Seared (Cooking up a Celebrity Book 2)

by Hadley Harlin

“Knowing how to use my dick doesn’t make me a dick, princess.”

  I could feel my blood boiling, but Clara clearly didn’t need me to intervene. She shoved a bottle of whiskey into Jackson’s hands and laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  She tapped him on the shoulder in passing. “I love puns, and right now, you’re the walking embodiment of a whiskey dick.”

  I smiled. Maybe she was stronger than I gave her credit for.

  “You’re a prude, aren’t you, princess? I bet you’ve never even seen a real, live dick.”

  Clara spun around, her eyes flashing. “If you think I’m going to sleep with you to prove that I’m not a prude, you’re a bigger idiot than you pretend to be.”

  Jackson stepped closer, and so did I. Both of us towered over tiny Clara. We were close enough that I could count his blackheads and smell his cologne of alcohol and misery. It was familiar.

  “Both of you animals, get the fuck away from me.” Clara put a hand on both of our chests and pushed. Hard. She leaned over the bar and ordered a German lager, as if to spite us both.

  Damn, if the move wasn’t as hot as it was feisty.

  Don’t be like Jackson. Keep your cool, I reminded myself. I gave him one last glare and then sat down on the bench, my legs spread wide to discourage anyone from sitting near me.

  Clara ignored the warning. She sidled up next to me, her leg touching mine. “You don’t mind? Thanks,” she said before I could even open my mouth.

  I didn’t move an inch or cede my ground. Part of it was a macho thing, sure, but I really didn’t want to break the connection. It made goose bumps break out and unholy images of Clara spread out on a German bed spark to life. It had only been a moment that I’d seen her like that, but it was enough.

  The rest of the cast arrived in clumps and ordered their drink of choice. Emma sat across from Clara, and they laughed about something Pierce said.

  Jackson scowled as he stood lingering over the table. He would not stop scanning Clara’s body as if it were his for the taking. I clenched and unclenched my fingers, wondering how many times I could punch Jackson in the face before production kicked me off the show. I was pushing my luck with one already.

  Clara took another sip of her beer and raised her eyebrow at me. “Having fun?”

  This girl had no idea how devastating I would be to her. How I would fuck up everything in her life. Yet, when she stared at me with those brown calf eyes, I didn’t want to stay away.

  “I’ve had better.”

  “What?” She laughed. “An all-expenses paid vacation? Can’t say I have.”

  She scooted her leg so it was touching all of mine and rubbed it suggestively up and down. Her eyes were promising something more than innocence. My jaw tensed. I knew what I should’ve done. Stand the fuck up and go to bed.

  Even after rejecting her, she seemed determined to screw with me.

  That was it. She was doing this to fuck with my head after humiliating her, probably hoping to catch me off my game for tomorrow’s challenge. It was eliminations, and as usual, we had no idea what we were cooking.

  I moved a millimeter out of her range. Her leg tracked to mine. It was warm and firm, and my fingers itched to squeeze her thigh and tug her jeans down so I could see again how toned and beautiful they were.

  So fucking what if this was all a game? I’d get something out of fucking her, too. It’d been nearly a year since I’d slept with anybody. It was all I could do to keep my sobriety, which meant keeping to myself.

  The idea of first dates or clubbing without alcohol didn’t sound appealing, mostly because I felt like a bitter motherfucker. Forget traitors or being neutral in times of moral crisis. Being around drunk people when you’re sober was the bottom circle of hell.

  A German barmaid came to clear our glasses and see if we wanted another round. Since the cameras had begun rolling, Clara declined. Smart girl.

  It was difficult to judge in the dark, but I thought I actually saw a tattoo I’d never noticed, curling up under her bicep. Unless she lifted her arm, it was all but hidden.

  “What’s that?” I pointed.

  “A tattoo.”

  “Yeah, thanks. I figured that part out.”

  “It’s Italian.”

  “Okay.” I scowled, waiting for her to translate. When she didn’t, I turned back to my seltzer water. “Never mind.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “Still keyed up from having to deal with Jizzwad Jackson.”

  Suppressing a snort, I nodded. “So what does it say?”

  She fingered each Italian word. “My course is set for uncharted seas.” She switched arms. “And on this side, I have, ‘Love that moves the sun and stars’.”

  She sat back expectantly, like I should know this. When I said nothing, she smirked. “So you don’t know all your Dante.”

  “I never proclaimed to be a master.”

  “My dad started me young. He insisted on Italian art and writers only in our house. We’d go from Machiavelli to the Godfather in the course of a weekend.”

  “That’s not a bad weekend, actually.”

  She shook her head, not speaking. I wondered what was up with her father. Estranged, dead, terminally ill, perfectly fine back in Staten Island? It was anybody’s guess, but I wasn’t about to get deep with Clara Romero. Sharing secrets wasn’t my style.

  She didn’t need to know about my shitty home life, and I didn’t want to know about her idyllic one. It was better that way. Less mess. More time to focus on the competition.

  Emma stood up, her drink untouched. “I’m gonna call it a night.” She glanced pointedly at Clara, who had a silent conversation back with her eyes. Emma clearly won.

  Clara stood. “Yeah. Competition starts early tomorrow.”

  Red camera lights switched off as the crew realized we were quickly dissipating into the night. It didn’t take much more than a glance to know I wasn’t the only one watching Clara’s ass sway away, and I hated how much I cared.

  Chapter Ten

  Clara

  Kaiserslautern, Germany

  Even before Chef Sato and Hawthorne said go, I realized I loathed German food. We needed to pair different hops and spices from the local brewery to create a complimentary dish. There were hefeweizens, bocks, and the popular pilsners to choose from.

  Except, Liam refused to try any of the beers.

  At first, Hawthorne looked like he might say something about respecting local customs, but Liam cut him off, saying simply, “I’m sober,” in his usual, stoic Liam fashion. He took a sniff, swirled, and asked profusely about the barleys and malts in a doppelbock, which seemed to placate the master brewer.

  After choosing our beer profiles, we were off to the races. Did I mention I hate German food? Probably because I suck at German food.

  I was an idiot. Why didn’t I take Liam’s deal for help in German cuisine? Fortunately, this wasn’t an elimination round, only the advantage round, but I sure as shit wasn’t winning it. Unfortunately, I would probably go home tomorrow because I was too proud and—let’s be frank—embarrassed when Liam turned me down.

  Regret, regret, regret. I have a name, and it is regret.

  I crouched up and down between the pantry shelves, berating myself. My bottle of Lambic weighed heavily in my basket, rolling around next to onions and garlic. I’d already been hanging out in the pantry for five minutes of our thirty-minute time frame, and I was getting panicky, so I began throwing shit in the basket.

  The Lambic I’d chosen had been brewed with cherries. I went with a savory cherry compote stewed in the sour cherry Lambic, sautéed sauerkraut in coriander seeds and more Lambic, and a simple grilled pork chop, lacquered and glistening with cherry juices. It sounded amazing, but the moment I tasted my dish, I knew I’d overdone it. Instead of complimenting the cherry flavor, I’d pretty much doused the dish in the stuff.

  And it looked like shit.

  Silver lining, it didn’t matter, because
everyone would be cooking in the elimination round. Liam won with his Bock-inspired bacon and honey pork tenderloin in a Bock reduction. For his win, he was the only one who could use certain utensils in the kitchen tomorrow, like a meat mallet and grinder, which told us it was going to be a meat-forward elimination round.

  I wiped the sweat from my forehead and tucked some loose strands back into my lemon bandana. It was time to swallow my pride.

  I knocked on his door, my body tensing. It got worse when I heard his steps coming closer. Suddenly, I felt the urge to pee. I was more nervous to be standing in front of Liam’s door than in front of the cameras! How was that possible?

  The door swung open to reveal Liam without his shirt and a quizzical expression on his ridiculously sexy face.

  My eyes instinctively followed his happy trail down to his zipper, and without thinking, I licked my lips. Smooth with a capital S.

  “I, uh, take your deal. Need help.”

  Liam raised an eyebrow.

  “German food sucks,” I declared.

  Liam shook his head. “You only think that because you don’t understand it. That’s your inexperience talking.”

  His dig got my Italian blood boiling. “If I’m so inexperienced, why do you need my help with Italy? Your deal was just a ploy to what? Get in my pants?” Why did I keep accusing him of that? To his face? I wanted to smack myself.

  Liam’s easy manner stiffened in response.

  “Never mind. Forget I said that. I simply want a few pointers and some educated guesses about tomorrow’s challenge, and in exchange, I’ll give you some tips on Italian food. I’ve only been cooking it my whole life. Marinara runs through these veins.” I patted my heart, like I was proving my point. Someone should shoot me now.

  Liam widened his door, seeming more amused than irritated.

  “And you’ll give me pasta pointers?”

  “Deal. Forget double O flour or semolina, although you can dust your finished product in semolina for crunch. All purpose is fine. Seriously.” I cocked my finger at him. “That tip was for free, but there’s more where that came from.”

  I bounced in his room and flopped on the bed. “Okay, meat. Go.”

  Liam left the door cracked, like his mom was about to come up the stairs and check on us at any moment.

  “See what I did there?” I said. “Meat. Like man meat but also the German meat challenge. Get it?”

  “Uh, yeah. It wasn’t that deep.”

  I threw a pillow at him, which he ducked expertly. His abs rippled when he stood, making a shot of heat rocket to my lady bits.

  “So,” I stumbled. “Lay it on me. Bratwurst, knockwurst, liverwurst. Do your worst wurst.” I gave him a saucy look. “See what I did ther—argh!”

  Liam threw the pillow back at me, knocking me over with his force.

  “Hey! That actually hurt.”

  By the time I detangled myself from the pillow attack, Liam was already jotting down ingredients and doodling sausages, which looked a lot like swollen penises if you asked me. He didn’t, though.

  For the next couple of hours, he gave me a crash course on German cuisine, and he didn’t once try to make a pun. Strong but silent. I could get down with that. I talked enough for both of us.

  If I were a betting woman, I’d say he was trying extra hard to keep it professional. But every once in a while, I swore I caught Liam not-so-accidentally grazing my hand or thigh as he explained flavor profiles. I’d look over, hunting for an opening, but all I found was Chef Liam explaining caraway and juniper.

  I was beyond frustrated.

  But… it did work.

  By the time the elimination round was done, I could step back, my hands in the air, exhausted, but confident. Sure, my liverwurst was chopped liver compared to Liam’s knockwurst. His execution was beautiful, and Chef Sato almost fucked him right there with one bite.

  Yet, I managed to squeak by, incorporating the spices he’d mentioned and remembering to add speck and some powdered milk to the sausage mixture before stuffing the whole mess in the casings.

  Emma gave me a satisfied nod when Chef Sato announced the loser. “Ava, Germany is the last stamp in your passport.”

  We’d survived. I could breathe. Italy was next. My homeland would give me strength. I was going to be brave. Today, I would get what I wanted.

  Chapter Eleven

  Clara

  Kaiserslautern, Germany

  Liam opened the door in his customary no-shirt, low athletic shorts, and scruffy smirk that he reserved just for me. My stomach sloshed at the sight, and I flushed pink. No wonder he didn’t do it often; it was guaranteed devastation for anyone he chose to beam it on.

  “Hey.”

  Liam didn’t move aside to let me through.

  I stood on my tippy toes and peeked around his shoulder. “Can I come in?” I couldn’t be sure, but he seemed nervous. We weren’t due to leave for Italy for a few more hours, and I wanted to thank him.

  Okay, “thanking him” was a thinly veiled attempt to seduce him, but maybe he wouldn’t notice.

  “Sure. I’m in the middle of packing, though.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. We still have a few hours to kill.” I wandered around, dragging my finger seductively—I thought—around his room. There was a lot of dust. I quickly wiped my fingers on my pants.

  Liam resumed packing his toothbrush and toiletries. It was clearly up to me for conversation. “So, you’re sober.”

  Liam didn’t flinch. “Hitting rock bottom tends to put addiction into perspective.”

  “Right.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Coke?”

  “Uh, I was going to say beer.”

  “Of course. It’s not an addiction if it’s easy to miss.” He stopped his packing. “Look, I’m pretty busy. I’m glad you survived Germany since you owe me pasta pointers. But can we do it later?”

  I plucked his shaving kit out of his hands and ran my finger along his rock-hard stomach. “Actually, I wasn’t here to talk about the pasta.”

  “Clara,” he began, warnings in his voice.

  We were inches from each other, and already my chest was heaving with anticipation. I could see the pulse quicken on his throat, and I noticed, despite his reluctance, that he hadn’t stepped out of reach.

  My voice was husky. “Call it a mutually agreed upon releasing of tension. Or don’t. Call it whatever the fuck you want to call it, but kiss me, goddammit. You don’t even have to mean it.”

  “I’m not fucking you.”

  “I’m not asking you to,” I retorted.

  His hands moved up my shirt, stroking my stomach and sending tingles through my body. They went below, playing with the zipper of my jeans.

  “You would not be ready for me.”

  “Like I need the prepping.”

  His fingers skimmed my slit before he plunged one roughly inside. I gasped and tightened at the jaggedness.

  “Yes, you would.” His fingers worked through my warm wetness, while he kissed me with the brute force of desperation. It was deep and rough, just like his fingers.

  Suddenly, it was gone, and Liam went back to packing.

  I came up behind him and shoved. “Hey! I may not know much in this arena, but I know that’s not how it works. You honestly think you can get me all hot and bothered and not do anything about it?”

  “Pretty much.”

  I grabbed the bulge in his pants. It strained against his shorts, and I rubbed it up and down, mentally gulping at his thickness.

  He slapped my hand away. “Excuse me, I’m packing.”

  “I know. I just felt it.”

  Liam threw his things down, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “You are impossible!”

  “What? I was returning the favor.”

  Liam stalked closer, reminding me of that first morning in Paris, weaving through the kitchen like a master of prey. “Is this what you want?” He grabbed my shoulders and bit my lower lip, pa
rting them with his tongue before savaging me. He drew back, leaving me cold without his heat, my lips swollen and needy.

  “Or this?”

  He threw me on the bed, ripping up my shirt and fondling my breasts. My nipples immediately hardened, shooting molten lust down my body.

  I said something like, “Mmh, uh yeah, hm.”

  “This is what you want, little virgin?” Liam pushed aside my panties again, and I knew what was coming. With only one finger exploring inside of me, my body was already responding, jerking upward to feel more.

  Two could play at that game. I was not the only needy one here. The huge outline in his pants proved that.

  And I needed to know. Exactly how big were we talking? I pushed him off and yanked down his dark blue athletic shorts to reveal boxer briefs. Before he could so much as protest, I pulled those down, too.

  I stared without shame as his thick cock sprang free. A large vein ran from the crown to the base. Mary, Mother of God, no woman could fit him. I was pretty sure Google had never seen the likes of him, either.

  A bead of worry wedged its way into my consciousness. Since I laid eyes on him in that Paris hotel lobby, I’d been fantasizing about what it would be like to feel him inside of me. Staring at the reality, I wasn’t sure that was such a good idea. How much of his cock could I take? Were there laws for this sort of thing? Like virgins had to prove they could handle a certain girth before they could proceed to the next size? Maybe he was right.

  Liam stroked my pussy again, making me forget about my fear and only look at him through lust-colored glasses.

  He licked his finger and then kissed me, forcing me to taste myself. Before I could bite his lip or do anything in return, he was between my thighs, smirking at me. He licked up one leg and down the other, continuing to finger me the whole time. Then he stopped for extra attention in the middle.

  Electricity bounded down my core. “Oh God. Oh. My. God,” I moaned.

  Liam didn’t stop, sucking and licking in ways I didn’t even realize were possible. I arched against the bed, and Liam took advantage, slipping his hands under my ass and pulling me closer, thrusting his tongue deeper.