Seared (Cooking up a Celebrity Book 2)

by Hadley Harlin

  Exhibit A: Married my boss in Vegas.

  Exhibit B: Didn’t want it annulled.

  Exhibit C: Just a picture, but it’s vivid: My balls tacked to her trophy wall, outline in her favorite glitter pens.

  I didn’t say it was a pretty picture.

  I began laying out my prep station and getting my cake ingredients to room temperature. Nobody was in yet, which was odd for me. I wasn’t an early bird and I had no interest in the worm. At least, not since I got out of the Navy. I hated every regimented minute of my time on the ships. About the only thing that stuck with me was the drinking. Organization, too. They really pounded that shit into you, like brainwashing.

  From tours across the East Asian Ocean to docking in Hawaii, I’d sailed the world with quarter-bouncing beds and perfectly coiffed hair, which was probably why I let it go shaggy now.

  I made it my goal to be late, hungover, and still a pastry god. Sophia might get annoyed with me, but she would never fire me. Unless, of course, she found out about the marriage thing.

  Fuck.

  I threw my whisk across the kitchen. I’d been whisking so hard, my cream turned to butter. I’d have to start over. I meticulously cleaned up splattered lumps of soft butter when a tiny shadow fell over me.

  Lena.

  “Is something wrong? I heard a loud noise.” She glanced around at the mess.

  “Nothing at all, Boss Lady. Just missed the bowl.” I wiggled the washcloth next to her butt. “Would you like some butter with your buns?”

  She snorted. “Okay, well, I’m going to finish up some ordering and call Crazy back. She texted me two hundred times in twenty-four hours. I’m considering sending them to the Guinness Book of World Records for consideration.”

  “She’d be thrilled if she won.”

  Lena lingered a little longer than necessary. “I’m sorry I got us into this mess,” she said finally.

  “I’m the one who convinced you to join me in Vegas and to leave the pastry convention early.”

  “Okay, but I have a suspicion I was behind the drive-throughs.” Lena waited a beat. “All of them.”

  “For someone who could afford lobster and caviar flown in daily, you really enjoy pink slime burgers and lard beans.”

  Lena didn’t say anything, but the corners of her mouth turned down.

  I wanted to tell her it was fine. She didn’t talk me into anything I didn’t already want to do. Or even that her fast food addiction was adorably gross. All of that guilt coursing through her eyes told me enough. She wanted this fixed and fast. Before Sophia knew, before her family knew, before anybody knew.

  I don’t know why I persuaded Lena to come with me to Vegas. Okay, that’s a lie. You’ll find I do that often. Not intentionally; call it self-preservation. I persuaded her to join me because she was the one person I didn’t have to try very hard around. She could meet me joke for joke, freeing me to be myself.

  That was why I couldn’t get her out of my head. Well, that and the fact she was gorgeous. All soft lines and petite features. You’d have to be batting for the other team to not find Lena Beaumont gorgeous. Her sweet, but a little scary vibe was on point.

  I didn’t want her. Not in that way. I hadn’t lied about not sleeping together. Lena had passed out after using my arm as a chew toy. The night hadn’t felt even remotely sexy. More like best friends.

  Which was what I was going to keep telling myself every time I had to readjust myself the moment I saw her or when her cute little smile perked up the whole damn kitchen. Or when she couldn’t find her pencil stuck in her hair and then bit said pencil as she poured over accounts.

  Definitely when she flounced into the kitchen at closing time with a bottle of champagne and a smile so smoking hot it could vaporize diamonds.

  I’d just have to get through service where I could go home and drink myself stupid. I’d never had a serious girlfriend, and it wouldn’t make sense to start now. I wouldn’t know what to do with one.

  More importantly, I wasn’t lonely. Plenty of women were fascinated by my outrageous sugar creations. They came for my art in the kitchen, but stayed for my art in the bedroom. It was important not to be selfish. I didn’t hold with that nonsense about foreplay being for pussies. Was it better for the pussies? Doubtful. I sure as fuck enjoyed it when a woman came on my mouth, screaming my name in hers.

  That was the beginning of our night. I made sure each and every girl was good and wet and revved up before always putting on a condom. I had yet to meet the woman who would make me consider sharing DNA with them. My shitty childhood made sure of that. I doubted a woman existed who could change my mind.

  Which was another reason why Lena should stay far away. Besides growing up privileged and protected from the realities of life, she clearly was the two point five kids, picket fence type. This slightly wild stage was for show. Annoy the old man, get all the fucks out of her system, and settle down to suburban life with her slightly sordid stories of kissing a girl with cherry Chapstick to smile at while burping a colicky baby at 4:00 a.m.

  While I could certainly help her with a few of those things, I wasn’t the type to settle. Not for mediocrity, not for second best, not for life.

  I wasn’t an ass. Every girl I was with knew the deal. We could keep fucking, but that was the extent of our connection. Lena, however, would care.

  For the rest of the day, I planned my plated desserts for the holiday season. Notes of cinnamon and allspice, peppermint and marshmallow. Gingerbread. Lots of gingerbread. Sugar and chocolate occupied all of my thoughts as I tempered its finicky richness into a molded Christmas tree.

  By the time I resurfaced, the line cooks were already firing off butternut squash soups with frizzled leeks and a brown butter swirl and roasted Brussels sprout salads with bacon jam. The dinner rush had begun.

  I took my cakes out of the fridge to frost. Someone else could cut and serve. I needed out of this suddenly suffocating aluminum trap where Lena’s presence filled every corner.

  “Puck, could you come here?”

  Fuck.

  Lena.

  I untied my apron and washed my hands. “Yeah, what’s up?”

  Lena crooked her finger and we watched out of the door’s window at the dining room. Even under the dim lights and black wood wall panels, the bright green, retro leather chairs and tabletop succulents popped. It was a beautiful design and I know Lena had more than a little to do with it.

  “See her?” Lena asked.

  I nodded. Who hadn’t? The woman was young and fashionable. Most of the men craned their necks to stare at her long mahogany hair and tight dress.

  “I have a hunch she’s an Instagram influencer. I’ve seen her around at a few openings and events. She’s asked to meet our famous pastry chef. It’d be good to leave her with a sweet taste in her mouth, but I can decline if you want to get out of here.”

  “And deprive her of my good looks and winning personality? Don’t worry, Boss Lady. I’ll handle her.”

  I slicked back my shaggy hair with a practiced hand and entered the buzzing dining room. Sophia would be thrilled. Candles flickered romantically, the music was soft, and the ambiance was perfectly romantic, yet upscale. They had done a beautiful job building an atmosphere.

  The table of women were chatting over chocolate martinis about their dinner plans and the upcoming holidays. I put both palms on the table and smiled as I leaned over the busty brunette Lena had pointed out. “Did everyone get a taste of dessert?”

  All three of them giggled.

  “It was so yummy,” they raved.

  “But it barely compares to your own deliciousness,” I assured them.

  I knew exactly how to continue this night. A few more words, a subtle smile, and they would beg to spend the night.

  Truth was, I didn’t feel like being with anyone tonight. Unless it was Lena. She was genuinely fun to be around and not for sex. It was unnerving.

  Okay, that was a lie, too. I wanted her for the
sex, too. I wanted to brush her long, honey hair off her neck, tracing it back with my fingertips, and feel her shiver at my touch. I wanted to roll her shirt slowly off her shoulders, kissing the lines where her bra clung too tightly.

  I wanted to feel her body react to mine, molding against my skin, hot to the touch.

  I craved everything I couldn’t have.

  The ladies were saying something about a new nightclub in the Gold Coast. Maybe this was okay. Lena was probably right. Not only was pretending this marriage was something more than a drunken mistake detrimental to our friendship, but it jeopardized everything I’d worked hard to achieve.

  It was time to put my rusty Navy skills to work and shut down all emotions around Lena Beaumont.

  No flirting, no touching—better yet, I wouldn’t even look at her. Absolutely nothing after work, either. The days where we grabbed a drink after last service were officially over. If it hurt her feelings, well, that would be my cross to bear.

  Also by Hadley Harlin

  Melted (Cooking up a Celebrity Book 1)

  Fired (Cooking up a Celebrity Book 3)

  Coming Winter 2020: A Manor of Faking It is the first book in a steamy new duet that will conclude with A Manor of Taking It. If you like Downton Abbey, fake relationships, second chances, betrayals, feisty heroines, and broken heroes, read on!

  A Manor of Faking It (Clarion Abbey Duet Book 1)

  About the Author

  Hadley hides out in her vegetable garden, penning steamy romance novels that would make her organic neighbors blush redder than a radish. If they knew. She also frequently dodges requests to join her two kids’ PTA board meetings to make room for her other hobbies.

  In her spare time, Hadley loves skydiving, funky red wines, and Harley-Davidson bikes, hopefully in the same day. Just kidding. Drinking while skydiving would be dangerous.

  Visit her below or at https://hadleyharlin.com