfect, the next time, I wouldn’t feed it to a dead dingo. You don’t have a feel for it.”

  His words rang true, and connected with one of my oldest fears, that I wasn’t good enough. And I couldn’t stand that thought. “Then show me. Please ... I want to become a head chef. Please teach me.”