If You Can't Take the Heat

by Melissa Brown

  “Nobody,” he scoffed. “She’s drunk . . . and lost.”

  The robust woman snarled at Whitney, crossing her arms, looking more than just a little irritated.

  “I’m not sleeping with your man,” Whitney slurred, sticking up one finger in a matter-of-fact fashion. “I promise.” Then she laughed. It started as a small, awkward laugh at the situation she’d gotten herself into. Then she laughed at how stupid her first laugh was. And then she laughed again when the couple glared at her, totally missing the humor in the situation. Soon, her entire abdomen was seizing in laughter as she steadied herself with the door frame.

  “It’s three in the morning,” the woman grumbled. “Our flight leaves in four hours.”

  Whitney hiccupped again. “Oooh, you’d better get going. Traffic can be a bitch at this time of night.”

  She exploded again in laughter.

  “Rupert, shut the door. She’s drunk.”

  “D-uh uh,” Whitney stuttered. “Of course I’m drunk! He’s sleeping with two women! Two! I thought it was just one, but of course I’m a total and complete dumb ass.”

  “What is she talking about?” the woman asked.

  Whitney stumbled forward, resting a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I’m not talking about him! It’s Nolan . . . it’s always Nolan.” She looked down at herself. “He always does this . . . and now I’m a mess.”

  The woman’s eyes softened slightly as she removed Whitney’s hand from her bathrobe. Whitney grasped, once again, for the door frame.

  “Dear,” the woman began, and for a split second Whitney was comforted by the sound of her voice. “Clearly some man broke your heart. But that’s not our problem. You woke my husband and me out of a deep sleep, and God knows if we’ll be able to get back to it. I suggest you find your room, go inside, and sleep it off.”

  Whitney pressed her eyes tight, finally realizing just how much she’d bothered this poor couple. She regretted her callous laughter, her garbled words, her pathetic rambling about Nolan. “Okay. I—I’m sorry, but can you tell me what room I’m in?”

  The woman sighed, glancing at the unmarked key card. “You don’t know?”

  Whitney shook her head, not embarrassed at all thanks to the vodka seeping through her system.

  The woman exhaled and looked exasperated, but Whitney was grateful her voice was still low. She was pretty sure if someone yelled at her, that’d be the final straw. Every last emotion would spew from her eyes, her lungs, her mouth. She’d lose it.

  “What’s your last name?” the woman asked.

  “Barto—” Whitney burped, covering her mouth. “Sorry. Bartolina.”

  “Fine.” The woman tapped the man on the shoulder. “Call downstairs, find out what room she’s in.”

  “Listen,” Whitney said as she and the middle-aged woman stood in the doorway. “I’m sorry. I hope you can go back to sleep.”

  “It’s fine, I’ll just pick up a book. At my age, it’s almost impossible to go back to sleep after something like this.”

  The man returned to the door. “Room 1232.”

  “They told you? Just like that?” Whitney asked, puzzled. “That would never happen in L.A. Security and shit . . .” She covered her mouth. “Oops, sorry.”

  “This is Montana.” The man shrugged. “Rules are different here.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Rupert, help her find her room.”

  The man tightened his robe and guided Whitney down the hall. “Thank you,” she said over her shoulder to the woman, who was digging her fingertips into her forehead.

  The bald man named Rupert inserted the key card into her door. The light flashed green and he pressed it open, holding it for her and placing the small plastic card into her palm. “There you go.”

  “Thanks,” she said, truly grateful to be in the sanctuary of her room. “I really am sorry for waking you.”

  “It’s fine. Good night,” he said, his words emotionless, dry. He turned to walk away.

  “Have a safe flight,” she called after him.

  He didn’t turn around, just raised his hand in acknowledgment as he headed back to his room, grumbling under his breath. As she watched him walk away, Elle’s words trudged through her fuzzy brain. Elle hadn’t used the word pathetic, but she didn’t have to. It was clear what a moment like this was. She couldn’t be crazy fun Whitney Bartolina for the rest of her life, because crazy fun Whitney did stupid things like make a fool of herself in front of perfect strangers. Maybe it was time to grow up, to face her heart, to decide what she wanted. For real. But that idea always made her panic.

  Whitney stumbled into her room, feeling the desire for human contact—friendly human contact. Aside from the people she’d just bothered, the only ones she knew in Billings were Chris, Katie, and the crew. And she knew none of them would be happy to hear from her at this hour. She dug through her purse, searching for her phone. There was a missed call from Charlie. Without a moment of hesitation, she returned it.

  “Hutchins,” he muttered after three rings.

  “Ooh”—Whitney sat on the edge of the bed—“did I wake you?”

  “Yeah,” he breathed into the phone. “Everything all right?”

  “Yeah, I mean . . .” She paused, feeling the emotions bubble to the surface. “No. He did it again, Charlie. He made a fool out of me. I didn’t think he could do it again, but he did. I just . . . I feel so stupid and I just woke up this old couple and they were pissed and I just . . .” She started to sob. “I needed to hear a friendly voice.”

  “Slow down.” His voice was hoarse from sleep. “Who made a fool out of you?”

  She closed her eyes and sighed, feeling stupid for even mentioning Nolan to Charlie. “Nolan.”

  “The actor? The one at the hotel?”

  She nodded, then realized he couldn’t see her. “Yeah, him.”

  “I see.”

  “I mean,” she began, “I knew it was over. I wanted it to be over, but I was sick . . . and pathetic and I just . . . I fell into his trap, ya know? He pulled me in like he always does, and of course I fell for it because I’m a moron.”

  Charlie laughed. “Oh, bloody hell. You’re not a moron. How much have you had to drink tonight, love?”

  “Is it that obvious?” She covered her mouth as a small burp escaped.

  Water, I need water.

  “’Fraid so,” Charlie answered. She appreciated his honesty, but worried this was way too soon to be showing such vulnerability. She wondered if this would be the last time they’d speak. But then he continued. “Listen to me, love. That Nolan’s a wanker, full stop.”

  She wasn’t quite sure what he was saying, but she liked the tone of his voice. It was soothing, reassuring, and genuine. No longer mortified, she eased herself into the comforting embrace of his words. “Thanks.”

  “What happened then between the two of you?”

  “I called him from Albuquerque—that’s where we’ve been the last few days—and I was stupid thinking he’d changed. He’d said he wanted to take care of me, make things work. Then, today, I’m on a plane, minding my own goddamn business, and I see he’s sleeping with Loren Motherfucking Quigley.”

  “I take it you’re not a fan of hers.” He chuckled.

  “Not at all,” she replied. “But then, I call the bastard and find out that’s not all. He’s sleeping with Gina, too. He promised me he’d never do that again, ever! And now, I’m just . . . God, I don’t know.” She flopped backward onto the bed. The ceiling spun above her and quickly she closed her eyes.

  “Is it over?” Charlie asked. “Are you done?”

  “Yes, of course,” Whitney insisted. “How could I not be? I’m mortified, Charlie, absolutely mortified.”

  “Okay,” he said, his voice gentle. “Here’s what I want you to do. Are you listening?”

  “Mmm hmm.” She felt sleep threatening to pull her into its clutches, but she wasn’t ready to say good-bye to Charlie—sweet, understanding
Charlie.

  “Get a large glass of water, take a few Tylenol, and go to sleep. Everything will feel better in the morning.”

  “You’re the best, ya know that?”

  “Well”—his voice changed from gentle caregiver back to the flirt she was used to—“you can thank me next time I see you.”

  “You know I will,” she purred. Whitney was relieved that her drunken call hadn’t burned a bridge with Charlie. As she said good-bye and ended the call, she drifted into a dreamless sleep, ignoring his well-intended directions, but comforted by the quiet calm of her brain, no longer tortured by the events of the last twenty-four hours.

  If she only knew what the next twenty-four hours would bring . . .

  BILLINGS

  Whitney was officially off the clock and, surprisingly, in a great mood. She’d spent two days in downtown Billings and sent five cooks on to the semifinals. None of them had knocked her socks off but with just two cities left, time was running out. Out of the eight cities visited, fifty-five contestants were chosen to progress in the competition. In order for their competition to work, they needed sixty-four in the first round, so Whitney hoped Portland and San Francisco proved to be hotbeds of culinary talent. She was prepared for anything, though. She’d rather have fewer cooks who were exceedingly talented than a larger group of subpar talent. After all, they would be whittled down to sixteen finalists, so many cuts would be made regardless of the number of people in the next round.

  Katie had caught Whitney’s cold and was resting back at the hotel. Chris was Skyping with his family, and the rest of the crew was taking a much-needed break from the busy weeks of travel they’d experienced. Whitney, however, was feeling restless. Never one to lounge just for the sake of relaxing, she was much more interested in learning more about this fascinating and beautiful city. She’d seen plenty of the downtown area filled with upscale restaurants and bars, but she preferred to see where the locals dined.

  “Hey, love,” Charlie answered when she called him from her rental car. She always enjoyed his term of endearment for her, even though she was pretty sure it wasn’t reserved for her in any way. She was a smart woman, and knew she and Charlie were, in no way, exclusive. But they were having fun, and she’d been speaking to him a few times a week in addition to their flirtatious texts.

  “Hey there,” she murmured as she drove along Highway 3.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Montana.”

  “Oh that’s right, you told me that a couple nights ago. You were pretty, uh . . . how shall I describe it?” He chuckled.

  He was teasing her, but why? Whitney bit down on her bottom lip. A couple nights ago? They didn’t talk then . . . did they? Nah. They hadn’t spoken since . . .

  Oh no.

  The memories clattered through her brain of the bald man named Rupert, the angry woman, and the phone call to Charlie. She slapped her hand to her forehead and felt the sting all the way to her temples. She wanted to crawl under a rock.

  “Listen, about that—”

  “Hey”—his voice was serious—“don’t worry about it. You were having a rough time, you needed to talk to someone, and I was happy to do it.”

  “So that’s it?” she asked, pleasantly surprised by his sincerity and easygoing attitude.

  “What else would there be, love?”

  The truth was, she wasn’t sure what she expected. But part of her was surprised that Charlie wasn’t going to push the issue of her feelings for Nolan or her drunken behavior. Her memory was fuzzy, but she was pretty certain she’d acted a fool.

  “Um, nothing, I guess?”

  “So what’s new with you? What are you doing?”

  “I’m in the car . . . gonna grab a bite to eat,” she said.

  “By yourself?”

  “Yep.”

  “A lot of women wouldn’t do that.”

  “Well,” she flirted, “I’m not a lot of women.”

  “Agreed.”

  The receiver was muffled for a moment and then Whitney heard a woman giggle in the background. She rolled her eyes, knowing Charlie wasn’t alone.

  “Is this a bad time?” she asked, pressing the issue. She wasn’t jealous, per se, but she hated the idea of Charlie with his hands on someone else while they spoke. Especially after everything that had happened with Nolan. She was mortified Nolan had played her, and she was in no mood to play more games.

  “Well, I—I’m at a pub.” He paused. “With some friends.”

  “Um, are you on a date, Charlie?”

  “No, don’t be silly.”

  “It’s okay if you are. We’re not exclusive, you can do whatever you want.”

  “I’m not, love, I swear.” He cleared his throat and laughed into the receiver. “If I was, do you think I’d have answered the call?”

  “Good point.”

  “Look, I’m no angel, but I’ll always be honest with you.” His voice took a serious turn, and Whitney appreciated his candor. “I’m seeing a few ladies at the moment, but nothing serious. And you’re still my favorite.”

  Whitney laughed, shaking her head. Her stomach growled.

  “So where are you headed?”

  “This steakhouse called Wesson’s. It’s supposed to be amazing.”

  During auditions, she’d kept her ears open and asked many of the competitors where they enjoyed dining. Hands down, the consensus was a steakhouse named Wesson’s Steaks & Chops located thirty minutes outside the city. According to the monitor on the dashboard, she was just a few short minutes from the restaurant.

  “Well, enjoy your dinner. I’ll be thinking of you.”

  “Sure you will.” She laughed. “Enjoy your night, Charlie.”

  “Thanks, love.”

  A few minutes later, she arrived at Wesson’s. The building was an architectural work of art constructed of stone and large wooden beams. It resembled a large log cabin with a wraparound porch and two chimneys. When Whitney reached the front door, she turned to see the sun setting beneath the mountains and for just a moment she felt at peace, as if no one could hurt her—not Gina, Loren, or even Nolan. The indigo and burnt-orange sky soothed her and made her pulse slow to a gentle thump beneath her chest. Her hand grasped the large wrought-iron door handle just as it pulled inward.

  “Good evening, Miss,” a young woman said, dressed in a button-down white shirt and black pants. “How many in your party?”

  “Just me,” Whitney said, tucking her sunglasses into her purse and taking in the sight of the restaurant. “Wow, this place is gorgeous.”

  “Is this your first time dining with us?”

  Whitney was transfixed by the decor. It was everything she’d anticipated from Billings, Montana. Two stone fireplaces crackled from opposite ends of the restaurant; large oak tables seated families and couples alike. She did her best to ignore the elk, bison, and mountain lion busts displayed on the walls. She wasn’t naive. She knew hunting was not only socially accepted in this part of the country, but was also necessary to control animal populations from spreading disease. However, the California girl inside wanted to scowl each time she made eye contact with one of the animals on display.

  “Yep.” She nodded. “Do you have a bar?”

  “We sure do.” The hostess smiled. “Right this way.”

  Whitney followed her to the back of the restaurant and took a seat at the bar, overlooking the scenery through a wall of windows. Again she found herself mesmerized by the sunset, by the sights of the city below. The bar overlooked the Yellowstone River that flowed through the hills, and Whitney found herself asking why she’d never traveled to the beautiful state of Montana.

  “Gorgeous, isn’t it?” a soft voice came from behind the bar.

  “Breathtaking.” Whitney exhaled and turned to smile at the bartender, another friendly female face, dressed in the same uniform as the hostess. She was a bit older, with small wrinkles next to each eye, and she stood with a washcloth draped over her shoulder, he
r hair pulled into a tight ponytail.

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Yes, I’d love a dirty martini with extra olives.” Whitney tapped her fingers lightly against the thick wood of the bar. “And I’d love to see a dinner menu, please.”

  “You got it.” The bartender smiled. “I’ll be right back.”

  Within a few moments, Whitney was enjoying the familiar dry taste of gin and vermouth. She sighed with each sip, feeling warmth spread through her chest to the tips of her fingers. After ordering filet mignon with bleu cheese and huckleberry wine reduction, she leaned back in her barstool and ordered another martini.

  When her food was placed in front of her, she took in the sight of the perfectly charred filet bubbling with melted bleu cheese. The huckleberry wine reduction was drizzled in a swirl around the plate. A twice-baked sweet potato covered in whipped butter, and fresh maple syrup was expertly placed next to her steak. The plating was professional, elegant. But she couldn’t wait to devour everything on the plate, destroy it with pleasure. Just as she placed her napkin in her lap, a man cleared his throat.

  “Care to try our house specialty?” a deep gravelly voice asked from behind the bar. Whitney’s breath caught as she took in the sight of him. Tall, with deeply tanned skin, a perfectly shaped nose, and hazel eyes, he leaned toward her with both hands clutching the sides of the bar. He licked his lips then narrowed his eyes at her, a cocky grin forming on his ridiculously handsome face. A flutter in her stomach awoke her libido with a start. He had dark hair with a touch of a widow’s peak and silver strands that glistened beneath the lights above the bar. Stubble also glistened from his square jaw. Normally, Whitney wasn’t attracted to older men, and judging from this sexy man’s appearance, he had at least ten years on her, but there was something about him. He didn’t look like he belonged behind a bar—he looked like he had stumbled in from a cattle ranch. Surely he was a cowboy, not a server.

  “Maybe. What’s the specialty?” she flirted, leaning one elbow on the bar, closing the gap between them.