Go Cook Yourself by Rebecca Chase

Author:Rebecca Chase [Chase, Rebecca]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rebecca Chase
Published: 2024-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Garett

I tiptoe as I walk into the cookery school. She’s going to be pissed off with me.

Her curses sound into the corridor. “Why won’t this fucking work? You piece of shit.”

I stand in the doorway and take in the scene before me. There’s buttercream splattered across the countertop and the floor. Her back is to me, and her ponytail swishes as she shouts more expletives at the icing bag she grips tightly in her hand. She’s trying a piping technique on paper that I haven’t seen anywhere but on YouTube videos of the most advanced professionals. There are master patisserie chefs who don’t bother with it. The thing is, I know how to do it. A particular celebrity chef judge with anal bead necklaces taught me it.

Again, I debate helping or walking away.

“I know you’re there, Garett,” she yells, although she doesn’t look up. “Either get off the pot or fuck off.”

“I don’t think that’s the phrase.” I remove my coat and put on the apron hanging by the door before I walk to the counter. I use a cloth to wipe the frosting from the floor. Strands of blonde hair stick to Ruby’s forehead. “What are you trying to do?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” She slams the piping bag onto the counter. A glob of frosting squirts from the bag, but it doesn’t reach the freshly cleaned floor. Still, she refuses to look at me. Maybe it’s stupid, but I slowly roll my shirt sleeves. They’re in her eyeline, and she loves staring at them. “Is this the time to be a dick?”

“It’s as good a time as any.” She lifts her head, and her eyes lock with mine. I wasn’t trying to turn her on but to break her from the anxiety that owned her. She’s a ball of stress and won’t achieve anything if she can’t recentre herself. My forearms can help, although I usually listen to Taylor Swift when I need to regroup. “Do you want me to go?”

She shakes her head. There are tears in the corners of her eyes. I resist the temptation to pull her into my arms. “Music?” I ask.

She shrugs. That’s enough. I select a pop playlist and take the piping bag off her. “Your buttercream isn’t thick enough. If you want to do the Faringdon technique, it must be robust enough to hold its shape.”

“I know that, but I’ve added powdered sugar, and it’s still not holding.” She slumps against the countertop, her head in her hands.

“You overmixed it, and it’s too warm in here. Let’s make it again.”

“I know all this. I’m better than this.” There’s marks on her hands where she’s pinched her skin, and those tears are threatening to flow from the corners of her eyes.

“Because you’re too in your head. Are you panicking about the competition?”

“Yeah, kind of. I guess. You could be less annoying.”

"Noted, Chef," I bark, hoping it makes her laugh. She sighs loudly and glares at me, but there’s a twist on her lips as if she’s trying not to smile.

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