Worth the Risk

interested her. Unlike Amber, Lexi had always been in advance-placement classes and loved school as much as her sister hated it.
    She spotted Amber in the front row. Her sister was always so eager to get to this class that she’d probably been waiting for the doors to open. Her honey-brown head tilted slightly toward the guest chef, then she turned and caught Lexi’s eye. “Hot,” she mouthed.
    So that’s why her sister had been in such a rush to get here. Lexi thought the guy looked arrogant. He was frowning at her. She’d obviously interrupted and he didn’t appreciate it.
    “Class,” Mrs. Geffen said as the group began to whisper, “Mr. Westcott was telling us about his training. Let’s listen to what he has to say.”
    The teacher was short and packed into a moss-green suit that she’d worn almost every Wednesday that Lexi had volunteered.
    “Someone asked where I learned to cook,” the chef repeated.
    Lexi recalled Brad Westcott was the owner and executive chef of Black Jack’s, one of the most successful restaurants in Houston. It was also one of the few that didn’t purchase produce from City Seeds, Lexi’s gourmet-vegetable operation.
    “Like a lot of you,” he said in a voice that indicated he was at ease with inner-city kids, “I used to think cooking was tossing something in the microwave.”
    The students chuckled and elbowed each other, especially the boys. Many of them came from Mexico or South America and regarded cooking as women’s work. They were in this class because their other elective choices had been filled.
    “Then I went into the army,” he continued.
    That statement got the boys’ undivided attention. Many of them would join when they were old enough.
    “I was assigned to the officers’ mess hall. That’s what they call the kitchen—the mess hall. Mostly I peeled potatoes, carrots—”
    “What about the CIA?” yelled one of the boys.
    “The army is where I became interested in cooking,” Brad continued, ignoring the interruption. “When I got out, I had enough money to enroll in the CI.A. The Culinary Institute of America right here in Houston.”
    Lexi smiled, but it took a few seconds before the light dawned on the rest of the students. The girls giggled while the boys rolled their eyes or elbowed each other.
    Their reaction didn’t bother Brad Westcott. “Over half the students at the culinary institute were men. Top chefs in many restaurants are men. Lots of the celebrity chefs on television are men.”
    The boys seemed more interested. “A good chef can make a lot of money,” Brad continued. “Plus, you meet lots of interesting people, especially women.”
    Now they were impressed. Money was a never-ending concern in the inner city. The word money got the boys’ attention, but mentioning women didn’t hurt. They might try to deny their interest in the opposite sex, but they didn’t fool anyone.
    “Something to think about,” Brad told them with a canted smile that made him look mischievous. “Today, I’m going to show you how to make an easy treat. Has everyone washed their hands?”
    Lexi was sure they had. It was required before any class where food was to be prepared, and special monitors at the door checked the students. In addition, the tables had been covered with clean butcher paper to prevent spreading germs.
    “You’re going to learn how to make chocolate-truffle balls.”
    There were a few snickers from the boys and Lexi groaned inwardly, but not for the same reason. No doubt they thought truffles sounded like a sissy word, even though most of them probably had no idea what it meant. Lexi knew her little sister adored desserts—especially chocolate.
    Amber had been diagnosed with juvenile diabetes when she was just seven. She realized sweets weren’t good for her, but she often ignored the doctors’ warnings. The girl loved to cook and she especially liked to bake.
    Lexi and Aunt Callie had tried to encourage Amber to prepare healthy food, but since Aunt Callie’s death, she had become more difficult. She indulged her sweet tooth even though she was aware of the health risks. If a hyperglycemic attack resulted, her blood sugar would suddenly spike, and she would need a dose of insulin or a trip to the E.R.
    Amber resented Lexi being named her legal guardian. Lexi couldn’t understand her younger sister’s attitude. After all, since the death of their parents, Lexi had been more of a mother to Amber than Aunt Callie. Their