If You Can't Take the Heat

by Melissa Brown

  One way or another, Charlie Hutchins would, once again, be a star.

  Cut!” Chris yelled into his megaphone from the sidelines. “Get control of your station, Rancourt.”

  With stiff posture, rigid muscles, and tight fists, Wes looked rattled, frustrated, and ready to snap. Whitney couldn’t read his mind, but she knew things hadn’t gone as he’d planned for the third round of competition. After besting two opponents, he and Charlie had both secured their spots in the final sixteen. Production had begun on the first episode of this round, which would focus more on the contestants who’d made it this far.

  Wes sailed through the first two rounds, coming out on top and sending two competitors to pack their bags, but today he was off. Two pans slipped right out of his hands and crashed to the ground. He dropped his slotted spoon into a boiling corn pot. And he was sniffing everything—every ingredient, every utensil. His behavior was nothing if not peculiar.

  Whitney and Chris had managed to play it cool with one another. After a week of filming, even after she’d confessed to him that she was seeing not only Charlie, but Wes as well, Chris seemed to accept that Whitney’s personal affairs would not affect the show, and so they’d maintained a truce. Because of this, she didn’t hesitate to make a request.

  “Hey, can I check on him? See what’s going on? He’s not himself.”

  Chris released a sigh. “Fine, whatever.” He lowered his voice. “No touching—remember who’s watching.”

  Whitney resisted the defiance rising within her and the impulse to roll her eyes at her producer. “Of course. I’ll be professional.”

  “Okay.” He grabbed his megaphone once again. “All right, people, let’s take five.”

  The shrill bell rang, allowing the contestants to take a short break. Joe reduced the heat on his stove, giving one last stir before preheating his oven and chatting with Coralee, who covered a bowl with plastic wrap as she smiled at her competition. Charlie remained at his station, slowly stirring his white wine reduction, a satisfied look on his face. Whitney locked eyes with him for a brief moment, and the mischievous expression turned quickly to a nonthreatening smile.

  What are you up to?

  Wes was leaning into the counter as Whitney approached, his fingers gripped like a vise around the butcher block. He eyed Whitney with a clenched jaw and pinched lips.

  “Hey,” she whispered. “You okay?”

  “No.” His eyes tightened and he bared his teeth. “Someone sabotaged my station.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Grab that pan.” He raised his chin at a saucepan on the back burner of his stove.

  Whitney reached for the pan, but it was so slick, it slipped right from her fingers, clanging into the corn pot bubbling below. “What is this? Oil?”

  “Olive oil. Smell it.”

  Whitney took a small whiff of the nearest utensil, breathing in its earthy scent.

  “It’s on everything,” Wes continued. “The tools, the pans, the floor under the stove, everything.”

  Ah. No wonder he’s been sniffing everything in sight.

  “Who would do this?” Whitney looked around at the other fifteen contestants, hoping Charlie wasn’t responsible, but his mischievous smile indicated otherwise.

  So much for being an understanding adult. Roslyn was right about him after all.

  “Let me tell Chris. We’ll get it cleaned up.”

  “No.” Wes shook his head. “It’s fine. I won’t let them get to me.”

  Whitney lowered her voice. “They already have. You’re not yourself.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” His nostrils flared as he looked around the set, lowering his voice to Whitney with a look of warning. “Do not say anything to Chris—I need to handle this myself. I’m not a snitch.”

  “Okay,” Whitney conceded. “Do what you gotta do. But if you change your mind, we can have a totally clean station for you in minutes. Just say the word.”

  “I appreciate it, but it’ll be fine. I’ve wrestled a six-hundred-pound steer to the ground, I can handle a little oil.” Wes exhaled, offering Whitney a calm, collected smile.

  “Seriously? You’ve wrestled bulls? How did I not know this?”

  Wes wiped one hand, then the other on his thick canvas apron with the show’s logo.

  Damn, this man looks good in an apron.

  He raised one eyebrow. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

  “Well”—she leaned closer, but not too close—“I think we need to fix that. Tonight.”

  “You got it.” Wes grabbed a wet dish rag, wiping the handles of his utensils, one by one. He looked past Whitney at Chris. “I think our five minutes are up.”

  “Oh yeah, of course. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  Whitney strolled back toward Chris, nodding to Charlie as she walked past his station. He raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms, looking way too proud of himself. “Hey, love.”

  “Grow up, Charlie,” she muttered so that he, and only he, could hear her. He laughed in response, clapping his hands loudly before wiping them on his apron. Whitney remained stoic, not allowing him to garner an emotional response.

  “Everything okay?” Chris asked. “Are we ready to continue?”

  Whitney remained true to her word. Out of respect for Wes, she wouldn’t tell Chris that one contestant was pranking another, especially considering her involvement with the contestants in question. “Yeah, he’s fine. Just a case of butterfingers.”

  “Can we puh-lease get back to it?” Marcus sneered from behind the judges’ table, pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance. “I have reservations at Spago, for God’s sake!”

  “Yes, Mr. Wright.” Chris picked up his megaphone. “Break’s over. Places, people!”

  “Seriously, Geldermann, get your shit together!” Marcus yelled before taking a sip of his drink and slamming the heavy cup back on the table. Chris’s cheeks flushed and Whitney could hear his heavy breathing. She looked to Saul to step in. He didn’t.

  Oh hell no!

  Whitney grabbed the megaphone from Chris’s hands, and his eyes widened in panic.

  “Whit, what are you do—”

  “Attention, people! Buckle up for a long day, we’re going to do as many takes as necessary. If you have plans later”—she glared at Marcus—“you’d better cancel ’em.”

  Marcus pushed his chair from the table. “I don’t need this! Forget it, Greenberg. I’m out!” He stormed away from the set.

  Saul rose from his seat, glaring at Whitney. “Marcus, please, we can fix this.”

  “Not until that girl is gone!” Whitney heard from the hallway. And for just a moment, she wondered if she’d done the right thing.

  “You didn’t need to do that, ya know,” Chris said next to her.

  Oh, great. If he’s pissed at me too, I’m so done.

  Chris smiled wide. “But it was pretty badass.”

  Oh, thank God!

  “I’ll go apologize.” She handed him the megaphone. “Better to do it now than for Saul to force me later, right?”

  “Probably,” Chris agreed. “We’ll focus on some bios while you’re gone. Don’t wanna waste time. Who knows how long the diva will take to come back . . . if at all?”

  “He’ll be in breach if he doesn’t—Saul will sue him for millions. Besides, he needs the show more than we need him.”

  “You’re right.” Chris patted her on the shoulder. “Thanks for having my back. I’m sorry I’ve been so hard on you. I’m just stressed. I didn’t want Marcus Wright, but Saul did it anyway. That asshole gets under my skin and he knows it.”

  “No worries, I get it. Seriously.” She released a large sigh, cracked her knuckles, and rolled her shoulders, attempting to relax. “Okay, I’ll be back. Unless he kills me, which is a possibility.”

  “Or Saul fires you.”

  Whoa.

  Adrenaline shot through her belly. She could only hope Saul would remember
all of the hard work she’d given the network over the years rather than firing her to appease an asshole like Marcus. She took a deep breath, not allowing Chris to see her concern.

  “If he does, he does.” She shrugged and walked off-set, following the sound of Marcus’s ranting.

  She found Saul and Marcus standing in one of the many conference rooms. Marcus’s cheeks were as red as a fire hydrant as he slammed cabinets shut. Saul’s arms were crossed as he watched the tantrum before him. When he and Whitney locked eyes, he tipped his head to the side, glaring at her over his glasses with a look that screamed “You’d better take care of this.”

  “Mr. Wright,” Whitney said, her hands trembling at her sides. “I want to give you my most sincere apologies for what happened back there.”

  “You”—Marcus pointed one determined finger at her—“are a bitch!”

  “Hey, now.” Saul stepped forward, extending his arm. “There’s no need for that language. Ms. Bartolina is an integral part of our team. She just—”

  “No, Saul, it’s okay,” Whitney interrupted. “He’s right. I am a bitch.”

  Marcus froze in place with raised eyebrows. By some amount of magic, or an extreme amount of Botox, his forehead remained unaffected.

  Whitney continued, “It’s true. I was out of line, I lost my cool. But here’s the thing, Mr. Wright, this team is a family. Chris Geldermann? He’s one of the best damn producers out there and he’s family. I defend my family even when they don’t need it, even when they can hold their own just fine. So, yes, I’m a bitch—and that’s not going to change. Not now, not ever. You mess with my family, you mess with me.”

  Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

  Whitney focused on her breathing, keeping it level and calm. She couldn’t allow Marcus to see the terror looming inside of every cell in her body. The room was silent for a minute, and Whitney’s fear grew as she waited for Saul to fire her on the spot. He closed his eyes, licked his lips, and opened his mouth to speak. She knew what was coming.

  “I respect that,” Marcus said, beating him to the punch. “I don’t like it, but I respect it.”

  Surprise surged through her and she had to stop her eyes from widening and her mouth from dropping to the floor.

  “Thank you.” Whitney tipped her chin forward, disguising her shock.

  “And I’m still pissed.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’ll be taking it out on the contestants. I assume none of them are family?”

  Smartass diva asshole shithead.

  Whitney offered her I’m-too-professional-to-let-you-get-to-me smile. “Nope, have at it.”

  “It’ll make for great TV,” Saul added, crossing the room to Marcus and patting him on the back. “Let’s head back. Can I get you anything?”

  Marcus shook his head. “No. But I’m not missing that reservation, just so you know.”

  Whitney breathed deeply through her nostrils.

  Checkmate.

  “That’s fine, Mr. Wright. Chris is taking care of bios now. I’m sure we’ll be done with plenty of time for your dinner.”

  “All right, then,” he said with a cocky grin, knowing his tantrum was now a success.

  They all returned to the set where, over the course of four hours, Marcus made two contestants cry, one storm off set, and another lose her lunch. And each time the contestants were mortified by the judge, he raised his eyebrows to Whitney, reminding her that she caused their fate. And true to her word, they ended with plenty of time for him to make his damn reservation. God forbid he miss out on smoked salmon pizza with caviar.

  “Oh good God, you’re amazing.” Whitney struggled to catch her breath as she secured the dead bolt to her front door. Her fingers grew weak as Wes stroked her beneath her panties. The cotton sundress gave him easy access and clearly he wasn’t afraid to take advantage of it. She pressed her forehead into the door as his fingers explored, teased, and tickled her most sensitive spot.

  “Don’t stop,” she managed, feeling herself grow closer to orgasm.

  “Not yet,” he whispered into her ear. She groaned, feeling his fingers slip away.

  She struggled to focus her eyes. “What are you doing to me?”

  After returning from a delicious dinner at a local bistro, they’d arrived back at her place. Wes had wasted no time at all, turning her toward the door the moment she closed it, pressing her into the wood as his fingers quickly went to work. But now he was teasing her, bringing her to the brink only to pull away.

  “Trust me.”

  She turned to face him, pressing her lips to his before wrapping her arms around his neck and jumping into his arms, her legs wrapped around his strong waist. He gripped her ass and deepened their kiss. She moaned before pulling away, feeling her desire spread throughout her body. “I want more.”

  Wes smiled. “I’ll bet you do. But you have to ask for it.”

  Whitney turned her lips down in an overly dramatized expression. “Please?”

  “Please what?”

  She hesitated for a moment, narrowing her eyes. “Let me come.”

  His grip tightened on her ass. “You will. Many times, I promise. And they’ll be like nothing you’ve ever felt.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  She was so turned on, so ready for him, she didn’t even realize she was grinding her body to his. He pulled back, shaking his head, carrying her to the leather armchair in the living room and lowering her to the floor.

  “Have a seat.” He gestured to the chair, the one she used for reading saucy romance novels about dukes and maids getting it on in parlors.

  “I don’t want to sit, I wanna—”

  “Sh.” He pressed one finger to her lips. “I told you to trust me.”

  “Okay.” She bit down on her bottom lip, wanting Wes more than she’d ever wanted another person. She had no idea what he had in store for her, but she couldn’t wait to find out. With a wicked half smile, he removed her dress before gripping her panties, yanking them from her body. She sat on the chair, feeling the cool leather against her skin.

  Wes sank to his knees, securing his arms around her thighs and yanking her forward. She gasped as he pressed his lips and then his tongue to her cleft. Her knuckles turned white as she grasped the arms of the chair. Wes flicked, kissed, and pushed her toward orgasm.

  “Oh God, oh God.”

  Then he stopped. Again.

  “Noooooo!” She was spent, exhausted, and in utter agony. She needed to come, she needed it desperately. Wes simply offered her a smile before kissing her inner thighs, one then the other, making her wait, making her sweat with anticipation.

  “You’re killing me.”

  He ignored her, instead licking her hot skin, making his way to her belly button. She could feel her body relaxing, though still desperate for a release.

  “Please, Wes,” she begged. And still, he ignored her, kissing her belly as he squeezed her breasts with strong, needy hands.

  Just when she thought she couldn’t take it any longer, he made his way back down her body, stopping at her clit, assaulting her with his tongue, again pushing her to the very edge of her sanity.

  “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.”

  He stopped.

  “Oh my God!”

  She pressed both hands to her forehead in disbelief. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse. “I swear, I’m going to end up in the nuthouse after this. I’ll be forever known as the woman in the padded room begging for an orgasm.”

  Wes chuckled under his breath. “Soon, I promise you. Just relax.”

  She sat up further, looking into his deep eyes and running her fingers through his hair. “Seriously, what are you doing to me? This is insane.”

  “Just wait.”

  Whitney was a highly sexual woman, not afraid of experimenting or using toys in the bedroom, but no man had ever paid this much attention to her, ahem, lady parts. No man had ever been patient enough—they were
way too busy getting their own jollies to worry about hers. As much as she craved her delayed release, she appreciated his devotion to her pleasure rather than his own. This was new for her.

  Making a decision not to fight it, she lay back and waited. Wes released a laugh, and he knew she’d accepted her fate.

  “Do your worst, Cowboy.”

  This time, he rose to his feet, moving his attention to her breasts, sucking one then the other, back and forth, with her squirming beneath him. The pressure was mounting once again. He must have felt it, heard it, read the movements of her body, because he found his way back down. And this time, he didn’t stop. Within seconds, Whitney was bucking beneath him, pulling at the roots of his hair as she cried out, feeling the most powerful orgasm of her life. Again and again, her entire body spasmed as pleasure shot through her from her toes to her ears. When it finally came to an end, she flopped back down on the leather chair, completely spent, her muscles like jelly.

  “You . . .” She struggled. “You . . .”

  “Sh.” He hovered above her, kissing her forehead. “Just relax.”

  With eyes closed, she heard him walk to the kitchen, his boots click-clacking against the tile. With a low creek, she heard a cabinet open and water flowing from the sink. A moment later, he returned to the chair, handing her an ice-cold glass of water.

  “You should probably have a drink,” he said with a cocky grin.

  Whitney sat up, taking the glass in hand. “Screw water, I think there’s some Red Bull in the fridge.”

  “No,” he said shaking his head, offering his hand and pulling her gently from the chair. He took her spot and patted his thighs. Happily Whitney obliged, climbing into his lap to rest her limbs, still numb from her explosive orgasm. “That stuff’ll kill you.”