In the Fire

By Eileen Griffin and Nikka Michaels

Because the way to a man's heart

Eight years ago, the world was their oyster. Until, that is, competing chefs Ethan Martin and James Lassiter's hot and heavy relationship fizzled after Jamie left for an internship in Paris. Even though Jamie's career has taken off since his return to the States, with his own television show and a lot of fame, his feelings for Ethan have never quite gone away.

Ethan's culinary career has developed more slowly, but he's almost saved enough to buy the restaurant where he works and re-open it as his dream spot, Bistro 30. If only he could get the sexy chef who loved him and left him out of his mind.

But when someone starts sabotaging the restaurant and a fire threatens to take away everything Ethan holds dear, his only option is to rely on Jamie for help. Back in close quarters, the two men will have to find a way to work through their past if they hope to save the restaurantand their future.

See how Ethan and Jamie's romance began in In the Raw, available now!

93,000 words

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Nov 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781426899225

Book preview

Chapter One

March 2013

Ethan

The sizzle of rich bordelaise sauce as it struck the hot pan melded with the aromatic scent of rosemary from the roasted potatoes I had just taken out of the broiler. Knives thumped rhythmically against wood cutting boards. A blur of color caught my eye as a runner loaded up his full tray and swept out the swinging doors. Busy and bustling, the kitchen worked at full capacity. Ovens, dishwasher, all cooktops fired up, the practiced motions of each skilled worker moving in unison—my kitchen was a thing of beauty.

Everything was perfect, at least until I spotted a plate that made my eyes narrow. I grabbed it off the pass before the runner could snag it and send it out to an unsuspecting diner. Stuck to the caramelized onions and blue cheese I’d layered carefully on top of a perfectly seasoned rib eye steak was a single curly hair.

"New Guy."

The youngest member of my staff’s head snapped up, his fearful dark eyes visible above the stainless steel shelves of the salad station. The background noise ground to a halt as my nosy staff watched covertly while they pretended to work. Tonight I’d put Tyler in charge of wiping down all the plates before they went out to the dining room, a decision I already regretted.

Yes, Chef?

"In what universe would you willingly send out a choice cut steak with a giant curly hair stuck to the top of it? Is this Pubes ’R’ Us?"

No, Chef.

Do diners at this establishment pay their hard earned money to see unappealing and unsanitary plates?

No, Chef.

When I say finish a plate off with a garnish, I don’t mean a hair. If I hadn’t caught this going out we’d have lost a customer or potentially several customers. Customers pay our bills. Bills for inventory and electricity and your paycheck. I set the plate down in front of Tyler and pointed. Always pay attention to detail and cover your hair. I tossed a clean black bandanna at him from the supply box and gestured for him to cover his hair like the rest of the cooks. Now, fire me a new plate.

He hunched his shoulders, and my sister and sous chef, Claire, glared at me from her position behind him. Dammit. Tyler Mitchell wasn’t one of the cocky young kitchen jockeys that swaggered into a restaurant thinking they were going to be the next Michael Symon, and I couldn’t talk to him that way. I’d found him behind the restaurant, digging in the dumpster. He’d stared at me with wild eyes and dirty clothes, and I’d remembered what it felt like to be so hungry I’d eat garbage.

I’d finally coaxed his story out and gotten meals into him and a shower and clean clothes. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first time I’d had experience dealing with someone who’d been discarded by his family for being different.

He didn’t have any experience, but I’d offered him a job anyway just to get him off the street. For the first four months he’d been content to be a busboy and dishwasher. Then, last month, he’d finally gotten up the courage to ask about working in the kitchen. Now he was learning how to be a line cook from anyone who was free, shadowing them and Claire every opportunity he got. He was only nineteen but he had an eye for detail and a quiet determination to learn and grow, priceless in a new cook. He’d grow into a hell of a cook if I didn’t scare him away first.

Tyler cleared his throat. Chef, I’m sorry. I haven’t learned how to cook steak yet.

I dumped the steak into the trash, handed the plate to a dishwasher and washed my hands. You’re going to learn today. It’s a basic skill every chef needs to know. Ready?

He nodded and watched me with a serious expression.

I grabbed a new rib eye from the refrigerator drawer under the worktop and slapped it on a plate. When I gestured for him to move closer, he looked wary. I decided to go for humor. Think funny, Martin.

First rule of steak club? There is no steak club. When he stared at me blankly, I rolled my eyes. You youngsters have no taste in movies today. First rule of steak? Season. Season. Season. Without proper seasoning even a properly fired steak will be bland. Lots of salt and pepper. I gestured for him to season while I got a cast-iron pan from the stack on the shelf.

He watched as I got a pair of tongs from the utensil bucket. Even after being at Sharpe’s on Fifth for almost five months and moving in with my fry cook, Enrique, and his family, he still had the haunted look of someone who’d spent time on the streets.

Second rule of steak? Proper tools. The cast-iron skillet is your friend. I set the heavy pan down on the burner, cranked up the heat to high and dumped in a generous pat of butter. Treat your skillet nicely and always put more butter than you think you’ll need. Cast iron absorbs fat like a sponge.

Tyler nodded.

Third rule? Crank the heat up high. We want color on this steak. Color is flavor. I reached for a hot pad and picked up the screaming hot pan, swirling the melted butter around slowly. Make sure you always use a kitchen towel or a hot pad for this because these handles get hot. I showed him my scarred palm from the first and only time I’d forgotten to use a towel on a pan during a busy dinner rush.

Ouch.

I hid my grin. Yep, hurt like a mofo. Always make sure you use towels and keep your sleeves down, okay? I know it gets hot in here, but they’ll protect you from grease and shit. I tugged on his baggy chef’s jacket sleeve, pushing back a sigh when he flinched.

Yes, Chef, Tyler mumbled as he unrolled his sleeves.

Fuck, Ethan. Move slowly.

Right. Hot pan. Seasoned steak. We’re just searing. The rest of the cooking will finish in the oven.

Hey Ethan, you got a few minutes? Cal stuck his head in the kitchen door. He gave Tyler an encouraging smile and I nodded.

Sure, boss. Let me finish this steak lesson with Newbie here and I’ll head back to your office.

After the steak was done I showed Tyler how to check it by pinching his hand and comparing it to the texture of the meat. Meat thermometers worked just as well, but when he gave me a shy grin after calling the perfect temp for the new steak I knew it was worth the confidence boost.

Plate it up and send it out, New Guy. We’ll make a cook out of you yet.

I stuck my fist out and he stared at it a second before tentatively bumping it with his own. I hid my smile in response as I took off my apron and threaded my way through the kitchen.

When I knocked, Cal waved me into his office. He looked up from the pile of supplier invoices, slipping off his glasses as he leaned back in the squeaky desk chair.

You know they make this stuff called WD-40, right?

Yeah, yeah, yeah. This chair is older than you, Ethan. The squeak gives it character.

So that’s what they call it. I tugged off my sweaty bandanna and took a seat in the chair opposite him. What did you need?

Cal turned to look at me, and his normally deep cocoa skin seemed paler than normal in the fluorescent light from overhead. When I’d first met him, back when I was a hotheaded twenty-two-year-old, I’d thought he’d looked like a friendly grandpa. He was, but he was also the sharpest business man I’d ever met.

He scrubbed his hand over his face and yawned.

Sorry to pull you out from busy service, but I can’t stay up as late as I used to.

I shrugged. No worries. Claire will keep an eye on the newbie. He’s green but busts his ass. And he hasn’t set himself on fire. Yet.

Cal shuddered. Did you have to remind me? It took forever to get the stink of burned fabric out of my damn kitchen, Eth.

Yeah, well some of us aren’t smart. And I only did it once. I snickered. What’s up, boss? I know you didn’t pull me in for a trip down memory lane.

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.

We need to talk about the rest of your business plan. He paused. I hate to admit it, but my health isn’t what it once was. This is a young man’s game and I’m finally starting to realize my time to hand it over to you is growing near.

Shit, Cal. Are you all right?

He waved his hand at me. I’m fine. I just need to know where we stand on our agreement for the restaurant.

I did a few quick calculations. I’d already started the lengthy process for a small business loan and had been waiting to hear back from the bank. With the loan plus what I’d socked away in savings over the years it was just doable. I didn’t want to keep Cal longer than possible, especially with bad health. I was so close to buying the business he’d started forty years ago and turning it into my own vision of a perfect restaurant, I could taste it. Eight long years and countless all-nighters and double shifts, missed holidays and lonely nights. Nine months to come up with the rest of the cash should be cake. Nine months. I should have the last of the money by the end of the year. Will that work? I ran my hand through my hair, tugging nervously as I waited.

He nodded.

Nine months will work, Ethan. Just bear in mind I will be slowly turning things over to you to make the transition easier.

I let out a deep breath I wasn’t even aware I’d been holding. Thanks, Cal. I really appreciate it. I know I’ve said it before, but no one else would have worked with me to let me buy a restaurant like this.

Yeah, places are a lot harder to buy nowadays and equipment is expensive. I just know you’ll take good care of Sharpe’s. Hell, you already do.

I felt my smile spread wider from his praise. I rubbed the back of my neck.

Fuck, Cal.

He laughed. While I appreciate the offer, I’m sure Viv would take exception, Ethan. He pushed up from his chair and held out his hand. I stood up, chuckling when he pulled me toward him, hugging me briefly and patting my back. He’d been my rock for eight years, but I was almost ready to go it alone.

You can do this. I have no doubt, Ethan. When he released me I nodded and walked out of his office.

Chapter Two

Jamie

Katie Samuelson smiled into camera three as she held up a copy of my cookbook. "You can find all the recipes from today’s show in James Lassiter’s book Spicing Up Your Table, including this incredible rigatoni with vodka sauce and spicy sausage James has graciously offered to let us put on our website. She leaned into me and playfully nudged my shoulder. It’s been a pleasure having you on today’s show, James. Promise us you’ll come back soon?"

I smiled at Katie as I scooped more rigatoni onto a platter. "I’d love to, Katie. Thanks for having me on the show. I always love being on Taste of the Big Apple."

Katie slid the platter toward the center of the island already crowded with the other dishes I’d prepared. Tune in tomorrow for mouth-watering Mediterranean dishes from up-and-coming chef Talia Stamos. I’ll leave you with profound words from George Bernard Shaw: ‘There is no sincerer love than the love of food.’

I held my smile until the cameraman slashed his hand and the light on top of his camera went dark. The stage manager called out, It’s a wrap folks. James, you’re amazing as always. And Katie, great quote today. Okay people, let’s get the set cleaned up for the next shoot.

I wiped my hands on the towel in front of me and reached out to shake Katie’s hand. Thanks again, Katie. It was wonderful to be back on the show. Please call Trevor if you need anything else.

Katie looked over her shoulder as she gathered up her notes. Sounds good, James. The rigatoni was excellent, by the way. I’m going to have to make it at home. She nodded to one of her assistants. Sarah will take you back to your dressing room. Tell Trevor I’ll call him in the morning about those still shots he promised he’d send me.

Already halfway off the set and more than ready to be done with the cameras, I nodded in Katie’s direction. Will do. Have a good one, Katie. Good luck with the next segment and thanks again for having me today. And thank you, Trevor, for only booking me for a single segment today. Remind me to give you a bonus.

Once I got back to the dressing room, I quickly slipped off the pristine chef’s jacket provided by the show and tossed it into the hamper next to the door. I sank into the uncomfortable chair in front of the mirrors and took a good, hard look. I’d been doing this latest round of the media circuit for weeks now and it showed. The makeup crew had done their best to hide the black circles under my eyes, but I could still see them. I pulled out a washcloth from the basket on the vanity and scrubbed away the vestiges until only my pale skin showed in the mirror. Camera makeup was one of those things I’d gotten used to over the years, but it did itch.

Once I was relatively clean and back in my own clothes, I grabbed my bag and took the side hallway to the back door of the studio. I usually didn’t mind signing autographs and taking pictures, but today I was too exhausted to deal with it.

Relief washed over me when I saw the yellow cab waiting at the curb. After making sure the elderly cabbie knew where to drop me, I closed my eyes and let him navigate the insanity of Manhattan traffic. Blaring horns and the occasional obscenity from the driver were a welcome reminder that I was home for more than a day or two for the first time in three months. I still had the occasional talk show or guest appearance scheduled, but for the time being, I was home.

Hey, mister. We’re here.

I opened my eyes and stared out the window at the green awning in front of my building. The cabbie swiped my credit card and drove off as soon as I’d folded a tip into his hand, leaving me on the curb without a backward glance.

Home, I muttered, hiking my small overnight bag over my shoulder.

As I walked through the glass doors, I plastered on a smile for my doorman, Don. He looked up from the newspaper he was reading and reached down to hand me my mail. Evening, Mr. Lassiter.

Not wanting to deal with the real world tonight, I tucked the mail under my arm and kept walking to the elevator. Thanks, Don. Tell your wife the cookies she made were delicious. You’ve got a true pastry chef on your hands.

Don’s smile widened. Will do, Mr. Lassiter. She’ll be over the moon a real chef like you enjoyed them.

Once the doors to the elevator closed and I was alone, I punched the button for my floor. I’d been doing a slew of guest appearances and book signings and couldn’t remember the last time I had been in the thick of things, in a real kitchen. I’d never felt less like a real chef.

I left the elevator and made my way into my apartment, dropping the groceries I’d stopped off for on my way home in the kitchen, and my luggage in the hallway near my bedroom. My manager would be calling any minute to ask about the appearance on today’s show. I pulled out my phone and hit speed dial.

J! How did it go? Was the cab there? I was just getting ready to call you.

Hey, Trev. Yes, the cab was there. Remind me to give you a bonus this Christmas.

He snorted over the line. You say it every year and I still get the same thing—a fantastic bottle of wine and a pair of socks.

I’ve never heard you complain about the wine I buy you, and what’s wrong with socks? It’s freezing in New York during the winter.

Well, I’ll never run out of warm socks with Star Wars characters on them. He cleared his throat. How did everything else go? You sound tired.

I paused before I answered him. I’m good. No, scratch that. I’m exhausted.

He paused on the phone, and I could hear him let out a deep breath. I know, man. The schedule’s been crazy lately. Did it at least go okay with Katie? I heard she was a bitch to the last chef they had on their show.

I laughed and closed my eyes, leaning back against the couch. She was fine. And we both know Sam Vargas can be a dick—in his restaurant and out of it. You need to stop talking to the other managers. I swear you all gossip like a bunch of old ladies.

Thankfully Trevor snorted and the tension from his end eased a little. You still haven’t forgiven me for booking you with Sam that one time have you? Shit, Jamie, it was over a year ago. Cut me some slack.

No, I haven’t. And he’s still a dick. And while we’re on the topic of dicks, I’m not showing any skin on the cover of my next book. It’s got to be a professional, full chef’s coat. The wardrobe guy kept trying to unbutton my chef’s coat and roll my sleeves up today. I swear it took everything in my power to smile and assure him I actually liked being properly attired.

His full-bellied laugh was loud enough I had to pull the phone away or risk losing my hearing. Sex sells, J. And you, my friend, are one handsome man.

Thanks. I think. Just no more chest or forearm shots. There was a short silence. Time to drop the bomb. I need a break, Trev. A real one this time. I looked at my calendar this afternoon before the show. I need a break. The constant travel is killing me. I don’t think I’ve been home for more than a week at a time in three months. I need downtime.

Trevor was silent on the phone for a full minute before he spoke. Okay, Jamie. I’ll see what I can do. You’re presenting at the American Culinary Honors Awards this weekend. We both have rooms booked at the Plaza for Saturday, since you refused to get a date for this thing and I’m not missing out on the food at The Plaza. You have an interview with Gretchen Holt on Saturday, but I’ll move things around to give you another week. Maybe two.

The tension I’d been carrying around with me since I had gotten back to New York three days ago slowly began to fade away. I felt lighter, but more exhausted than before I had called him. Thanks, Trev. I’ll call you tomorrow and get the details about this weekend.

His normally upbeat tone turned soft and serious. Get some sleep, J. We’ll do dinner this week, my treat. We need to discuss this weekend’s itinerary anyway.

Guilt washed over me as I hung up and tossed my phone on the coffee table. A quick glance around my apartment made my stomach turn even more. On the shelf across from me sat a picture of me and Trevor after we’d first met in Paris. I still had the lost expression I knew I’d worn for at least a year after leaving Seattle, but Trevor was all smiles and confidence. I was out of my element with no family or friends of my own, which had made him my lifeline. Once the fall arrived, he was busy with his MBA at Columbia and I was putting in ten- to twelve-hour days at Cielo. After I’d started receiving more offers, I’d asked him for help, and Trevor had left his other job to manage my career.

During his last semester at Columbia, he had presented me with the opportunity to work as a guest host for a cable TV show that focused on restaurants in New York. Ever since, he had worked his ass off alongside me to ensure my success. Now I felt like an ungrateful bastard as I looked around my quiet apartment. It featured beautiful wood floors with a state-of-the-art kitchen and two bedrooms, one I felt I barely lived in anymore, and one I never used at all. Expensive art on the walls and a huge wine fridge for when I was actually in town long enough to entertain. It was a great apartment. Trendy and upscale. But tonight it felt cold and empty. Who was I kidding? Tonight? It had felt this way for a while now.

I made my way to my bathroom and stripped, letting out a deep sigh once I stepped under the hot spray of the shower. I was exhausted and needed a break. I’d been on this whirlwind of a publicity tour for half a year and I just needed to regroup. I braced my hands against the shower wall as the water sluiced over my head, and let the spray massage the tightness in my shoulders.

The last time I’d been in a kitchen had been to create the recipes for the cookbook. I needed to find a way to get rid of the creative block I’d developed since then so that I could stop feeling like a line cook who cranked out meals on orders. Maybe cook a meal at home and not have anywhere other than the local coffee shop to go to the next morning. Maybe even stop in at Tony’s place while I was home and hang out in his kitchen for a night.

An hour later, I had all the spices and ingredients laid out on the counter. My version of spaghetti with marinara and pancetta and Parmesan meatballs had been a staple at Cielo and I knew the recipe by heart.

The ground beef, pancetta and turkey sat in a deep bowl to the side while the crushed tomatoes and fresh basil simmered in a pot on the back of the range. The familiar aroma of comfort food filled the air, replacing the stuffy condo smell. Knife in hand, I let my mind wander as I diced the onion and parsley, adding them to the meat in a single scoop of the cutting board. A little Parmesan cheese, panko bread crumbs, a few spices, a dash of Worcestershire sauce, and an egg to bind it all.

The moment my hands dug into the mixture, I felt all the tension in my shoulders begin to bleed away. The cookbook, the television show, the guest appearances at different restaurants had gotten me to where I was today. I was an openly gay celebrity chef who had support from the network, my viewers and the people who bought my books. I had everything I could have dreamed of in a career but all I felt was...drained. Empty. My love of food and cooking had started me on this path, but along the way I’d lost the drive and passion to keep me on it.

But this—the simple act of preparing food just for myself—I had been missing for a while now. I rolled meatballs between my palms. When we’d made these in huge batches at Cielo, it had been an all-day, multi-cook job. I missed joking with my cooks during the assembly line where we all rolled out trays of meatballs.

While the meatballs simmered in the cast-iron pan and pasta boiled, I poured a glass of wine and sat on the sofa. I needed to do this more often. Hell, I needed to be in the kitchen more often. The question I kept coming back to, though, was when?

When had my life gotten off track? Since arriving in New York, I had done nothing but work my ass off to get where I was today. The question was, did I really want to be here anymore?

Chapter Three

Ethan

Running a successful restaurant as an executive chef isn’t glamorous. It involves long days in a sweltering kitchen, burns on your arms and hands, grease splatters in your eye and knife cuts that bleed like a son of a bitch. There are always the skyrocketing food prices, forgetful suppliers, your new bartender has fumblefingers with the good scotch or a pissy dishwasher breaks a load of plates. There’s always a bitchy customer who wants ketchup for their lobster, shitty reviews in the paper, or employees having a personal dispute.

Today, it was New Guy.

I eyed the huge puddle of cooking oil leaking out from underneath a fryer. What the hell? Tyler had obviously neglected to replace the drain plug in the fryer after I’d had him change out the oil last night. I’d thought he could handle it since the rest of the cooks were busy with prep. Apparently not. Nothing said safe like a slippery floor.

He stared at me as he nervously twisted the ends of the apron strings tied around his waist.

Sorry, Chef. I thought I put the plug back but I was wrong.

It’s okay. Just give me a sec and we’ll clean it up. Someone set up a Wet Floor sign and everyone watch out for the mess and try not to set anything on fire while I poison myself with nicotine for five minutes. I grabbed my smokes out of my office and pushed past my line cooks and sous chef.

The kitchen door slammed behind me as I lit up in the alley. I inhaled deeply as the acrid smoke filled my lungs, a love/hate relationship with the cancer sticks. Smoke clogged my taste buds and made it hard to properly season food. But at times like these, when I had to fight the urge to not scream obscenities at the gun shy newbie, it calmed me down. When the door opened and closed again, I grumbled under my breath.

Feel better, big brother?

Not as much as I’d hoped. Who the hell hired the kid again?

My not-so-little baby sister laughed as she swiped the smoke out of my hand and took a very unladylike drag.

You did, you big idiot.

I yanked off the black bandanna and ran my hand through my sweaty hair. A combination of the usual bullshit, Tyler being skittish, and the bank calling to inform me my bank loan pre-approval paperwork had been held up in underwriting meant my fuse was running short. If I didn’t get the loan there was not a chance in hell I’d be able to buy the place from Cal.

You know, one of these days you’re going to have to take the stress-management courses Viv’s been pushing, or your head will explode. You’ll be all ‘what in the fucking fuckity fuck’ and then...SPLAT!

As much as I want to sit around playing the bongos while a hippie tells me how my life force can be one with the universe...no way.

She swatted away my hand when I tried to steal my own smoke back.

Growl all you want, Ethan, but you don’t frighten me. Underneath all your bluster and foul language is a big ole softy with a heart of gold.

"I don’t