Flicking through my phone, I landed on Breaking Benjamin, pumping it straight to my brain as I pushed myself to my limit in the hotel’s gym. After thirty minutes, I’d sweated out enough rage to switch over to old videos of Hawthorne during his days on Mouthful. Better to know the beast I’d be working with.
Mouthful was a racy version of The Voice, where aspiring home cooks offered one taste of their signature dish to the judges. Mouthful was when Hawthorne really stormed onto the celebrity food scene, with his pouty mouth and sinful as fuck eyes. There had been more than one woman—and man for that matter—to find themselves tongue-tied during judging. It wasn’t just his looks. People took what he said as truth and rule. He made and destroyed careers with a few simple pronouncements. I wondered if the very strict morality clause in my contract had to do with my co-host’s sexual personae. Based on the wording, which was clearly written by a team of lawyers, Food & Dine would fire me immediately if they whiffed any taint of misconduct during filming. Or during the promotions. Or for a full year after the release date.
I slammed my fist into an innocent punching bag.
How dare Hawthorne act like he didn’t try to ruin my career? Well, it didn’t work. I bounced back, better than ever, and I was still rising.
Slam.
How dare he saunter in as if the show were his, just because he was a famous face? What a chauvinistic prick.
Slam.
How dare he be so delicious-looking in real life? Like a dark, brooding, over-sized David Beckham.
Slam.
Exposure for Sassafras aside, this was my one chance to prove I was wrongly accused of lacking true talent by showcasing my expertise head-to-head with the man who leveled it. Rie was right. I needed this. And I’d be damned if I let Hawthorne Fucking West push me around or make me look weak again.
I leaned over and kicked the bag again and again. With my heart rate pulsing into the stratosphere, I finally started feeling a little better. He could hardly blame me for hating him. He ruined my first restaurant, Third Coast, with three hundred sparse words. Worse, he hadn’t even deigned to try Sassafras. His face floated around like a specter, haunting my waking minutes when I let it.
Slam. Hawthorne.
Slam. Somebody tapped my shoulder, and I swung around, foot mid-extension. Hawthorne.
Slam. Right into his family jewels.
I used the back of my wrist to wipe my forehead but avoided my water bottle. That would show weakness. And I was enjoying watching him pretend the kick to the groin wasn’t sending waves of agony through his body.
He was wearing a pair of low-slung athletic shorts and running shoes. No shirt, of course. His abs could have shredded cheese. I was seriously starting to doubt he even ate. How could someone in that shape eat for a living? Not that I cared. I was celibate. Very, very celibate.
Wow, that was an impressive tattoo trailing down his arms and abs.
Hawthorne grunted once, the only sign of discomfort he made.
“Sorry, did I clip you there?” I asked mildly.
He pointed to my phone, which, damn it all to hell, was paused on those pouty lips as he took a mouthful of a young woman’s soup, sucking her spoon while staring deeply into her eyes.
“Enjoying the view, Sato?” he asked as stoically as possible with his junk on fire.
“Just doing my due diligence,” I responded, as casually as possible, clicking off my phone to a black screen. “I prefer to know to know my enemy, especially when I’m forced to spend time with them.”
We let the gym hang in tense silence, circling like territorial, egotistical sharks. On second thought, sharks had less bite than us. One of us had to back down and leave, but it wasn’t about to be me. Hawthorne stretched his legs and jumped on a treadmill. He spun it up to a jog.
I couldn’t resist the challenge. I hopped on the one next to him, matching his strides. Thank God for long legs.
Hawthorne glanced my way. “I must admit, I’m curious why you named your newest place Sassafras. It’s an inedible, toxic plant. But I guess if you poison your customers, they can’t write bad reviews.”
I kicked my treadmill into a run, forcing him to follow. His balls must be aching at this point, judging by the tone of his voice. My mood brightened imagining them throbbing. “It’s a botanical thing. Herbs and vegetables are the focus, highlighting them instead of hiding behind our protein courses. But you haven’t been a real chef in years. I doubt you’d get it.”
Hawthorne increased his speed to a full sprint. So that was the way he wanted to play. I matched him, the treads vibrating in protest under my pounding feet. At least the sprinting cut off the conversation as we both focused on not falling.
After two minutes, my lungs started to burn. Three minutes, and I was falling behind. I considered my contract. I couldn’t host with a broken nose. Holding on to the rails, I jumped onto the sides and turned off the machine. Without glancing at Hawthorne, I grabbed a towel and headed for the sauna. I didn’t need to see the smirk to know it was there.
“So much for stamina,” he called to my retreating back.
“Jackass,” I muttered, slamming the gym door behind me.
I cranked up the grill’s knobs in the sauna and looked for the water ladle. I’d need a volcano of steam to get Hawthorne expunged from my pores. Just because his jawline could cut diamonds, and he’d been recently spotted with three different Victoria’s Secret models in the last month didn’t mean he could fuck with me. I didn’t fall for his type. Or any type.
I toed the celibate line.
What I needed was a good venting session on my sister, who was clearly responsible for all of this. Of course, she knew Hawthorne Fucking West was my co-host. Of course, she kept it from me on purpose. I angrily pressed the little demon emoji next to her name in my contact list, and she picked up on the first ring, as if she had been waiting all day for my call.
“Rie, you should have told me!” I growled into the phone, dousing the granite stones with another spoonful of water. They hissed and steamed, matching my mood.
“Told you what?” she said.
“Don’t play dumb with me. I’m your sister. I know how you work, and there’s no way you wouldn’t have known that Hawthorne would be my co-host.”
“Oh, that. I thought I mentioned it.”
“You know you didn’t, you coward.”
“Hawthorne West is the most desirable co-host in the Western Hemisphere. Getting him was a coup.”
I hmphed in response.
“You’re welcome,” she emphasized. “Why don’t you bury the hatchet? Or chef’s knife, or whatever cute euphemism you want. A few months of pain will be worth the rewards, I promise.”
My sister might be right, but she didn’t need to know that. “Great. Listen, don’t do me any more favors. It would make Thanksgiving really awkward if I killed you, but I’m sure Mom would eventually get over it for my roasted garlic gravy.”
Rie laughed. “Loosen up, Sophia. This is supposed to be fun. See you at Thanksgiving! I’ll be the one mouthing ‘I told you so’ behind Mom’s back.”
“And I’ll be the one with the carving knife,” I replied.
Chapter Eight
Hawthorne
Paris, France
God, I hated that woman. The minute she left, I staggered off the treadmill and went to ice my balls.
Collapsing in my hotel room, I clutched a bag of ice and moaned. I hated the way I couldn’t stop myself from watching her tits bounce as she sprinted to keep up with me, or how I wanted my mouth all over her very visible nipples in that illegally-tight white sports bra. But mostly, I hated her cocky iciness. I had only been doing my damn job when I reviewed her restaurant.
Sophia was incandescent after I published my review, but I wasn’t in the business of rewarding middling restaurants. That would compromise everything my name stood for.
Shit really hit the fan when she wrote a rebuttal in the same newspaper. And my bastard of a
n editor allowed it. Friends and frenemies alike wouldn’t let me live down the scathing words she had for me, for my intellect, even for my upbringing.
A few jumped on the bandwagon and wrote op-eds about my inability to separate emotions from food, but their poorly veiled attempts to take me down backfired. Especially after a few anonymous op-eds about their own dirty laundry appeared in blogs and papers courtesy of yours truly. Don’t fuck with a mean motherfucker.
Speaking of mean motherfuckers, I needed to call my father. I was already in pain. Might as well double my misery.
I dialed the VA home in Chicago where my dad had pretty much been locked up for the past two years. You’re welcome, world.
The line rang once. “Please hold. You’re being transferred to Mr. West, room 222.”
I let out a long, heaving breath as I listened to the ring. Maybe he wouldn’t pick up.
“What?” a gruff, military trained voice answered on the other end.
“Hey, Dad, it’s Hawthorne.”
“No shit.”
“Yeah, great to hear your voice, too. Listen, I know I promised I’d come visit, but something came up. I’m going to be abroad for the next month or so. Put your calls through Nathan if you need anything.”
“How filial of you.”
I swallowed my harsh reply. Dad wasn’t always this shitty to me, but he was the reason I never wanted to fall in love. I enjoyed not being crazy and shut-up in a mental hospital, thank you very much. “Just doing my part.”
I was about to click off when I heard another grunt. He was in a talkative mood, relatively speaking. I waited, my finger hovering over the red button.
“Where you going?” he asked.
Interesting. He was curious about me.
“I’m co-hosting a new travel cooking competition. I don’t have all the details yet, but I’m in Paris for now,” I said, scanning the schedule. Paris, Germany, Italy, Turkey, India, Vietnam, and a grand finale in Japan. Ambitious. Maybe I’d call again in Vietnam. That would really piss him off.
Dad grunted again. “Well, keep it in your pants, for fuck’s sake. My stupid nurse showed me your latest magazine cover. It was all I could do not to puke up my applesauce.”
“Noted,” I said, but I could hear a rare hint of pride. He wouldn’t have brought up the magazine if he was seriously upset about it. He was too quiet about the things that really pissed him off. A trait I seemed to have inherited.
“See you around, Dad.”
Click.
I stared out the window at the Eiffel Tower, letting my thoughts wander back to Sophia. I’d only spent a few minutes in her illustrious presence, but I knew exactly why she irritated me: her superiority complex could trump mine. I couldn’t tell if it was real or, worse, a façade hiding an inferiority complex. If you claim to be a chef, at least have the balls to stand behind your shitty dishes.
I had to break her. That was the only way I could imagine working with this woman for the next few months.
Chapter Nine
Hawthorne
Paris, France
I sauntered into Le Jules Verne a solid thirty minutes early. I planned to order a drink and watch everyone arrive from a position of power. Except the minute I entered the famed restaurant inside of the Eiffel Tower, I nearly took down the devil.
Sophia. Sophia was the devil.
Despite wearing dangerously high heels, she barely stumbled. A citrusy, floral explosion invaded my nose.
“Hawthorne.” She smoothed an ass-hugging dress down that had ridden up slightly higher than a one Michelin star place like Le Jules Verne probably allowed. It revealed a tanned and toned thigh. Out of her elegant, white dress, she sported a sleeve of colorful tattoos I didn’t realize she had.
“Sophia. Sorry about that. I didn’t notice you,” I said, getting in the first quip of the night.
“That’s not surprising. I’m sure it’s hard to be aware of your surroundings with your head so far up your ass.”
“Aren’t you the comedian?” I wanted to smack myself for such a terrible comeback, but instead, I pulled out her chair on the opposite side of the table and flagged the waiter. Time to get this woman a drink.
We sat in silence as nighttime Paris sparkled beneath us. I never quite understood the cachet of a restaurant inside the Eiffel Tower. The whole point of Paris was to look at the iconic tower. The rest of the city was completely flat so as not to compete.
Just as the silence stretched into uncomfortableness, Charlotte arrived with two executives from the Food & Dine machine. The waiter quickly sat everyone as Charlotte introduced the suits.
“We can’t wait to get started,” the bald one said. “Your reputations both proceed you, although, Hawthorne, I must say it’s lucky you’re already one of our own. Your schedule was quite tough to work around.”
I gave him my signature smile and nodded my thanks as the waiter placed thick, white napkins on their laps and proceeded to speak rapid French about the menu’s seasonal updates. It was a set five-course menu with wine pairings, but I couldn’t bring myself to get excited. Lobster, caviar, truffles, gold leaf. It was pretentious and boring, conning diners into paying ludicrous amounts of money to eat inside a world-famous monument.
Call me jaded, everyone else already did.
On the other side of the table, Sophia gushed. “Wow, I love how you can see for miles. It’s breathtaking sitting between all of the metal. And gold leaf on lobster with black truffles? How luxurious.”
She caught my raised eyebrow, and I knew in that moment, she was full of bullshit. Sophia was saying what Charlotte wanted to hear. What an ass kisser. We had a silent eye staring contest.
“Liar, liar,” I mouthed.
“Is that so?” Sophia stood up. “I’ll be right back. I need to go to the ladies’ room.”
I watched her saunter away, but a minute later, a waiter rushed over. “Monsieur, I apologize. I had no idea about your… issue. I’ve informed the chef, and he will make sure everything is heavily seasoned.”
He shot me a sympathetic look, but I noticed he refused to get too close. Charlotte and the suits had stopped eating, and all three stared at me. Behind them, stood Sophia, a shit-eating grin on her face. She leaned down and whispered in Charlotte’s ear, but made sure she spoke loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Someone here must be a TMZ fan,” she said. At Charlotte’s confused look, she added, “The news broke this morning. Hawthorne can clarify, but as I understand it, he recently received radiation therapy to get rid of a pretty severe case of gonorrhea. Supposedly it affects the taste buds. I’m sure he’ll be fine to host soon enough. In the meantime, I’m more than happy to describe the dishes in detail to help him with our decisions during the competition.”
All three—the two suits and Charlotte—dropped their forks in unison. Sophia put a comforting hand on Charlotte’s shoulder. “If you really are concerned, I’m sure we can find someone else on short notice.”
Sophia took her seat, shooting me a wink, and it took everything in me not to throttle that beautiful swan neck of hers. Now she was messing with my reputation and my livelihood. She wasn’t going to get rid of me that easily. My wallet could easily take the hit, but not my pride.
“Excusez-moi,” I called to the waiter as he turned to leave. “Ne nous dites pas le vin, s’il vous plait.” Don’t tell us the name of the wine, please.
Sophia narrowed her eyes slightly, but only I would have noticed it, the movement was so subtle.
I plucked Sophia’s wine glass from her fingers and swirled, letting the aromas waft. It was a crisp, floral smelling white that the waiter presented with our first course of preserved foie gras. I inhaled deeply.
“A ripe peach nose.”
I took a sip. “Notes of marzipan.” Then another one. “With a hint of oak.” I prepared to make my assessment.
“France. Rhone. Northern Rhone. Condrieu. The Domaine Vallet Condrieu Rouelle-midi.”
I sat
the glass down, smirking.
“Year?” Sophia pressed.
I tapped my finger on the stem. “Twenty. Hm,” I said, toying with her. She couldn’t mask her eager look at what she hoped was my impending failure.
“Fourteen,” I finished.
The whole restaurant clapped, including the waiter. Charlotte and the suits joined in, once they realized I’d nailed the region, varietal, and even year of the grapes.
Sophia clearly hadn’t finished her research on me. I’d began my career as a sommelier and even earned the coveted title of Master Sommelier after years of preparation. I knew my shit. She nodded in acknowledgment, but I had a feeling she wasn’t done. It was hard to tell, though, from her stone-cold face. All I wanted was to see some disappointment, but Sophia Sato gave me no satisfaction. It was as if nothing affected her.
Charlotte rubbed my arm, and I let her, wanting to emphasize my fitness for this competition. “That radiation treatment was a nasty rumor started by a rival paper. I’m not surprised Sophia was taken in by their false claims, but I’m completely capable of carrying out my duties.” I let my fingers trail along Charlotte’s wrist. “Whatever that may be.”
Charlotte giggled appreciatively, running her bare toe up my pant leg. This was all a game, and I had no intentions of letting Charlotte get farther than my kneecaps.
“Oh, very good. I’m so happy.” Charlotte cooed.
The whole time, Sophia sat stoically across the table from me. God, what I wouldn’t give to make her feel something, anything. She kept herself buttoned up too tightly, which was why her food suffered. I’d bet my awards bonus that she’d never been fucked properly.
“Sophia, what happened to that first restaurant of yours?” I asked innocently. “How did you possibly find backers for Sassafras?”
I watched her back stiffen. So, she did have feelings.
Melted (Cooking up a Celebrity Book 1) Page 4