Husband Material

by Emily Belden

To you, the reader. You holding this book means more to

  me than I can possibly express. Thank you for coming back

  for more, I hope you enjoy the escape. Let’s talk about it on

  social media (@emilybelden) or at your next book club.

  And finally, a shout out to Margo Lipschultz who initially

  acquired Husband Material after hearing a short synopsis of the idea. Her faith in my storytelling allowed me to explore

  a world unlike my own for a few years, which to me, is the

  greatest perk of being a writer.

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  “Full of Fire.”

  —Library Journal (starred Review)

  “Exhilarating.”

  —Booklist

  “Satisfying.”

  —Rt Book Reviews (top Pick)

  “Provocative.”

  —Abby Stern, Author of According to a Source

  Turn the page for a sample of Emily Belden’s delicious first novel, Hot Mess , a juicy look behind kitchen doors.

  Available now wherever books are sold.

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  1

  “Are you going to be okay?”

  His question gives me pause. Will I be okay? Was “okay”

  a hypothetical three exits ago?

  All things considered, I’m hurtling through time and space

  with a guy whose recovery from a serious cocaine addiction

  matters as much as the rise of his chocolate soufflé tonight.

  So I answer honestly.

  “I don’t know.” My voice sounds far away.

  “Well, if you’re not sure, change. You’ll be walking at least

  five miles between ushering people to tables and the bathroom

  and running back and forth from the kitchen.”

  “Oh, shoes. You’re asking if I’m going to be okay in these

  shoes.” I glance down at my black platform wedges.

  “Yeah, babe. What the hell else would I be talking about?”

  He grabs the bottom of my chin and plants a quick kiss on

  my lips before he rinses a whisk in the sink.

  The shells of seventy-five hard-boiled eggs are in the trunk

  of a car I rented to shuttle all the shit required for tonight’s guests, I took an unpaid day off from work to be here to

  help and my parents are about an hour away from arriving to

  this special “comeback dinner,” which will be the first time

  they’ve seen Benji somewhere other than the headlines in the

  last thirty days.

  And he’s worried about my shoes?

  “I’ll be fine,” I say sweetly, knowing now is not the time

  for a true audit of my emotional well-being. Tonight is about

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  EMILY BELDEN

  Benji’s big return and my confidence that all—including my

  shoe choice—will go as smoothly as the house-made butter

  at room temp that he’s just whipped up.

  I find my ref lection in a nearby Cryovac machine and

  take out a tube of my go-to matte pale pink lipstick from my

  makeup bag. I sweep it across my bottom lip, then fill in just

  above my lip line on the top for the illusion of a slightly fuller mouth. After all, I know at least half the guest list is here to see what the woman behind the man looks like.

  Speaking of lists, I can see Benji in the reflection as well,

  leaning over a stainless-steel counter consulting the prep list for tonight’s dinner service. He takes a black Sharpie from the pocket of his apron and puts a quick slash through each item

  as he recites them out loud to himself.

  I come up behind him and cast my arms around him slowly;

  my touch puts him at ease. He curls his left arm up to hold

  my arms in place and continues to mouth ingredients one by

  one to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything. It sounds like

  sweet nothings being whispered to me in a romance language

  I barely understand.

  Benji crumples the list, a sign he’s successfully on track with everything from the dehydrated goat’s milk to emulsified caramel, and I snap out of my schoolgirl daydream. He turns to

  face me, shuffles a few steps back in his worn kitchen clogs

  and bends down to shake out his longish dark hair.

  I know what he’s about to do. And for as ordinary as it is,

  especially to girls like me who routinely wear their hair like this, watching Benji shimmy a hair tie—my hair tie—off his

  right wrist to tie his mane into a disheveled topknot is like

  the start of an exotic dance. For anyone who says the man-

  bun trend isn’t their thing, they’re lying.

  The hair tie snaps when Benji tries to take it for a third lap

  around his voluminous bun.

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  “Goddamn it!”

  “Relax, babe,” I tell him as I zip open my makeup bag and

  pull out a spare. Crisis averted, I think to myself as I put another mental tally in the “Saves the Day” column.

  He reties his white apron for the umpteenth time over a

  tight black T-shirt that shows off his tattooed-solid arms. I

  know for a fact he doesn’t work out (unless you consider lift-

  ing fifty-pound boxes of pork and beef off the back of a pickup truck getting your reps in) but somehow he’s been blessed

  with the body of a lumberjack. The only thing missing is the

  ax, which has been appropriately swapped out for an expen-

  sive Santoku knife custom-engraved with some filigree and

  his initials: BZ.

  No doubt he’s got the “hot and up-and-coming chef” thing

  down: tattooed, confident, exhausted and exhilarated. Hard

  to believe this isn’t a casting event for Top Chef.

  Harder to believe this is the man I get to take home every

  night.

  “FUCK! Are you kidding me, Sebastian? Where the fuck

  is the lid to that thing?” Benji’s words effectively snap me out of the trance I was in danger of being lulled into. It takes me a minute to realize what happened: his sous chef, Sebastian,

  has pressed Start on a Vitamix full of would-be avocado aioli,

  except the lid to the blender is nowhere to be found. Green

  schmutz has gone flying, marking up Benji’s pristine apron

  like the start of a Jackson Pollock piece.

  “Sorry, chef. I got it on now.” Tail between his legs, Sebas-

  tian gets back to work as Benji furiously wipes at the streak

  with his bare hand. He’s making it worse.

  “Benji. Breathe.” I grab his half-drunk can of LaCroix and

  pour a little onto a clean kitchen rag. While tending to the

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  eyes and give him a reassuring smile. He smells of cigarettes

  and sweat, garlic and onions. It’s intoxicating.

  “I know, Allie. This is just…huge for me. Huge for us.

  The press is going to be here tonight.” He wipes some sweat

  off his brow.

  “And my parents,” I whisper.

  “Oh god, them, too.” He releases the tension by cracking

  the bones in his neck. A poor substitute, I imagine, for his

  true
preference: a shot of whiskey.

  But even a slug of 120 proof wouldn’t take the edge off

  the fact that Benji’s pop-up dinners are the new It Thing.

  People salivate at their screens just waiting for him to tweet

  out the next time and place he’ll be cooking. Why? Because

  he’s the hottest chef in Chicago and you can’t taste his food

  at any restaurant. So when he announces a dinner, it’s a mad,

  server-crashing race to claim one of only twelve spots at the

  table. And when everyone wants to see how the reformed ad-

  dict is faring, they’ll cancel all their plans for the day on the off chance they’ll be one of the first to submit a reservation

  request, followed by prompt prepayment—which all goes to

  me, the fan-favorite girlfriend of Benji Zane.

  I can’t blame his followers for the obsession. Our flash-in-

  the-pan love story was covered by the most-read food blog

  earlier this spring, and since then, there have been myriad ar-

  ticles chronicling his love-hate relationship with hard drugs

  and high-end cooking. Between his unlikely relationship with

  me, his checkered past and his unmatched kitchen skills, Benji’s managed to divide people like we’re talking about health-care

  reform or immigration.

  Half see him as a prodigy in the kitchen who was given a

  second chance when some no-name poster child of millennial

  living suddenly inspired him to get clean. The other half of

  Chicago views him as an all-hype hack who uses the media

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  attention to rob his patrons of their hard-earned money so he

  can get his next score.

  Fuck those people. Because the Benji that I know, that

  I live with…well, he’s a stand-up guy whose brunch—and

  bedroom—game happens to be on point.

  “Listen, babe,” I say. “What did I tell you? I’m not going

  to let you down tonight, okay? I’ll pace the seating however

  you need me to. I’ll greet the press and spot the critics, too.

  We got this, okay? I believe in you.” And I do.

  I don’t always agree to help Benji at his pop-ups—usually I

  just accept the reservation requests and keep the books straight.

  But tonight is different. Benji told me yesterday that he’s got an outstanding dealer debt to pay off and so he’s oversold the

  dining room by about twenty-five chairs to try to make a lit-

  tle extra cash. Without me here to help host a guest list of this size, this highly publicized dinner would look and feel more

  like a dysfunctional family reunion. Something I’m sure the

  piranha-like press would love to write about.

  I wanted to be pissed about this little “oops” moment. How

  careless could he be? Now, by over-inviting a horde of geeked-

  out foodies, and in the past, by racking up a $2,000 coke bill.

  But he assured me it’s just one of those things that needs to be handled in order for him to move on with his sobriety. And

  that’s what I signed up for by being his girlfriend: uncondi-

  tional support and a back that would never turn on him.

  He’s even arranged for Sebastian to be the one to hand over

  the cash tonight after the last diner goes home. Consider it just another example of how hungry people are to work alongside

  Mr. Zane. The same set of hands is willing to debone fifty

  squab and pay off gangbanging drug dealers from the South Side, all in the same night.

  I don’t blame Sebastian, though. There’s something about

  Benji that makes you want to strap in for the ride. It’s like

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  rushing a sorority: you’ll do what you need to do to get in,

  because ultimately, you end up part of something bigger than

  yourself. I just don’t think any of us know what that some-

  thing is yet.

  At least that’s the way I see it from my vantage point, which

  is currently the groin area of a brand-new apron that was

  marked with an unsightly stain until I stepped in.

  “See, babe?” I say. “All clean.”

  Benji pulls me in for a kiss, his hand cupped around the

  back of my neck. With my French twist fragile in his palm,

  I feel the stress in the kitchen disintegrate. I’m no superhero, but if I were, my power would surely be managing to make it

  all okay for him, every time. It doesn’t even matter that there’s garlic burning in a sauté pan, my lipstick is now smeared, or

  that my work email is probably blowing up with a hundred

  notifications an hour.

  “You’re my rock, babe,” he tells me, tucking a few strands

  of loose hair behind my ears. I love hearing that I’m doing a

  good job, because it’s not always easy.

  “Okay, so here’s the final guest list,” he says, getting back

  to business. Benji hands me a piece of paper from the back

  pocket of his charcoal gray skinny jeans. At the top, Aug. 20

  Pop-Up is underlined in black marker. I give the list a quick once-over.

  “So seating begins at seven, tables are set as rounds and the

  largest group is a party of six. Simple enough,” I say.

  “Well, it’s more than just ushering people to their chairs.”

  He tenses back up. “After everyone’s seated, I’ll need you to

  run food and bus tables if we get in the weeds.”

  “Weeds?”

  “Busy as shit.”

  “Ah. Okay.”

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  “And water. Constantly. You should be carrying the pitcher

  and filling any glass that’s lower than two-thirds.”

  “Got it.”

  “Pay attention to what people are saying. Any issues, come

  find me immediately.”

  “Obviously.”

  “And as we’re wrapping, make sure you call a cab for any-

  one who’s too drunk to drive. The last thing I need is bad

  press about a deadly DUI from someone I fed.”

  “Anything else, your highness?” I jest to lighten the mood.

  I get that he’s on edge, and rightfully so. So am I, to be frank.

  This mini-romper won’t be forgiving in the derriere area

  should anyone drop a fork while I’m rehydrating them. I also

  barely know the difference between kale and spinach, and am

  about to play hostess to a room full of people who are jonesing to fire off a photo or two of this year’s culinary celeb couple to their judgmental social sphere. It’s a lot.

  “Very funny. And yes, there is one more thing. Mark and

  Rita just texted me. They can’t make it tonight. Couldn’t find

  a sitter for Maverick or something.”

  While it would be great to finally meet Benji’s sponsor,

  Mark—and his wife, Rita—I’m okay with the last-minute

  cancellation. Two less comp seats means more profit and less

  work for Benji. It also means two less people who I need to

  impress on the spot. Especially people whose job it is to spot

  bullshit. They’ll be missed by Benji, I’m sure, since they’re

  basically the parents he never had from what I gather. But

  hopefully he’ll just shake it off
.

  “I’m sorry, that sucks. It’s tough with kids,” I say, like I

  know.

  “Yeah, it’s whatever. I told them we’ll see them next week-

  end. Anyway, can you just promise me something?”

  “Of course.”

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  He looks me dead in the eye and says: “Promise that you’ll

  fuck me after this is all done.”

  Blood rushes to places it hasn’t since I lost my virginity on

  Valentine’s night my freshman year of college. I know, I know.

  That’s totally cliché. But what was your first time like? Okay

  then, let’s not judge.

  Speaking of clichés, now would be a good time to men-

  tion that I fell for the bad boy. And being “that girl” doesn’t end there: just imagine a more basic version of Selena Gomez

  with a day-old blowout, tucking her leggings into Uggs when

  the temperature falls below seventy degrees. Give or take a

  Pumpkin Spiced Latte and a Real Housewives viewing party, and you’ve just about got me—Allie Simon—pegged. I’m the

  last person someone like Benji Zane would want to date and

  the first person the food blogosphere has been able to con-

  firm he actually is dating. I give him a wink and turn toward

  the dining room. I’ve got a little time before our first guests are set to arrive and I need to get my game face on. I need to

  feel less like someone whose superhot boyfriend wants to rav-

  ish her across the very counter the amuse-bouches are being

  prepped on and more like someone who knows on what side

  of the plate the fork goes.

  Tonight’s pop-up is in a small ballroom on the forty-fifth

  floor of a high-rise luxury apartment building way up on the

  North Side. For a Friday night, it’ll be a bit of a clusterfuck for anyone who lives in the heart of Chicago, the Loop, or out

  in the suburbs like my parents, to get up here, but the views

  of the boats on Lake Michigan and the sunset reflecting off

  the buildings in the skyline will be so worth it. This summer

  evening is the kind of night Instagram was made for.

  How Benji secured the venue this time is a doozy. He put

  an ad on Craigslist: “Party Room Needed.” Said he couldn’t

  pay money for the space, but would leave all his leftovers be-

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  hind and the secret to “a roasted chicken guaranteed to get you laid.” Thirty minutes later, some teenager whose parents live