by Ava Claire
There was an emptiness in my gut; a void that grew with every mile that separated me from Hush. From Sophia.
I'd been running from the truth; scared shitless by the prospect of being vulnerable again. Of having something to lose again.
I was sleepwalking before Sophia. Going through the motions. My loneliness masqueraded as indifference, when I just wanted someone that I couldn't live without. Someone who wouldn't run from my desires. My fear was tangled up in no strings attached, D/s play with submissives that I forgot as soon as the scene ended. I thought I was satiating my needs, but if I was honest, all those nights, I left the building as hollow as I'd walked into it.
I knew now that I had been choosing numbness until Sophia hustled her way into my life. And let's face it - I wanted to be hustled. Like Mary, I had my own suspicions about Sophia's authenticity, but ignored them. I needed to believe the lie because there was something in her eyes that was real. And when I touched her, felt her melt beneath my fingers, felt her body clench and quiver with release, any objections or need to be cautious were irrelevant compared to the bliss of finally waking up.
"I hope you're quiet because you're texting and driving, letting Sin know that you're not gonna make it."
"Only you would hope I'm doing something illegal," I grinned, still pointed in the direction of Melt. I didn't miss the way Mal said 'Sin' like it was something profane. As frustrating as my sister’s heavy handed objections were, I knew they were coming from a place of love and concern.
A crackle and rustling sound flowed from Mal's end and my smile twitched downward into a frown. I'd almost forgotten where my sister was. Was she shifting in those uncomfortable little plastic seats in that cold, dingy waiting room? Was she surrounded by bleary eyed people that had to practically strip down to their underwear to get a few precious moments with their loved ones?
"Don't worry about me, okay?" I said gently. "I'll be just fine."
I knew what I should say next. Mallory was not a girl of few words, but the silence stretched between us. Her expectations, her yearning, reached into my chest and clenched my heart.
I wrenched the words from my mouth like I was pulling teeth. "Tell Mom I said hello."
I ended the call before Mallory could make my last sentence into a bigger deal than it was, and pushed the past from my mind. I couldn't think about my sister, or my mother, or Caity. This was all hands on deck: lights, camera, action.
I drew to a stop at the valet station in front of Melt. I erased everything from my demeanor except business as I tossed the valet my keys and a tip, ignoring the chorus of photographers buzzing on the sidewalk. After I checked in with the stammering hostess, I held my breath as she scanned her list for Peter Rhodes' name. The cowardly, hidden part of me hoped that Sophia would be too ashamed to show her face. We could be cowards together and both languish in regret because every day apart would make it easier to dodge each other. Easier to make excuses for why it all turned out for the best.
"Here they are!" The hostess exhaled with relief, like she'd expected me to bite her head off otherwise.
‘They’.
She was here.
"Right this way, Mr. O'Connell."
I kept my eyes forward, though I felt the gaze of others following my journey toward the private room near the back of the restaurant. By now, the manager had been alerted of my arrival, and the waitstaff was crossing their fingers, praying I wasn't seated in their section.
I said a prayer of my own, but nothing prepared me for the glimpse of her.
Her dark locks, free and loose last night, were divided into two braids that weaved to the crown of her head. It drew the eye to the sultry line of her neck. My eyes swept across the soft, chocolate curls that grazed her skin.
My cock pulsed as I remembered the way it felt to wrap my fingers around her neck and feel her swallow as she looked up at me with those trusting blue eyes. I was tangled up in memories and sensations, my nostrils flaring indignantly as we moved closer. Did she have to wear a black dress that dipped so low in the back, material criss crossing against her fair skin? Did she have to massage the neck that I was staring at, longing for, like she felt my gaze on her? When the hostess announced my arrival, did she have to whip her head to the doorway, like she'd been waiting with bated breath for me to show up? Did she have to drink me up, those beautiful damn eyes of hers brightening with hope before she bit her beautiful damn bottom lip in a way that made my stomach flip flop?
I didn't even notice that there were other people in the room until some lean, shaggy haired man blocked my view of her. He extended his hand to shake mine.
"Mr. O'Connell, thank you so much for agreeing to meet with us." When I didn't shake his hand, he ruffled it through his messy dark hair with a nervous chuckle instead. "I'm Peter Rhodes."
I nodded in acknowledgement, trying to act indifferent, but it was in vain when I locked eyes with Sophia. She rose from her chair, gliding over and coming to a stop beside Peter, practically shoulder to shoulder. Jealousy flashed through me like a bolt of lightning and I flicked my eyes between them. Even he seemed a little surprised by her proximity and when she took a tiny step to her left, it just fanned the bite of curiosity. Who was this guy? And more, what was this urge to take a step in her direction and let him know what was what?
Some man stands beside a woman that's not even yours, that you don't even know beyond the lies she's told, and you're ready to deck him?
My sister was right...coming here was a mistake.
"And I'm Sophia," she said quickly, red pinching her cheeks. She wisely didn't hold out her hand for me to shake, but I felt a jolt of nostalgia regardless, remembering how taken aback I’d been when she'd jerked her hand out the night we met.
"Are you now?" I said, the words seeping from behind clenched teeth.
Now Peter looked back and forth between the two of us, confused.
The hostess was long gone, replaced by a waitress whose voice squeaked as loudly as my nerves.
"Can I get you anything to drink, Mr. O'Connell?"
"The magazine is covering lunch of course," Peter chirped, and when Sophia shot him a look, he shrugged, like he was doing me a favor.
"I can certainly afford my own drink." Under normal circumstances, I would have added a chuckle, a gleam in the eye, or a smirk to signify that I was joking, but I didn't bother.
Sophia flashed me a strained grimace and I mirrored Peter's shrug. "That's why audiences tune in, right? To watch me be an asshole? The only reason I'm relevant is because I'm the man the world loves to hate. That's why you brought me here, isn't it?"
Sophia turned those eyes on me full blast and I almost forgot that I was angry with her. I forgot everything except how those eyes had captured me behind a mask. Now, in the light of day, unobstructed, they told me it was okay to let go. That I was enough.
"No, Desmond. That's not why we asked you here. You're here because in a world of bullshit, you chose to tell a man the bitter, ugly truth." Her voice was precise and deliberate but gentle, her lips rounding ever word. "This story is about a man that's so much more than he seems."
I blinked, struggling to ignore the pull to kiss her. She was the enemy, out to make a fool out of me for a buck or two. She was a stranger, little more than a willing submissive, even if she was just pretending. But she wasn't looking at me like an enemy, scouting out weak points to exploit. And her gaze wasn't that of a stranger, or even someone that had only known me for a month.
"Why don't you give us a minute?" Peter addressed the waitress, but he'd snuggled up beside Sophia, practically throwing an arm around her shoulder.
Sophia darted back to her seat, avoiding both our gazes. Peter and I had ample time to stare each other down in the seconds between his not-so-subtle display and my smug chuckle. I let it go and claimed the seat to Sophia's right. There was clearly some sort of history between them, ancient history for her, but still ripe and powerful for him. As much as I wanted to puff out my
chest and let him know that Sophia was mine, I realized that a) I didn't need to stake my claim and, b) was she? Her eyes told one story, but I needed more than that to trust that I wasn't just a fool, latching onto the first woman that made me feel again.
I'd been to Melt once before. Mallory was a burger aficionado; the bigger, juicier, and messier, the better. When the 'couture' burger spot opened on the trendiest block in the city, and got a hearty endorsement from some foodie Mal followed on Instagram, she dragged me to the establishment. The burger was top notch, but when the check came, I swiped it despite her protests. My little sister wasn't paying a $100 for lunch while I was around. Even if the medium rare was on point, the fries were crisp and inspired, and the decor was plush and enticing.
At the moment, the small room seemed barely big enough to fit the organic, recycled wood table and chairs, and definitely not big enough to accommodate me, Sophia, and this guy's ego.
"Just so you know, we had a few other possibilities, but I'm glad me and Soph decided to go with the infamous Chef Desmond."
She tossed him a glare, but he didn't even make eye contact. I bristled, but bit back my annoyance. 'Soph'? They were on a nickname basis?
"And word on the street is you don't give interviews, so I was definitely surprised when your assistant confirmed this meeting," he continued, taking a swig of his water.
"I agreed to lunch," I corrected smoothly, leveling my eyes on Sophia. She was pointedly studying the menu. Yeah, right—no way was I letting her off the hook. "I'm assuming you have some questions for me?"
She lifted her gaze, her thick, delicious lips rounding as her cheeks filled with heat. "Questions?"
"Surely you're familiar with how interviews work, Miss Slater."
Anyone else would have blushed even deeper, dropping their eyes back to safe territory. Not Sophia. She bumped her knee against mine. And despite my best efforts to pretend this whole meeting meant next to nothing to me, I couldn't stop the smile from stealing across my face. Sophia was fighting one of her own, biting her bottom lip with a gleam in her eye that made me want to sweep everything on the floor, bend her over the table-
"What drove you to share that you were getting rid of the contestant because he was boring?"
Both of us glanced over at the third person in the room, jerked back to the reason we were here in the first place.
For the past few weeks I'd basked in my 180, leaving the man with the reputation in my dust. Kara had tried her best to provoke me, shouting into the earbud that people didn't tune in to watch me be nice to people, then opting for the carrot by pleading with me to at least have some ulterior motive. She wanted the smiles, the helpfulness, the lack of profanity, to all be a ruse before I came back in full force and terrorized the remaining contestants, then crowned ‘America's Chef’.
The truth was, it felt good to not have a permanent scowl on my face. I'd found that while the contestants rarely cried at this stage of the competition, and were practically immune to my berating, they responded well to me calmly explaining where they went wrong instead of wasting minutes picking apart a subpar dish. It felt good to show them, to show the world that I was more than a caricature. And the change in me that made Kara screech like a banshee was because I'd met a woman that showed me that gentleness was just as powerful as the hammer crashing down. And while I still wasn't sure what was real between me and Sophia and what was all show, I knew that letting go, being open to surprises, and switching things up, was a very real gift she’d given me.
"Let's let him get something to eat before we pounce, Peter," Sophia said, an edge to her words.
I realized my silent inner conversation had left me literally quiet, a sure sign of caginess and irritability when in reality, I was anything but. Before Peter's frown became etched in stone, I spoke up. "I'm fine with answering the question. It's a fair one, considering I started this meeting by lamenting my reputation." I brought my glass of water to my lips and wet my tongue, smirking along the rim as I watched Sophia's bright eyes follow my every movement. I had a feeling if I'd acted upon my daydream a few moments ago, I'd get no protests from her. In fact, the way she bit her lip and tugged at her dress like the temperature had shot upward several degrees, she even encouraged it. And all the while, as she undressed me with her eyes, she still saw the other part of me. The businessman, the face of America's Chef; a man that was more than a hollering douchebag. "I've done this, hosting and producing reality TV content, for five years." I lowered my glass back to the table like I was unpacking the heaviness, the stress, and the numbing unfulfillment. "I've gone through the motions and because of that, five years feels like a lifetime. And the legacy I've built over that lifetime is not a legacy I've always felt proud of.
“When Roger came to me after we stopped rolling and asked me an honest question, I had reached my boiling point. So I did something that probably wasn't very wise, was definitely a little selfish, but ultimately, was the right thing to do. He's a damn good chef, but unfortunately, the show isn't about good food. It's about drama and good television." I looked at them both. They were reporters, the enemy, the last people I should be telling any big reveals or secrets to—and then I said something that would make Kara's head explode. I told the truth. "When I began this journey, I wanted to help people. This probably sounds a bit hyperbolic, but I think good food and people who are passionate about food builds and strengthens community. The kitchen table was the one place where my mother, sister and I came together and there were no phones, no distractions and we connected for those moments over food. America's Chef has lost sight of that. We've gotten so tied up in bells and whistles and ratings that we've forgotten the humanity, the authenticity that sent me to the culinary field in the first place." The emotion was ripe in my voice. I wasn't even at Melt, in my mind I was back in the kitchen at the house I grew up in with the awful wallpaper and mismatched furniture. All the ingredients for my mother's famous spaghetti stretched from the counter to the stove. My sister was groaning about the ‘no phone’ thing and I wanted to be anywhere but stuck in the house with my mom and kid sister. My mother called me over and took me through the recipe, insisting that every woman was a sucker for a man that was good in the kitchen. And when I tasted the end product of our work, warmth spread in my chest. That became a ritual which led to my love of cooking.
I blinked and was pulled from those beautiful, painful memories. And the way Sophia was looking at me, like she wanted to take my face in her hands and kiss away every hurt...it was too much to bear.
I rose from the table, nearly taking out said table, and my chair, in my haste to get away from these feelings. The vulnerability.
Sophia followed suit, her voice soft with worry. "Desmond is everything-"
"I'm fine," I snapped, raising my chin defiantly. Peter was watching with an arched brow, his arms locked against his chest. I focused on that, and didn't look Sophia in the eye. "I have some things to take care of. I'm sure my sappy ass quote will more than suffice for your magazine's purposes. ‘Desmond the Douche has Gone Soft’ or whatever titillating headline you have floating around in your pretty little head will suffice." I lowered my voice slightly, just loud enough for her to hear. "We both know you tell one hell of a story, 'Soph'."
I walked away from her for the second time in less than twenty four hours. It should have been easier the second time around.
It wasn’t.
Chapter Three: Sophia
My breath came in jagged, staccato pants. My heat raced, punching wildly against my ribcage like I was halfway through some triathlon and seriously doubting my sanity for leaving the start line in the first place. But my grip was steady and sure, my fingers locked around irrefutable evidence that my boyfriend was a lying, cheating sack of shit.
I’d promised myself that I’d wait right here, at the foot of his bed, until he strolled in after his poli-sci class, probably armed with some politician status BS. A logical reason for the underwear in my fist. The sad
part was, his smooth tongue, and the way he had with words, was a huge part of why I’d fallen for Damon in the first place. He made me feel like it was okay that I didn't live in Ulta, and wasn’t sure where I wanted to be after graduation, but I knew I wanted to write. He made me feel like I was as sexy in my jeans and t-shirt as the other girls around campus were in their carefully curated outfits. The looks we got around school, where girls and guys alike gawked at the resident bad boy settling down with the quiet girl from the campus newspaper thrilled me because when Damon caught them looking, he’d do something completely outrageous like dip me backwards and plant a kiss on me that no one with eyes could look away from.
I dropped my eyes to the tangle of strings and lace and the tears that I refused to let fall clouded my view. What did all that mean, what did all that matter if he was whispering the same sweet nothings to some other girl? What did ‘I love you’ really mean if he could say it, then hurt me so deeply?
I heard the familiar jingle of keys in the lock and the tears in my eyes hardened to ice. I’d left my backpack on the couch, along with a special surprise for my boyfriend. I’d created a sexy trail of breadcrumbs that consisted of my jeans, then my t-shirt, then my sweatshirt, leaving only my bra and panties on my body. I’d crawled into his bed, burrowing under the covers when I felt a tickle, expecting to find some pair of boxers or one of his old t-shirts tangled up in the sheets. Instead, I threw the covers back and realized I had some girl’s thong wrapped around my toe.
I pushed aside the hurt, the overwhelming urge to throw up, to scream, and focused my glare on his door. It was open a sliver and I imagined he was pulling off his own backpack and any moment, he’d notice my stuff strewn all over the place, and burst into the room expecting some afternoon delight. I’d throw the panties at his head and then-