Bet on My Heart. J.M. Jeffries
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out what she did.
“I need to think about this and talk to my grandmother.” And he should probably talk to a lawyer. He’d developed the basic recipe, but Hendrix had added to it, which he figured would make them co-owners. The whole idea was too confusing to think about at that moment.
“That’s good enough,” Lenore said. “My husband and I are leaving tomorrow, but we’ll be back later in the summer. I will admit we love this hotel. The service is exceptional and the spa is to die for. Who knew I would find this gem in Reno? We’ll be in touch.”
Donovan knew when he’d been dismissed. He stood, thanked them both and retreated to the kitchen. He needed to talk to his grandmother, as well.
Having Lenore Abernathy want to add his dessert to her menu was an incredible opportunity. Yet, he was annoyed with Hendrix for doing exactly what he’d asked her not to do.
He grabbed an apple custard tart on his way through the kitchen. In his office, he sat at his desk and stared at it. The tart looked innocent enough and it was beautiful. Creamy custard bathed the apple slices arranged in a circle. A golden raisin anchored the center with two crescent shaped kiwis forming the leaves. The tart was a work of art. How had Hendrix found the time to do this? She was only one woman working the whole shift alone.
His brother Scott walked into his office, a half-eaten brownie in his hand. “Hey, bro. When did your dessert skills get so good? This is damn snacky.” He held up a brownie.
“I can make a dessert.”
Scott studied him. “What you can do with a steak is akin to Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel. But desserts? Not so much. Do not make me remind you of the ‘what’ cake.”
Donovan almost shuddered. He remembered the “what” cake too clearly. The “what” cake was Donovan’s first attempt to make a cake by himself when he was eight years old. Everything had gone according to the recipe, but when he took the cake out of the oven, the top layer looked more like a ramp than a perfectly domed cake. He tried to use icing to correct the slant, but the icing turned out too wet and kept sliding off. Miss E. wouldn’t allow them to waste the cake and made them eat it. Donovan’s oldest brother, Hunter looked at the cake and said, “what cake is that?”
“I’ve improved.”
“Right.” Scott just grinned.
Donovan grabbed the brownie and took a bite. The flavors practically exploded on his tongue. The brownie was a light yet dense chocolate extravaganza with undertones that made his mouth water. The basic recipe was his, but she’d added something to it. What was the last bit of flavor? Maple! No, not maple. Caramel? Maybe. And a touch of something else he couldn’t identify. Damn, the brownie was good. More than good, decadent. More than decadent—it was food fit for the gods.
The woman could cook. First her tart was going to put him on the foodie radar and now her brownie was touched by hands of angels. If this was only a small indication of what Hendrix was capable of, he was going to have to live with her kookiness.
“I have to get two more to take home to Nina,” Scott said.
“Nina is going to spin this, isn’t she?”
“This brownie is going to be on a billboard.”
Donovan could see the billboard in his mind and tried not to shudder. He did like his soon to be sister-in-law, but her mind never shut down. Donovan had already had one meeting with her in which she’d lain out her campaign to make the restaurants a five-star attraction. Nina was a bulldozer, jamming ideas at him every chance she got, making him want to run back to Paris.
His food had been the star of his restaurant in Paris. His reputation was his food. He wanted it to be the star of the casino, but Hendrix’s desserts were eclipsing him. First, Lenore Abernathy and now Scott raved about the desserts but said nothing about the food. He would have to up his game. His food needed to outshine the desserts. How? He didn’t know yet. His philosophy was all about slow and steady winning the race. When he developed a dish, he spent days thinking about it and weeks experimenting. His process was drawn out, painstaking and emotionally exhausting. And in one week, Hendrix, who just seemed to throw things together without thinking, had bested him.
Scott punched him on the arm. “Where did you just go in your head?”
“Thinking. Thinking...about...scallops.” He wasn’t certain he could tell his brother his ego had just gotten a big old kick in the butt. That would be unmanly.
“Really. Scallops. You didn’t have a scallops look on your face.”
Donovan frowned at his brother. Finally, he shrugged. “Since we’re grown-ups, I’ll confess. Hendrix Beausolie, the new pastry chef, made the brownies. And her desserts are better than my food and I don’t I like it.” His ego was definitely taking a huge hit.
Scott grinned. “That’s my brother—always has to be the prettiest one at the dance, or no one is going to have any fun.”
“I’m not going feel ashamed that my ego is dented. Maybe a little healthy competition is just what I need.” In school, his instructors had told him he had a gift for food. He’d studied hard and worked hard developing his technique. To have another person with no formal training and a haphazard approach outshine him was just plain insulting. In Paris, he made it to the top in a city of outstanding chefs. Reno wasn’t exactly the food Capitol of the world and he hardly expected to find any real competition. He’d accepted the challenge of building a dynasty with his family because he’d known, despite his reservations, that his grandmother was on to something.
Hunter and Scott thought Miss E.’s winning the Mariposa was a fluke. Donovan, being the youngest, had spent a lot of time studying his grandmother. He’d watched Miss E. manipulate them all into getting what she wanted. There would never be a middle-of-the-road goal for the Russell clan.
He’d watched his grandmother channel them all into the careers they’d entered once she’d figured out where their interests lay. Kenzie and Hunter were the artistic ones. Scott had had the potential to be either a cop or a master criminal, but Miss E. put him on the right road. And as for him, she’d known he enjoyed puttering with food and tastes. Even as a child, he loved to cook. She was a good cook herself, but her food was an expression of her love for her grandchildren, rather than just a skill set.
He wondered what food meant to Hendrix. Donovan got pleasure out of watching people eat his food and be transported by the combination of tastes and the artistic presentation. He suspected Hendrix wasn’t interested in watching people eat, she wanted to play with tastes more to amuse herself than for accolades. And she liked to eat. He’d seen her dip a finger into batter and taste it. He’d also noticed how she made small samples for herself, which she also ate before she pronounced whatever cake or pie or tart she’d made good enough to be served to the public.
He had to find out what she was doing, how she was doing it and how to channel her technique so that it would benefit everyone. She’d bruised his ego, but his ego wasn’t a fragile thing. Cooking wasn’t for sissies. One of his teachers at the Cordon Bleu once told him, to ensure success in this business you to have skin as thick as your ego is big. And Donovan had a very thick skin.
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