The Secret Ingredient: Hot in the Kitchen, #1

Part 1

In the Kitchen

1 The House Next Door

It was a delicious sleep, the kind that could only be achieved when the day was settling and the breeze swirled a mix of warmth from the sun and coolness from the sea. The hammock upon which Max napped swung lazily with his weight, the pages of his forgotten book stirring in the wind. He had missed this, his cozy home on the water, but his field work in foreign places kept him away. Now he had a month—four glorious weeks!—to unwind and enjoy his peaceful home.

It was Cujo's faraway bark that roused him—far away, not as in faint through the haze of Max's dream; far away, as in no longer in the vicinity of his master. He woke himself fully as he realized that his dog must have wandered off of his property. When not terrorizing sand crabs or chasing gophers, the feisty beagle liked helping himself to the vegetables in Natalie McGregor's garden. Max did not relish the thought of knocking on her door, though if Cujo had misbehaved, apologizing would be the only decent thing to do.

Slipping on his leather flip-flops, Max placed his book on the porch's edge next to half a bottle of beer that had long-since gone warm. He pocketed his sunglasses as he set his lips just so for a long, loud whistle. The houses were close enough that he might see evidence of Cujo's movement. If Cujo wasn't nose-deep in Natalie’s snapdragons, he'd be stalking snails or pawing around for moles. Max looked left, scanning the near corner of his neighbor's yard in search of a piebald coat, surprised when the answering bark came from the right.

He blinked in surprise, not knowing how he hadn't seen it that morning. Lawn furniture and other signs of life now graced the adjoining yard. It was prime waterfront real estate, but with a down economy, it was no surprise that such an expensive house had sat on the market awhile. But it must have sold while he was away. His new neighbor had arrived.

Making his way across his own back lawn, he followed Cujo's bark, ducking through some hedges along the property line that afforded each home a bit of privacy. A woman whose face was obscured by a wide-brimmed sun hat and wavy dark hair sat sideways on a lawn chaise, facing his dog.

She was scratching his scruff and serving him morsels from her plate. The little beagle's tail wagged happily behind him. Cujo licked the woman's hand before relieving her of what looked like a succulent cube of beef. She looked up, but before Max could thank her for her grace in sharing her dinner with Cujo, he froze. The sheepish smile belonged to Marcella Dawes.

Cooking with Marcella was more than a television show, it was Max's religion—and he worshipped at the altar of its hostess, chef extraordinaire and goddess of the kitchen, Marcella Dawes. Though he traveled weeks at a time for work, he found solace from an emotionally taxing job through perfecting the art of cooking. He braised; he flambéd; he fricasseed. He paired his creations with fantastic wines. Indulging his every culinary whim was Cooking with Marcella.

Marcella was everything a woman should be: all confidence and curves, and a true classic beauty to boot. He had often admired her generous proportions and everything that perfected them—those vibrant eyes, that gentle voice, and her mane of thick, dark hair.

In my defense, he's got some of the best puppy-dog eyes I've ever seen. A gorgeous blush stained her cheeks. I hope you don't mind that I fed him.

Already, Max was smitten.

Cujo is shameless. His begging left you with little choice.

Cujo? Really? She bit the corner of her lip to conceal what might have become a wide smile.

You didn't know him as a puppy.

Well, he seems like a sweet little thing now. She refocused on petting his dog lovingly.

Please let me know whether his begging ever becomes a bother, he recovered. He enjoys food nearly as much as his master.

She held her smiling gaze upon him as he drank in her face. He admired the faint sprinkling of freckles he'd never noticed on TV, the way the sun lightened the ends of her hair, and the familiarity of her espresso eyes.

I'm Max. He held out what he hoped was a steady hand. And I'm sorry if I stared. I've seen you so often on television, as a celebrity, that it's strange to think you've bought the house next door.

Kim Kardashian is a celebrity. I'm just a woman who likes to cook. And I'm just renting. I'll have it for the rest of the summer.

She stood, returning his handshake, smelling of citrus and jasmine. Her light-colored skirt billowed in the breeze, shifting against lickable calves.

Well, I really enjoy your show. Not wanting to come off like an obsessed fan boy, Max cleansed the hero worship from his voice. Few things were more shameful than a thirty-three-year-old man who sounded like a twelve-year-old girl with Bieber Fever.

You cook? she asked with interest.

I dabble. He shrugged modestly.

Outstanding. So I can count on you if I ever need to borrow a cup of sugar?

Her teeth closed down on a succulent bottom lip.

My kitchen is at your disposal.

The faint sound of a bell came from the direction of their houses. She frowned a bit when it rang.

Well, it's nice to meet you, Max. Sorry to cut it short, but I need to go check on my pie.

Marcella...the pleasure is mine.

Even Cujo seemed disappointed when she started up the pathway. Max wouldn't have blamed his dog for abandoning the only home he'd ever known and trotting after her. Turning slightly and looking back over her shoulder, she removed her hat and shook out her hair before fixing her eyes on him again. Another delicious wave of her aroma crashed on his wanting shores.

You can call me Cella.

Max was a slave to epicurean delights, and no place offered such hedonism as home. Luxuriating on his pillow-top mattress and 1,200-thread-count sheets was welcome respite from the hard cots and sleeping bags he dealt with while he was traveling. In place of needing bottled water to brush his teeth, he swirled and rinsed his toothbrush with water that came right out of the spigot. The double-headed shower and water that stayed steaming hot for minutes felt divine. After a wonderful shave, he made his way to his beloved kitchen.

Never one for subtlety, Cujo stood expectantly next to his empty bowl. Max pet him adoringly before measuring out his dog’s food and changing his water. The sounds of happy canine chomping could be heard as Max started in on his coffee. He didn't use a machine—didn't believe in them. Max only ever brewed his morning cup with a gravity drip. Grinding, then spooning, three-and-a-half scoops of the aromatic beans into a bleach-free paper filter, he set the kettle on a high flame to boil.

The slow brew of his coffee would allow him just enough time to whip up his favorite breakfast. The butcher in town sold a delectable thick-cut Applewood-smoked bacon. He liked to have it with a cream-scrambled egg and freshly baked pain au chocolat. Summer was ideal for taking his breakfast outside. Catching a glimpse of the house next door as he set his table, his curiosity about Cella returned.

She’d seemed humored to be called a celebrity—surprising since he’d seen her cookbooks in foreign bookstores nearly every time he went abroad. He loved how eager she’d seemed to connect around cooking, despite her skills being way out of Max's league. It had been a long while since Max had found such ease in talking to a beautiful woman. Intense travel to remote villages meant that Max rarely met women socially, if at all.

Making quick work of his dough, Max started in on his bacon and eggs. He was appreciating the tang of fresh chives awakening his senses when someone knocked on his front door. He’d only been back for two days, but word would’ve spread. In Longport, if someone wanted to see you, they’d just stop by.

But it wasn’t a long-time neighbor. When Max opened the door, his lips melted into a delighted smile.

Ready for that cup of sugar? He eyed the glass measuring cup in Cella’s hand.

Can we make it coffee instead? She looked shy, freshly awakened, and lovely.

I just ground the last of my roasted beans. He waved her inside.

She had on another flowy knee-length skirt, this one darker but just as flattering. Her sandals were pretty leather thongs with colorful beading that looked like ones he'd seen Moroccan women wear.

You roast them yourself?

A friend in Tanzania sends me berries from his farm.

When they entered his large, modern kitchen, he searched her face to take in her reaction. He'd poured his heart and savings into the remodel; it was the soul of his home and his pride and joy. Her eyes scanned the double-door, stainless-steel fridge, the magneted knife wall, the full-size wine refrigerator and the industrial chiller. They blinked disbelievingly at his professional-grade stove, complete with a pot filler, and a double oven that flanked its side. They scanned foot after foot of countertop—light granite fit for preparing a feast much larger than his dining room would allow. Finally they circled back around to his.

"You dabble?" she accused.

Maybe we can talk over coffee? He tried not to sound too eager. And you're welcome to stay for breakfast. It's just eggs and bacon, but I have plenty.

She gave the kitchen another once-over before sitting on the proffered stool at the island where he worked. He brought her the steaming coffee that had just finished dripping.

I put in mint and cardamom. Is that alright?

She nodded.

He repeated his ritual of scooping grounds and pouring water to make a second cup, then resumed chopping chives before lowering the heat on his griddle.

This is wonderful, Max. She hummed as she took her first sip. Please tell me...how did you learn to cook?

My Aunt Alex had a restaurant just outside of town.

Recognition lit Cella's face. Your aunt's name didn't happen to be Alessandra Piccarelli...?

So she's heard of the restaurant.

Piccarelli was her maiden name. She named it for my grandfather.

You're a Piccarelli, Cella said incredulously. That restaurant was legendary. I ate there once, about a month before it closed.

Then you were one of the last to eat there before Aunt Alex passed.

So she taught you? Cella’s eyes softened.

See that over there? He pointed to a weathered wooden stool that had once been yellow but was now graying from the years. I stood next to her on it for two summers before I was tall enough to reach the counter. I couldn't have been much help at five years old, but she always made me feel like I contributed. She never used recipes, though. She cooked with her senses, and I learned how to do the same. She taught me how to feel the food.

Max navigated the kitchen with ease, adding a little here and there to his unbeaten eggs.

So is this what you do? Her gaze followed him around the kitchen. Yesterday, you made it sound like a hobby.

He buttered a hot frying pan, tilting and turning it until the pan was coated.

No. Max ignored the pang he felt any time he thought about cooking professionally. I’m a doctor.

What’s your specialty?

Cosmetic surgery.

Hmmm…I guess that makes sense.

It does? He laughed.

She covered her face with her hands. Don't make me say it!

Now you have to.

She groaned in embarrassment. You’re like…perfectly symmetrical.

So you think I’ve had work done?

Alright. I’m gonna shut up.

She blushed prettily as he added more seasoning to the eggs.

I owe my bone structure to my mother, he said as he stirred. And I don't do Botox and boob jobs. I do reconstructive surgery for children with cosmetic birth defects.

Wow, that's... She seemed impressed. That's really important work.

He shrugged off her reaction before smiling, uncomfortable from her praise.

My patients are in the third world. I just got back from Bangladesh. I travel for a few months with a non-profit, and then I'm off for a month or two at a time.

He set his bacon on the griddle. Before plating their eggs, he uncovered his dough and began to roll it out. She raised a questioning eyebrow.

Pain au chocolat.

May I help with anything?

Uh-oh... am I doing something wrong? he half-joked.

No…you’ve got really good technique.

Her praise made him swell with pride, as did the idea of her cooking in his kitchen.

Not this time. This morning, you're my guest.

Five minutes later, they were seated on his back patio, digging in. Cujo sat happily at Max’s feet with a treat from the butcher. One of his favorite parts of Cella's show came at the end, when it was time for her to taste. Watching her was the visual embodiment of how Max felt when he himself savored wonderful food.

How about you, Cella...what brings you to Longport?

I’m writing an Italian cookbook, she said around a small mouthful of food. I never had an Aunt Alessandra, but my grandmother was Italian.

She taught you how to cook?

I wish. She died when I was a teenager, but she left me her cookbook.

Her recipes weren't passed down through your mother?

Believe it or not, my mother never learned how to cook. Her father was traditional, and she was a free spirit. She rebelled against everything, growing up. When her mother died, she hadn't been back to see them in years. I never really knew them.

At recounting the tale, Cella had a sad kind of look.

Anyway... my show only tapes six months out of the year. The rest of the time, I spend researching or writing. I just did the research part, in Siena. Now, here I am, in a peaceful town with great produce, and a beautiful place to write my book.

You don’t prefer to cook at home?

She shrugged and looked down at her plate.

Chefs are pretty flexible to cook in any kitchen. And I'm kind of between homes right now. I figured I’d make it a working vacation.

Well, I'm glad you’re here.

And I'm very glad to have met you, Max.

They spent the rest of the meal talking about her. She was self-taught until the age of twenty, when she finally went to culinary school after serving as the sous chef in a popular Seattle restaurant. It was extraordinary to have landed such a position without a culinary degree.

Have you ever thought about culinary school? she asked, after complimenting his cooking for the third time.

Once upon a time, I considered it. It was only half a lie. But I hardly have time to spend at home as it is. Plus, it would mean more time away from Cujo.

Her expression became pensive. It sounds like you're open to more experience...

More than open. He wondered where she was going with this.

So, I have an idea—and I won't be offended if you decline—but... Cella lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes conspiratorially. How would you like to be my assistant?

2 Mise En Place

Cella did her best to walk casually as she made her way back to her rental, not bothering with the long stone walkways in favor of cutting across their lawns. She felt Max’s gaze upon her and chanced a glance back toward him as she turned to climb the stairs. Sure enough, there he stood, leaned against a painted wooden pillar, looking sexy as all get-out, coffee cup in hand.

Tomorrow morning, she called affably, glad that she was in the habit of pulling on dark lenses. Hot or cold, rain or shine, when Cella went outdoors, sunglasses covered her eyes.

He raised a neighborly hand to wave, but didn't move. Max Piccarelli was staring at her. She kept her decorum as she stepped inside, making it to the kitchen before releasing a long-held breath.

He was totally checking me out.

Not that she hadn’t been checking him out. Perfect bone structure notwithstanding, he was nothing like the men in LA. When was the last time Cella had seen a tan that was real? Tousled hair that had gotten its highlights from the sun rather than from a bottle? Defined muscles that didn’t come from a trainer at a gym?

But Max was exquisite in his realness. He cooked with calloused, unmanicured hands. The beard he’d sported the day before had been rugged and ungroomed. Cella had been sorry to see it go. Alright—half-sorry. With his beard shaven, it was all the better for Cella to see his shallow dimples. When he smiled, his juniper eyes lit from within, each dimension more flattering than the one before.

And his body hair—God. Men in LA didn’t have it. Half the men Cella had dated had skin that was softer than hers. They were usually prettier and skinnier, too. At a size twelve, Cella was an average American woman. LA was running as short on those as it was on strapping American men.

Get it together, girl.

And she needed to. Because if she’d be spending time with this man, she couldn’t forget who she was. She'd given her standard response when he'd called her a celebrity, but both of them knew the truth. She was a recognizable public figure. And he was still just in Stage One.

Cella had been doing this for long enough to recognize the patterns. She called Stage One shock and awe. People who knew who she was fell into a kind of disbelief at being near her. It was the weirdest stage. People had seen her on TV, maybe tried out her recipes. Some people bumbled through conversation, others were struck dumb. Nearly no one in this phase could help their glassy-eyed looks.

For Cella, it created a strange combination of flattery and discomfort. It gratified her to know how many people appreciated her work. But it was disorienting. Being so recognizable meant that it was rare for Cella to meet anyone who didn't have some preconceived notion of who she was. Cella couldn't find it in her to complain about her extraordinary life, but she wished she had a chance at knowing whether any man would ever look at her the way that Max had because he was enamored by sassy, amazing Cella—not just star struck by Marcella Dawes.

The ringing of her phone broke Cella out of her thoughts, and she looked toward the microwave to see the time. It was well past twelve o'clock. Looking at her phone's display, she saw that she had two voicemail messages from her agent, Liz.

She picked up. Hey.

You sure slept late, Liz remarked. Getting plenty of rest, I presume?

I was next door. My neighbor lent me some coffee.

Did you get my e-mail this morning?

Cella walked to the kitchen table where her laptop sat, fingered the mouse pad to wake it up, and saw the e-mail from Liz. Scanning it quickly, she shook her head before the words left her mouth.

Absolutely not.

They're offering two million dollars, plus a pretty good royalty on the sales.

I told you: I don't want to do merchandise. It's weird. Do you know how creeped out I get every time I go to the supermarket and see Avery's face on that barbecue sauce?

Marinade is much classier than barbecue sauce.

Cella cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. Is it?

Why do I represent the only celebrity on earth who acts like she's allergic to money?

I have more than enough money.

As your agent, I only have 10% of 'more than enough.' Just think about it.

It's a no. And this isn't why I picked up. You know what I'm waiting on.

Liz's silence wasn't a good sign.

You've got to be kidding me. Cella groaned, walking toward the fridge for a glass of water. What is he asking for now?

He was Kevin La Rue, Cella's soon-to-be-ex business partner, who was battling her for control of their fledgling restaurant project. Kevin was the driving talent behind one of New York's most successful hospitality groups. When he met Cella at the opening of a restaurant he'd designed, he revealed that he was looking to strike out on his own. Familiar with his work and enraptured by his aesthetic, Cella had admitted that she was considering opening a restaurant in LA. From there, a partnership was born.

The plan had been for her to break him into the LA market, while Cella served up her own flavor of amazing. It was common for celebrity chefs to barely set foot in restaurants bearing their names. But Cella—eager to shift away from doing so much TV—wanted to get back in the kitchen, where she belonged.

And she'd almost pulled it off. That was, until she'd discovered that Kevin had overstated his assets and was in trouble with the IRS. From there, she'd taken steps to call it off. Kevin’s deception had been discovered late, which made exiting the deal tricky. He'd already ponied up half of the money and was entrenched in the preparations. Their plans had been announced, and they’d been scheduled to start serving on September first. It had placed her solidly at odds with Liz, who worried about media scrutiny.

He wants to change the name.

To what?

CellaRue.

He's delusional.

There was no way she would let him use her name, let alone some cheap combination of hers and his. It was almost as tacky as Bennifer or Brangelina. Cella wanted to sell to the highest bidder, which would have let them at least break even. But Kevin needed more than to break even—he needed a revenue stream. So he was holding on—making it difficult for Cella to sell her half back and arguing over a fair price.

This is a negotiation. You need to make a counter-offer.

My counter-offer is 'no.' I’m not responsible for the consequences of his dishonesty. If he needs a judge to remind him of that, I'll see him in court.

You'll win in a court of law. He'll win in the court of public opinion.

Not if he loses the case.

He won't lose until the end. By then, everyone will have made up their minds. If the media pities you, you come out looking like the sucker who got walked all over by yet another business partner. If they flame you, you're the greedy celebrity bitch who keeps taking people to court.

I don't care what the press says.

The network does. Your endorsement brands do, Liz pointed out, in full-out bulldog mode. A court battle will only give him a bigger microphone. And don't think he won't bring up Edward, because he absolutely will.

Cella bristled, not wanting to think about Edward—especially not now, when yet another failure loomed. Both of her attempts at opening a restaurant had gone sideways. Unlike Kevin, who was just her business partner, Edward had been her partner partner. It had been three years since they'd parted ways. The relationship might have survived if Cella’s bright, rising star hadn’t been such a threat to Edward’s lesser fame.

Okay, Cella conceded. It's only ten on the West Coast. Set up a call later with the lawyers.

"Speaking of calls, you've got one of your kitchen assistant candidates today at two-thirty for a phone interview. She has a restaurant background—ten years in Italian cuisine. I'll send