Jenny Proctor

How is it possible for the chemistry between two chefs to be hotter than a ghost pepper yet colder than liquid nitrogen?

When THE Tatum Elliott shows up to run the catering kitchen at my family’s farm and event center, I don’t trust her anymore than I did back in culinary school.

But like it or not, she’s here. On my territory. My turf. In the kitchen that shares a building with my farm-to-table restaurant.

And she can’t seem to keep her hands off my parmesan.

Our old rivalry flares to life faster than a flambé, but there’s something else flaming between us too. And it’s heating up quicker than anything we’re making in the kitchen.

But I can’t forget that Tatum is the daughter of Christopher Elliott—America’s most famous chef. She belongs in a big city, in a restaurant with her name on it. Not running the catering arm of Stonebrook Farm.

Whatever her reasons for being here now, I can’t see her permanently walking away from the fame and fortune her father can offer her, no matter how well she fits in on the farm—how well she fits with me.

She’ll leave eventually—I’m sure of it. I just have to make sure that when she does, she doesn’t take my heart with her.

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