Reality of Love Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Marika Ray

  Suddenly it was of paramount importance that I remember as much as I could. Like the bare, curvy, smooth legs that led to a string bikini and booty cheeks I wanted to squeeze with my bare hands. Then she’d spun around—thank you, Jesus—and I got the goods from the front. A flash of dark nipples pointed at me before she covered them up, her black lacy thong also sheer enough to show me her impeccable shaving habits.

  Believe it or not, all that goodness was not what struck me the most. I know, I know. You think I was blinded by her sexy, almost-naked body like any warm-blooded male. And yes, I was. For a split second only.

  Because then I looked up at her face.

  And I realized there really was an angel in the room.

  Her eyes were open wide with surprise, sparkling with the kind of energy and sass that perked up some twisted part of me that liked a girl with a little edge. Her lips. I was getting hard again just thinking about those pouty lips painted a sinful red. I wanted to hold her face and nibble on those lips, stick my thumb in there and watch her take me inside. Those lips were naughty, made to do wicked things. And I wanted to be the one they devastated.

  Shit, now I was fully erect, by myself in my hotel room. I couldn’t jerk off to the memory of one of the show’s judges, could I? Who was I kidding? I totally could. But should I? My body was saying “hell yes,” but my code of ethics was blaring a warning the size of my erection.

  It’s not like she gave me permission to see her in that state of undress, so really, my untimely arrival was an invasion of her privacy. Whacking off to the memory of that invasion seemed like yet another invasion of her privacy. Which would be wrong.

  As much as it pained me—and believe me, it did—I couldn’t do that to her. I had a little sister. I was raised by a single mom. That shit didn’t fly when I was growing up and it sure as shit wasn’t going to fly now that I was an adult making my own decisions.

  Just don’t tell Marcos. He’d never let me live it down.

  So I took another shower—this time ice cold—and then forced my brain to move on to less stimulating things. Like when she’d called me an asshole and told me to stay out of her dressing room. Shit, then I was thinking of her accent and how hot that was to hear her curse in her native language.

  That line of thinking wasn’t working and there was no way I was taking another cold shower. I mean, I was out of towels to dry off with at this point. It was time to go over my recipes. We were told tomorrow would be the first challenge: cooking and presenting our signature dish. No one would be eliminated this soon, but we were warned first impressions would be huge, so we had to get it right.

  I went over every step in my head, thinking of ways to put a new twist on my favorite dish, areas that could trip me up, and ways to get it done to perfection in the one-hour time limit they gave us. I was just about to pull the biscuits, light as a feather, out of the oven, when I drifted off to sleep.

  For the second night in a row, I dreamed of a brunette. But this time, I knew exactly what she looked like prancing around giving me my own private striptease.

  The bright lights were hotter than I imagined. Add in the heat from the ovens that were already preheated and I wondered if poor Dale might pass out from dehydration before the day was over. I’d never seen a guy sweat as much as him, and I’d been a football player all throughout high school. I wasn’t opposed to a good, healthy sweat now and then, but the dude—honest to God—had three full-size bath towels with him. That didn’t bode well for me with my station right next to his. I was in the splash zone.

  “Okay, we’re going to get things started with our beautiful host and then the judges will each say a few words. And then it’s go time.” Tom was running around the set, getting all the crew and cameras where he wanted them, not even stopping while he hollered directions at us.

  “Oh Lordy, I hope I don’t burn anything.” Brandy was pacing in the small space behind her counter. I was coming to find out she was quite the worrier, that big smile not carrying over into confidence in herself.

  “Ha! Do ne wo b th,” Jason muttered as he stared down at his counter, moving ingredients around on the granite a millimeter here or there.

  I glanced over at Dale for help, but he too was frowning at Jason while he mopped his neck. Guess he hadn’t heard what he said either. Christ on a cracker, that guy was hard to understand.

  Time to have some fun with this crazy cast of characters. “Did you hear about the Italian chef that died?”

  Three pairs of eyes looked up at me in question.

  “He pasta way.”

  Dale rolled his eyes. “Hardy har, funny man.”

  I shrugged. “I cannoli do so much.”

  Brandy giggled and I tossed her a grateful look. Someone appreciated my diffusion of the stress around here.

  “His recipes are a pizza history.”

  I heard a snort behind me. Whipping around, I saw the judges were now seated at the head table off to the side of the set. I couldn’t tell where the snort came from, but Elle’s gaze flicked away from mine as soon as I saw her.

  Interesting.

  She was wearing a stunning yellow dress, the high collar highlighting her slender neck. Her arms were bare except for a huge stack of gold bangle bracelets up one forearm. The material hugged her breasts before disappearing behind the table. What I wouldn’t have given to see her legs right now. See if they were bare. See if she had those tall heels on again. The ones I wanted to see resting on my shoulders.

  Goddammit. I had to focus. Not on Elle, but on the competition ahead. I was here to show off my cooking skills, not make a fool out of myself by hitting on the unattainable judge who was so out of my league it was hilarious.

  My gaze moved left and I saw Bertrand Paul seated beside Elle, his smart bow tie the same bright yellow as her dress. Thankfully, I suspected he was gay, otherwise I would have been insanely jealous they were close enough to coordinate outfits. A quick glance right and I noticed Michael Fin was checking out Elle with a level of scrutiny that did fire up the jealous beast in my chest. I didn’t like the way he looked at her. Like she was a forgone conclusion. A conquest to be boasting about over drinks with his douchebag friends.

  I placed one foot over the other and spun back around with purpose to face my fellow contestants, my head pointed straight ahead. I couldn’t even see Elle out of my peripheral vision, which was the perfect situation to keep my focus on what mattered: winning this thing and rescuing my sister. My last name was Cox, but that didn’t mean I needed to be thinking with my cock.

  “Okay! Let’s have the contestants ready at your stations. Judges, you’re on!” Tom’s voice carried over the whole set, thanks to a bullhorn he’d procured at some point.

  “Oh, Lordy, here we go. Here. We. Go.” Brandy sounded like she might pass out before the camera lights even turned green.

  Jason was back to mumbling incoherently and Dale did a final mop-up job to his face and neck before stowing his towel behind his counter where it wouldn’t be seen on camera. As for me, I spun back around, but pretended I had blinders on. Ones that specifically kept me from seeing the perfection that was on my left at the judges’ table.

  The set went silent and the host, Lindsey, introduced the first competition and then sent it over to the judges for their advice and talking points. She had to do that take several times before Tom was happy with it. Then they set the cameras up in front of the judges’ panel. They went through quite a few takes there before they were satisfied. It took all the willpower I possessed to not watch Elle’s segment like a preteen’s first crush. Unfortunately, I could still hear her.

  What can I say? That accent got to me. I’d taken the required Spanish classes in both high school and college, but nobody rolled an “r” like a native speaker.

  After a full hour of takes, Tom was ready for us to actually do the damn competition. I was already tired of being on my feet and I hadn’t even started yet. Surely none of us had any idea it took this amoun
t of work to shoot a cooking show. Damn Hollywood, making it look quick and easy.

  The cameras came on and Lindsey welcomed us to our first day of competition. I smiled it up for the camera while my mind was spinning, going over the steps I’d have to take first to make my dish. We’d already filmed introductions yesterday, so all that was left to do was start cooking.

  We did that intro scene a couple more times and then it was our big moment.

  The buzzer went off and the four of us leapt into motion, scrambling for our ingredients and trying not to do anything embarrassing in front of the cameras. I put everything behind me and focused on making the best damn biscuits and gravy Elle—I mean, all the judges—had ever tasted.

  I cracked eggs with a flourish, tossing the shells into the garbage from ten feet away, raising my arms up in victory when I scored a basket. Then I was measuring flour, sugar, and baking soda. The blender came out and made a mess when I hit the start button on too high of a speed. Nothing to do but laugh about it since I now had flour all over my Screaming Alchemist Bar & Grill dark navy T-shirt.

  It was now time for my special sauce. I fried, then finely chopped some applewood smoked bacon, adding that into the biscuit dough. I formed each biscuit into the perfect ball shape and put them into a glass pan. As long as the biscuits were light, there wasn’t too much to them. The bacon would add a little fun, but the real kicker was the gravy.

  So while my flaky buttermilk biscuits were in the oven, it was time to get my gravy started. I sautéed a brown maple sausage the crew had a hard time locating for me yesterday. I’d insisted it was necessary and after calling around to a variety of butchers, they’d found it for me.

  Once that was sautéed just right, I drained some excess oil and added butter. Yes, I drained oil and then added butter. Sounded insane, but I swear exchanging the two fats made for a change in the consistency you could feel in your mouth. Then I added flour and then whole milk. Hopefully no one on the judges’ panel was on a diet.

  The timer on the oven let out a soft ding and I slid out the biscuits that had just a touch of brown on the top. A cameraperson came by and took a close-up of my biscuits and no, that ain’t a euphemism.

  With five minutes left on the clock, I plated the biscuits and poured the gravy overtop. Lastly, I added some freshly ground pepper. But not too much! I’d found out the hard way the pepper in those grinders was fresh and potent. Which almost tripped me up at the last second as my thoughts drifted to Elle and her fiery disposition after I’d walked in on her. But Austin Cox was no quitter. I’d finish this competition and even if I lost, I’d go out knowing I put my best food forward.

  At the final buzzer, I dropped a sprig of sage on each plate, the hint of green giving the dish a refined appearance. I dropped my hand towel and backed away from my counter with my hands raised, palms out. Done. Finito.

  The cameras finally stopped filming and crew members filed out to place our dishes on carts. The judges all got Brandy’s entree, a Southern fried chicken that looked like something I’d eat a bucket full of and still ask for more.

  Brandy stood front and center as the judges each took a fork and knife to her chicken. She wrung her hands and shifted from foot to foot. I’d bet the cameras were eating up her nervousness, knowing it would lead viewers to the edges of their seats.

  I almost fell under the Elle Fierro spell, watching those lips chew the chicken carefully, her eyes masking any emotion. I had to physically drag my gaze away and focus on Bertrand. The guy didn’t have a poker face at all. If it was bad, you’d know it right away. Michael was animated, but I couldn’t look at that fucker for fear he and everyone else would know I hated him. Which really wasn’t fair, he’d only looked at Elle the same way I did yesterday. But I knew my intentions. I didn’t trust him further than I could throw him.

  “All right, Bertrand. Let’s hear it. How’s that fried chicken of Brandy’s?” Lindsey was moving them along, unconcerned with Brandy’s nerves.

  Bertrand carefully wiped the corners of his mouth before speaking. “The chicken was cooked to perfection. Very juicy and flavorful. The skin was crispy and light. Overall, I’d say that’s one of the best pieces of fried chicken I’ve ever had.”

  Brandy nearly collapsed with relief, sagging to a bent-over position before straightening back up with her signature broad smile back in place.

  I was happy for her. You couldn’t help but cheer on such a nice person.

  “Ms. Fierro. Did you feel the same way?” Lindsey asked.

  Elle inclined her head, her hair in another intricate twist on the back of her head. “It was delicioso. Muy bien, Brandy. You have talent I want to taste more of.” A soft smile completed her review.

  Brandy looked ready to jump up and down.

  Michael gave his glowing review and then the crew cleared the plates and replaced them with Jason’s dish.

  “Your sauce on top of the enchilada was very interesting. A nice spicy top note on a traditional dish. However, the enchilada itself was a bit lacking in originality for me. I think you can do better.” Michael grilled Jason and a bundle of nerves started to swirl in my belly.

  The other judges had better things to say, though Elle agreed with Michael. Jason mumbled something that sounded like “thank you” and went back to his station looking like a whipped puppy.

  Dale was called up next and without his towels to mop up after him, I feared his shirt was turning into a wet T-shirt contest. The judges slowly tasted his barbecue ribs and then gave feedback.

  “Hmm...a perfect texture and amount of grill time,” Elle said. “Though it was a bit too salty for my taste. A bit more brown sugar would have done the trick.”

  I nearly swallowed my tongue fighting back a bark of laughter. I just hoped the cameras weren’t showing our faces right then. Dear God, the overly sweaty man made a recipe too salty? I barely knew Elle, but I wanted to offer up a toothbrush and mouthwash. Drinking bodily fluids was asking a bit too much of the judges if you asked me.

  And then it was my turn.

  My biscuits and gravy were placed in front of the judges and I hoped they hadn’t cooled off or the gravy hadn’t gotten that weird milk skin on top to ruin the whole damn thing. Elle glanced at me quickly before picking up her knife and fork to dig in.

  My heart leapt up into my throat and I didn’t know if my lungs were still functioning. I got a little light-headed under the bright lights and the examination of the judges. I should have been watching all three of them equally, but I couldn’t seem to look away from Elle tasting my food for the first time.

  Cooking is an oddly intimate thing. Normally cooking for my loved ones, I ended up putting my heart and soul into everything I prepared. And here was Elle Fierro, chef extraordinaire and Spanish goddess, putting my food in her gorgeous mouth. Her pink tongue darted out to lick up a drop of gravy that landed on her lush bottom lip. If it couldn’t be me she was licking, I was glad it was my gravy.

  “What do you think of Austin’s down-home cooking, Bertrand?” Lindsey was smiling like time hadn’t stopped the minute Elle tasted my biscuits. The show must go on, I guessed.

  Bertrand patted his pursed lips with the cloth napkin and spread it carefully on his lap before addressing me. I died a thousand deaths standing there by myself, waiting for his criticism. This was it. The moment everyone found out I was a fraud. A small-town boy pretending he could hack it amongst world-renowned chefs.

  “I have no idea what I just ate.” Bertrand looked so serious. He wasn’t even looking at me. The weight of a thousand future pitying glances sagged my shoulders. I wanted to nod maturely and accept his criticism, but I was frozen. Stunned in my embarrassment.

  Then his head swiveled and he leveled his gaze at me, his mouth turning into a smile. “But I love it! I want more, more, more!” He smacked his hand down on the table with each repetition.

  It took a hot second for his meaning to get through my fog of insecurity. Once it did, I tilted my head up to
the ceiling and then nearly doubled over with a relieved laugh. Holy shit, he loved my biscuits and gravy!

  “Well then, you keep eating and I’ll get some feedback from Elle.” Lindsey chuckled and then turned to my next executioner. “Would you agree with Bertrand?”

  And that’s when things got really interesting.

  Because Elle laid those gorgeous dark eyes on me and I saw something new in them. I’d seen her look at me with shock, with angry dismissal, and even worse, bored disinterest. But now? Now there was a level of respect and curiosity that lit those eyes with a fire that spoke right to my soul.

  She finally saw me.

  “I knew exactly what I was eating”—she gave a side-eye look to Bertrand that was both adorable and cheeky—“but I do agree on his second point. Austin, your dish was everything it should be and so much more. The surprise of the bacon in the biscuits was original and the gravy was perfectly on point. Well done.”

  The clouds of doubt parted, the sun came out, and with her stamp of approval, I felt like I might actually belong.

  5

  Elle

  Tom gave us a break the next day, allowing for us to sleep in since we’d spent close to sixteen hours filming the first challenge yesterday. I was used to long hours in the kitchen, but filming take after retake was a new form of torture my body wasn’t used to. I ran a hot bubble bath in my hotel room, letting the water and the guitar solo station I favored on Spotify seep the stress and strain from my muscles.

  I was due at the studio at one to get the directions for challenge number two. Tom had let it slip last night to us judges that we’d be paired up with a contestant even though we were outnumbered. Since no one was to be voted off after the first challenge, the bottom two contestants would have to share a judge as a form of punishment. I wasn’t sure who he was punishing with that setup, the judge who drew the short stick or the contestants.