Taste Test (29 page)

Gigi swallows hard and looks frantically at the people surrounding her.

“I swear to you, I never thought someone could get hurt. Once Angela was gone, I told her I wouldn’t do it anymore, but Mom made me continue. She said that enough accidents would force the production company to settle their losses. That we’d get back the money we’d lost when Dad invested in the show. That I only needed to help for a little bit longer.”

She looked at me imploringly, shaking her head from side to side.

“Nora, I swear to you—I never meant to hurt Christian. The tubing was supposed to leak right away—as soon as someone smelled gas, we’d all get out of there—the finale would be canceled and I’d have more time to prepare. But instead, he lit the burner and then …” She trails off.

“And then Christian burst into flames,” I finish for her.

“Gigi,” Benny says, sitting down next to her, “we’re going to need you to talk to the authorities about all of this.”

He looks back at Ms. Svincek, who is now flanked by two of the show’s security guards. “I’m going to need to know everything your mother told you to do, everything you planned together.”

He motions to the guards to remove Ms. Svincek, but she struggles, narrowing her eyes at Benny.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, Benny Friedman. This network, this show, is the worst thing to ever happen to
the North American Culinary Academy, and my husband would be disgusted to see what
Taste Test
has become.”

She glares at her colleagues, then points at Prescott.

“You allowed that disgusting womanizer to stay on staff here, despite repeated violations of his contract. For Christ’s sake, this isn’t a dating show!”

“Kathryn,” Chef Mason begins, clearing his throat, “it was the network that brought him back.”

“Exactly.”

She pulls free of the guards’ grip and rushes forward until she is hardly three inches from Benny’s face.

“You and your disgusting colleagues have no shame. No morals. It’s
your fault
I had to resort to such methods to save my family.”

To everyone’s surprise, Benny laughs.

“Morals? Lady, you’ve lost your mind. What kind of morals does someone have when they force their own daughter to sabotage other kids’ dreams? To hurt people? You have a lot to answer for and, fortunately, it has nothing to do with the network.

“Get her out of here,” he orders, a look of disgust on his face. He turns to Gigi, his face a bit softer. “You better follow her. The police are going to want to talk to you, too.”

Gigi gives me a final glance. I know she is looking for something—sympathy, understanding maybe? I can’t give her that. I turn away and face the wall, refusing to meet her eyes as she’s led from the room.

The burn unit at Lake Haven General is having a slow night. Benny and I are the only people in the waiting area and I’m disproportionately grateful. We have to give our names and IDs to the nurses’ station for security purposes before we’re allowed inside the “clean room.” There, we each wash our hands and put on scrubs and hairnets, as though we were going to be performing surgery. I’d laugh at our appearance if I had the energy. Or if anything about this situation was even remotely funny.

“One at a time,” a nurse instructs. I look at Benny and he motions me forward.

“Go ahead. I guarantee he’ll want to see you more than he wants to see me.”

“Thanks.”

Christian has his own room with a large window. The blinds are closed and the lights are off, but it’s easy to see my way around surrounded by brightly lit machines. At first, I think he’s sleeping. Then, in the pale glow of the monitors, I see his eyelids flutter open.

“Hey.”

His voice is dry, like walking through fallen leaves. I look at the thick white bandages wrapped around both his arms from his shoulders to his hands. The lump in my throat is back. I haven’t felt it since I left Weston.

“Come here, Nora.”

I can’t say,
No, I’m scared. I don’t want to see you this way
. I can’t really say anything at all. Carefully, as though sneaking through enemy territory, I move up to the side of the bed until I can finally see his face, still half-shrouded in shadow.

Thankfully, it’s the same. The face that’s made me angry, made me crazy, and made me fall for him. Aside from a large bandage covering part of one cheek and half his neck, it’s the face I’ve come to care so much about. A face is how you know someone best, and the fact that his is intact makes me feel incredibly thankful.

Seeing him like this makes me realize that I’ve got no fight left—especially about how I feel. I may have denied it, I may have tried to ignore it, but the truth is too hard to dispute anymore: I feel something for Christian that is pure and true and real. Something that feels a lot like love.

I go to reach for his hand, but remember the bandages just before I touch him. He gives me a rueful smile.

“You can hold it—it just might feel like you’re hanging on to a roll of Charmin.”

“I think I can handle that,” I say, smiling.

“How are you doing?” he asks, a concerned expression on his face. I can’t help but laugh.

“How am
I
doing? I’m fine. More importantly, how are
you
doing?”

Christian gives a sort of shrug.

“Okay. It hurts.”

I look down at the bed. He’s covered with a sheet, so I can’t tell where the burns begin and end. He watches my eyes scan the length of the bed.

“The doctor said that my pants had some flame-retardant material in them or something. He says track pants—you know, the swishy ones—are the worst. They’re like plastic—melt right onto your legs.”

I can’t help but shudder.

“Anyway,” he continues, “my hair’s a little singed and my ears and nose are going to blister in a few days, but other than that—what you see is what you get.”

“Do you know how bad they are? The burns, I mean?”

He shakes his head and shifts his body weight to one side, wincing as he resettles himself.

“I haven’t seen them—I was out cold when they cleaned me up. The doctor said that the worst ones are on my neck, but none of them are bad enough for skin grafts or anything.”

“Did he say how long you’ll be here?”

“A week, maybe two. It depends on these.” He raises and lowers his wrapped arms like two baseball bats.

“Right. Of course.”

“So,” he shifts again, “what happened after I left. I haven’t heard anything yet. Was everyone else okay?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know how well I can explain this …”

“Give it a shot.”

Silently, I close my eyes, wishing I didn’t know the story. Wishing that none of it were even true. As I tell Christian everything I know, I can’t help but remember how he was the only one who saw Gigi—Georgina—for who she really was.

“So, you were right,” I say as I finish. “You were right all along.”

Christian shakes his head slowly from side to side.

“This isn’t about that. Jeez, Nora, her
mom
? How is that even possible? How in the world did Svincek manage to get her daughter on the show?”

“I don’t know. I just can’t believe it was Gigi the whole time. And I’m the idiot who
defended
her.”

“You aren’t an idiot, Nora. She’s your best friend here.”

“
Was
. Was my best friend here.”

He shakes his head again.

“I know I’m probably the last person you’d expect to hear this from, considering the fact that I’m laid up here looking like the guy on the Boo Berry box, but I think you need to cut her some slack.”

“I think
you’ve
had a few too many pain pills.”

“All I’m saying is that maybe it’s hard to understand Gigi’s side. Sounds like her mom was some kind of culinary Nazi. And losing her dad, well, who knows how much that hurts.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” I look back at him and give a half smile. “What I do know, however, is that I owe you an apology.”

“Really? Damn, it’s about time!” He grins.

“I’m serious,” I say. “You said it was her and I ignored you. I said a lot of things …” I trail off, looking down at my hands. “Anyway, I just want to say that I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted.”

We sit there for a second, smiling at each other. I look away, feeling my cheeks coloring.

“How did you know, anyway?” I ask him, playing with the edge of the blanket.

“Know what?” He frowns.

“That it was Gigi.”

He shrugs. “I didn’t really. I mean, the whole thing with Joy was definitely suspicious.”

“Well, I owe you for being such a pain.”

“Hmmm.” He smiles, narrowing his eyes a bit. “I like the idea of you owing me. Maybe backrubs for a year? Or, no, I got it—how about sponge baths?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“What about a date, then,” he suggests, a twinkle in his eye. “One night that
isn’t
in a kitchen or a classroom—where someone cooks for
us
, for once.”

“I don’t know.” I twist my hair around my finger. “I have an awful lot on my plate right now, what with preparing for the rescheduled finale and all.”

Christian cocks an eyebrow. “What rescheduled finale?”

“I’ll let Benny give you all the details. Basically, it’s you and me, a one-shot deal. After you’ve healed and the doctor’s given the go-ahead, they’ll film a one-on-one battle. Winner takes all.”

His face slides up into a smile. “Are you serious?”

“Hell yes!”

“Oh, man—I’m going to give you the fight of your life, Henderson.”

“We’ll see about that.” I grin. “Don’t expect me to go easy on you.”

He grins, leaning forward a bit. “When it comes to you, Nora, I’ve learned to expect the unexpected.”

This time when Christian kisses me, his lips taste sweet and warm, like Christmas morning. I guess that’s appropriate, since sitting here feels like a gift. Losing him, even briefly, made me realize how much I want to be with him, how attached I already am.

Love is a funny thing. It makes you believe in things—like maybe there’s a reason for this, for all of what’s happened. Maybe this moment, this place—even this guy—is more than just a moment in time. More than that proverbial flash in the pan.

NACA

North American Culinary Academy
2929 Lakehurst Mountain Road
North Sullivan, CT 21842

FINALE LIABILITY SHEET

I have read and understand the following:

Initial here

I, _____________________________ (fill in name), certify that I am of sound mind and body and able to participate in the
Taste Test
finale. I have no knowledge of any accidental or intentional tampering with
Taste Test
sets, equipment, or ingredients.

Chapter Twenty

Second (or Third or Fourth or Fifth) Chances

Knock-knock.

I can’t help but groan. I thought one of the nice things about staying in a hotel would be the privacy, the silence. I squint at the clock.

7:34 a.m.

Oh yeah, this better be good.

I figure it’s Benny with some last-minute changes to tonight’s filming, or Bryce to start what will inevitably be the day-long process to tame my bedhead. The last person I expect to see standing there is Angela.

“Wow, that’s some look you got going on. Are all TV stars as unglamorous as you?”

“Angela!” I yank her inside the door and give her a hug. “I can’t believe it—what are you doing here?”

She grins. “Are you kidding? Miss your night of glory? I had to come!”

I motion her to sit down, tossing towels and clothes off the desk chair. She looks around skeptically.

“How long have you been staying here, Nora?”

“In the hotel? For a couple weeks—why?”

“No reason. It just looks very … lived-in.”

I glance around at the wrappers on the floor and empty soda bottles lining the side table and shrug.

“What can I say? It’s been a pretty crazy time.”

“I’ll bet.”

The day after the finale—the
first
finale—
Taste Test
moved from the NACA campus to a downtown Lake Haven hotel. The crew spent day and night prepping a new arena kitchen for the re-finale while, blocks away, Christian lay in a hospital bed waiting to get word of when he’d be clear to compete again. It took ten days for the doctors to decide that he could endure an hour-long challenge shoot.

It’s taken all that time and more for me to wrap my brain around everything that’s happened.