Hilary Fields - Bliss

“Let the fine folks of Santa Fe be the judge,” said Miss Wilde. “I’m confident my confections capture the true essence of bliss. But if Blake thinks he can do better, he’s welcome to give me a run for my money.”

When the

Chile Paper

reached out to Mr. Austin for comment, the chef had only two words for Miss Wilde.

“Bring it,” said Mr. Austin.

Readers are invited to visit the Winter Fiesta’s website for more details on this sure-to-be epic culinary clash.

Uncharacteristically terse as his official reply had been, Blake’s unofficial response had been classic Austin.

He’d sent Sera a dead fish.

It had arrived at the shop wrapped in newspaper, with a note that read, Nice try, Sera-frigid. You, my dear, have as much chance of revitalizing your career with this little stunt as this fish does of swimming back to the ocean. But since you choose to invite your own ruination with such a spectacularly desperate ploy, I am more than happy to provide the final nail in your culinary coffin. I shall look forward to witnessing—and indeed, causing—your utter and irrevocable humiliation.

It was a nice fish, though. Alaskan king salmon, if Sera wasn’t mistaken, twenty dollars a pound and no easy feat to acquire fresh in landlocked New Mexico. She’d been tempted to poach it with a light creamy dill sauce, but she wouldn’t put it past Blake to have poisoned the poor thing. Its cold, staring eyes had seemed to pierce her, asking mutely, You sure you want to go toe-to-toe with this dude? You don’t want to end up like me, do you?

Yet, outlandish as the Back Room Babes’ plan to take Blake down was, Sera had to agree it was her last, best hope to keep her ex at bay. She had to fight back, fight hard, and fight publicly, or he’d continue to whittle away her reputation for as long as he cared to carry on his crazed vendetta. And as far as Sera could tell, that would be all the way to the grave. She would never have a better opportunity to stop him in his tracks than today’s bake-off.

I feel like a gladiator facing my fate in the coliseum, she fretted. Wonder what’s the Latin for “We who are about to bake salute you”?

Sera told herself it was a good thing that he’d taken up her challenge. Of course he’d done so only on his terms—and his terms, as it turned out, were many.

With Blake’s fuck-you fish thawing on the counter and the BRBs gathered in the “war room” (Bliss’s comfy armchairs) for support, they’d dialed up the chef’s hotel to hash out the details of the duel. Sera had stayed out of it, feeling a bit like a boxer when her “trainers” started massaging her shoulders and pressing little sips of water on her (Aruni even offered to rub aromatherapy oil on her temples). Pauline had done the honors, punching the buttons on the store’s phone hard enough to make Sera wince. However, when she started rummaging in the prep area’s drawers for “the scratchy twine” after about a half second of conversation with Sera’s ex, Hortencia had snatched the phone away. Then the real haggling had begun.

Despite Sera’s admiration for her aunt’s life partner, she had to admit Blake had gotten the better of the old gal. The “quaint contest,” as he put it, had to take place in his restaurant (conveniently providing free publicity for the newly opened eatery). He required an assistant to help prep his creations (Sera could have one, too, he ever-so-generously allowed). And it would all be filmed by a crew of his cronies from the Food Channel. It didn’t surprise Sera. When his ego was at stake, Blake Austin played to win. No doubt, he expected to crush her in spectacular fashion, show off his new restaurant, and dazzle his loyal fans with his overhyped culinary skills, all while turning a tidy profit by televising the event for the content-craving cable network.

The only concession Sera’s team managed to wrangle was that the competition would focus solely on dessert. In no uncertain terms, Hortencia had told “he who shall go straight to hell” that, since it was Sera’s baking credentials he’d so classily called into question, it was baked goods they would battle over. He wasn’t lacking the talent to whip up a few measly tarts, was he?

Sera could hear Blake’s response from halfway across the shop.

And so it came to be that Santa Fe’s weeklong Winter Fiesta added a last-minute event.

Bake-Off at the Blue Coyote! ran the headline on the Winter Fiesta’s website.

Famous chef takes on former protégée, and Santa Fe decides the winner!

Pastry chef and proprietor of Santa Fe’s newest sensual sensation “Bliss” invites visiting celebrity chef Blake Austin to show who’s really got the spice with a bake-off at Austin’s newest venture, the Blue Coyote. Come by Canyon Road Friday starting at noon to witness these two highly skilled chefs showing off their sweetest creations. Then judge for yourself who makes you moan most with delight!

Bobbie had really done an amazing job of pulling the event together and publicizing it to the hilt. From what she’d told Sera, the cooking contest was the talk of the town, sure to be packed with locals and tourists seeking sugar rushes and a glimpse of the world-famous chef facing off against the City Different’s newest bakery owner.

Whom they’d be rooting for was another matter.

Oh God oh God oh God… this is really happening. Today!

Sera pulled the covers over her head, resisting Silver’s attempts at playing sheet-peekaboo by yanking at the fabric with his teeth. She wasn’t worried about being outbaked by her former boyfriend—not in a fair fight anyway. She knew she was the better chef—hell, the last time that bastard had actually sweated it out on the line, his customers had been wearing Members Only jackets and neon Scrunchies. But really, what was the likelihood Blake would play fair?

Her stomach roiled.

The acrid aroma of burnt toast heralded Asher’s arrival. Sera let Silver tug the sheet off her face, hoping her hair looked more “JBF” than “just been mangled.” She blinked up at him. In his low-slung jeans, barefoot and bare-chested, hair adorably mussed, the tall Israeli was a powerful incentive to call off the contest and spend the day in bed.

“Good morning, lovely man,” she said, submerging her fears in favor of savoring a few more minutes of pleasure.

“Good morning, lovely woman.” Asher proffered a plate of what was ostensibly breakfast. His eyes lit with appreciation as she threw back the covers, revealing that the T-shirt she’d borrowed from him as a makeshift nightie had ridden up to the tops of her thighs.

Tugging the tee down out of a vestige of modesty, Sera swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She accepted the plate, which appeared to be the backdrop for a new work of black-and-yellow abstract art, and casually laid it on the nightstand where Silver could get at it. Nervous as she was about today, just seeing Asher lifted her spirits. No matter what happens this afternoon, she marveled, this guy’s got my back. I won’t lose everything if I lose to Blake today.

But Sera didn’t want to lose anything.

I’ve earned this, damn it. My shop. My place in this town. My bliss. And I’m gonna fight to keep them.

“Thanks, Ash. Breakfast looks yummy. I think I’ll wait until after my shower to eat, though. I’ve got a nervous stomach this morning.”

He grimaced sympathetically. “I’m not surprised, given what you’re facing today,” he said, tracing the line of her cheek with a comforting finger. “By the way, did I hear a shout a minute ago?” He eyed Sera with mild concern.

She felt a pang, not wanting Asher to worry for her. Blake was her demon to slay. “Would you like to?” Mustering up a lascivious leer, she moseyed up to him and wove her arms around his waist. “I do seem to get pretty ‘shouty’ when you’re around.”

“Mm, yes, that you do.” His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes appealingly. “I think my eardrums could do with another assault. But do we have time?” Asher was already nibbling her neck.

“Probably not.” Sera sighed. She pulled away reluctantly to study the man she was growing to love more each day. Though they’d only been together a short time, she felt strangely secure in their fledgling relationship—serene, even—and excited to see where it would go. Artist to artist and healing heart to healing heart, they simply got each other. His support had given her so much strength, his faith in her had bolstered her confidence and made her future seem so much brighter. She would never be readier to face down her past. Sera’s hand rose to cup his cheek, and she stretched up to give his chin a grateful kiss. “Much as I’d rather let you rock my world all day, I’ve got someone else’s world to rock first. But trust me,” she vowed, “he’s not going to enjoy the experience.”

What a circus.

Sera stopped stock-still a few feet inside the restaurant, letting her rucksack of culinary tools slip through nerveless fingers and clunk to the floor. Behind her, Malcolm, carrying the rest of their gear, harrumphed as he nearly plowed into her.

“Mind where yer gawkin’, girlie,” he growled.

Though he’d agreed to be her second in this duel, Malcolm was not best pleased to be spending his Friday subjecting himself to scrutiny by the “idjit unwashed.” Once he’d heard a bit of Sera’s history with Chef Austin, Malcolm had been more than ready to release his inner Highland warrior on her behalf, but he hadn’t dropped his dislike of the general public or his disdain for their “criminally ignorant palates.” Being judged by a bunch of “gastronomic ignoramuses” in this contest was the ultimate affront for the prickly Scotsman. Sera couldn’t blame him; she was feeling unnerved herself at the prospect of letting the city of Santa Fe decide her fate. Fleetingly, she wished she’d taken Asher up on his offer to accompany her, but she’d wanted no distractions while she was getting her head in the game. She’d asked that he, Pauline, Hortencia, and the BRBs not show up until the contest was under way, so she could focus solely on the task at hand.

Focusing in this environment, however, would be anything but easy.

The Blue Coyote had been transformed from posh restaurant to public tribunal, with tables cleared away to leave a wide semicircle of space for the audience. The open-plan kitchen had a long, quarter-moon-shaped bar that allowed patrons to ogle the chefs across the pass while they worked (a fad the rather introverted Serafina had always loathed). The bar’s countertop was set up with two sets of mixers; copious trays, tins, and molds; and matching mise en place containing ingredients from shaved Belgian chocolate to unsalted Irish butter, and everything in between. Tablecloth-shrouded trolleys at either end of the bar held more mystery items for the great bake-off. Probably full of “challenging” ingredients like sea cucumber and monkey’s knuckles, if the Food Channel people have had any say in it, Sera thought, grimacing. They seemed to have taken over the place; camera jockeys and PAs with walkie-talkies stringing wires and testing light levels while the anxious restaurant staff looked on, wondering if they’d be able to clean up the mess in time to open for dinner.

Outside, Canyon Road reveled in a rare warm winter day, the sun blazing merrily in a poetically blue sky. Tourists were strolling up and down the winding street in just their fleeces and down vests, stopping to snap photos of the whimsical sculptures that graced practically every storefront. “Santa Fe’s answer to Madison Avenue,” Sera had heard it called, and she had to agree. The exuberant art scene showcased in Canyon Road’s many galleries was at the core of the City Different’s charm—and brought in a great proportion of its tourism dollars.

Already, people were peeking their heads in the Blue Coyote’s main entrance and peering through the wall of French doors that would be thrown open in an hour when the contest began. Food Channel production peons were keeping the gawkers at bay as politely as they could.

Her opponent in this contest, however, felt no need for politesse.

In the center of it all stood ringmaster Chef Austin, looking tall and leonine in a royal blue chef’s coat custom-embroidered in gold on the breast with his name and the steaming serving dish that was his trademark. He’s a steaming pile of something, all right, thought Sera, straightening her own plain white jacket self-consciously. Supremely confident, Austin was ordering the staff and TV crew about with equal abandon, and they were hustling to accommodate, fearful expressions in their eyes that Sera remembered well from her days in his kitchens. Her stomach tightened.