Melted (Cooking up a Celebrity Book 1)

by Hadley Harlin

  My old college buddy Davis picked up on the first ring. “How’s the view? Screwed Emma again yet?”

  “I’m a professional. I don’t shit where I eat,” I said. “Besides, there’s plenty of eager fans willing to suck a famous American dick.”

  Davis snorted. “Right. Well, give me the scoop. How’s production going?” he asked, his on-the-record voice coming out.

  “Actually, I had another angle I was hoping to do,” I replied, sitting back and smiling.

  Sophia sat at breakfast, skimming news feeds and posting about wiener schnitzel or whatever other cracked idea she thought up for her social media pages. I carefully positioned myself so I could see her face. I didn’t want to draw attention to the article Davis posted last night, but damn, I was truly hoping she’d read it while I was in her presence. I wanted to see what an ice queen looks like boiling hot. I’d give extra for some steam pouring off her head. The tiny glimpse of fire I’d gotten after the salt incident wasn’t enough. I needed more. I craved the flames I knew were there, hidden deep within her sub-arctic layers.

  Suddenly, she stood up, the color draining from her face. It was show time. She’d seen the article.

  I kept my eyes down, but followed her every movement. She sat back down, looked at her computer screen and popped up again, her body agitated. Her hands were on her hips now, and I could feel her scanning the room.

  Oh shit, she was walking over. I rolled my shoulders and draped an arm over my chair to look relaxed. “Did you need something, Chef Sato?”

  “How dare you,” she spat out. “I know this was you.”

  “You’re going to have to be more specific. I dare to do a lot of things.”

  She pulled up her phone and read some of the more damning lines out loud.

  Sophia Sato, Chef or Ice Queen?

  Sophia Sato is well-known for her innovative take on botanicals and vegetarian-heavy cooking at her restaurant, Sassafras, in Chicago, Illinois. Apparently, she should also be known for her icy and domineering personality, say those close to her.

  I winced. It sounded worse coming from her pink lips. I wanted her to stop, but Sophia was relentless. She continued.

  Chef Sato was recently snubbed for a Michelin star. This insider revealed she is still taking it poorly by lashing out at contestants and crew alike. Her domineering personality in the kitchen has now extended to innocent contestants…

  The whole time Sophia read, she deliberative kept her tablet over her face. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like she was tearing up.

  “Fuck you, West.” She spun on her heel and stormed away.

  “Sophia—”

  She kept going. Guilt, honest-to-god guilt, pulled at my stomach. I ran after her. When I rounded the corner, she was punching the hotel elevator button as if it had personally called Davis and spilled the gossip.

  “Sophia,” I began, but she cut me off by speeding down the hallway and into the stairwell.

  I ran to catch up. “Sophia!”

  She threw open the door and began racing up the stairs. I thought now might be a bad time to tell her I could see her lacy red thong and her landing strip. Fuck, now I was hard, too.

  I easily caught up, taking the stairs four at a time. I grabbed her arm and she turned, smacking the shit out of my face.

  “How dare you,” she said in the scariest, lowest tone of voice I’d ever heard. “All you had to do was keep it professional. That’s it. Yet you couldn’t help yourself.”

  I rubbed my jaw. “You’re right. I took it too far.”

  Sophia was not about to let me off the hook. She read a few more lines.

  Sato had lackluster success with her first attempt at a fine-dining establishment, Third Coast, and many wonder where her backing originated from for Sassafras. Did money exchange hands or has Sato been bartering more than her skills in the kitchen?

  I knew it went on for another page, but thankfully she stopped reading. Instead, she stepped so close that her pink Louboutins were poking spikes directly into my Italian leather loafers. I could feel the anger radiating off her, the smell of rage mixing with her Chanel. Her eyes were like ice threatening to freeze me into extinction.

  That look probably sent line cooks into a panicked frenzy, but I wasn’t a young, inexperienced punk ass kid. I met her gaze.

  She didn’t blink. “You want to know the truth? Okay, here it is. I have to be ten times better than any man to get the same recognition. Women still earn fewer Michelin stars, open less restaurants, and are more likely to be overlooked for promotion. Even so, I still have to put up with the constant fickleness of every major and minor magazine in the world. If they think I don’t have tattoos, they wonder if I’m badass enough to be a great chef. If they think I do have them, they’ll ask if I’m elegant and refined enough. Everything I do is dissected.”

  I stayed silent. What could I say to that? We both knew it was true. I could point out the women chefs who had made it, but I knew it would come across as patronizing, and she could fling back a hundred plus male chefs for every female one I named.

  “I’m—” I started to apologize.

  “Save it, Hawthorne,” she flared. “I’m not about to let some chauvinistic, jackass prick take the light away from what I’m good at: food. You can say all the stupid, made-up shit you want to about my sex life, or the way I style my hair, or if I’m stingy in bed, but that won’t change how this show will appear when it finally airs. With me being a fucking professional.”

  Emotions began to fight in my chest. Emotions uncomfortable to admit. Guilt, admiration, and simmering below it all, an undeniable heat.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sophia

  Kaiserslautern, Germany

  “Are you happy with the dish? Do you think the flavors punched their way through?”

  Clara had a mouse in the headlights look, but her voice was steady. “I tried every bite, and I stand behind my dish.”

  We were filming eliminations today in Germany. After matching beers and using the spices and hops in their German food pairings, Liam was the clear winner. He really knew his German food, but everyone still had to cook in eliminations.

  For elimination today, we asked them to put their own twist on a German wurst. It could have been liverwurst, knockwurst, or even bratwurst. It didn’t matter, as long as it was unique and from scratch. Clara went with a play on liverwurst.

  “It looks a little clumsy. The plating could’ve been cleaner,” I noted.

  Hawthorne turned the plate one way and another. He pulled apart the sausage and held it up to the light of the camera.

  “I’d have to disagree,” he said. “It’s messy, yes, but that’s what embodies German beer gardens. They’re not supposed to be Michelin quality art.”

  “See”—I laughed it off for the cameras, even though my body was tense and I wanted nothing more than to clench my fists—“he’s going to say the opposite of whatever I say.”

  We all chuckled good-naturedly and moved on. Clara’s flavors were fine if a little over-enthusiastic. She was safe as far as I was concerned.

  Overall, Clara was hard to read. She had raw talent and passion but struggled with the execution. She had a bit too much ambition. Both could be attributed to youth, though, since she was barely twenty. Simplicity was a hard thing to learn.

  We moved to Liam next.

  “Liam, please explain the dish,” Hawthorne asked.

  “I decided to deconstruct knockwurst. A caraway spiced pork sausage is rolled into a veal scallopine with pickled mustard seeds.”

  I nodded in appreciation. “Putting all the elements together in one bite immediately took me back to my grandmother’s Sunday dinners. She was born and raised in Germany, you know.”

  Liam nodded, accepting the feedback but giving nothing.

  “Absolutely, this was quite special,” Hawthorne granted.

  I gave a smile, just like Rie asked, right to the cameras. “Ah, now he’s mixing it up to ag
ree with me!”

  Even hyper-focused Emma laughed out loud at that one. She reminded me of myself at that age, and I found myself rooting for her.

  But what the hell was Hawthorne playing at? He was full of mixed signals, and I liked things clean and clear. I vowed to go on the offensive. My tie trick had been child’s play, meant to irritate. I needed a grand finale. I needed to finish this thing.

  We quickly finished up and went to discuss the dishes away from the chefs. Once the cameras turned off, Charlotte came over. “Okay, guys. Great job. Production does have one request before you give them the news. We’d like Clara and Liam to stay longer. That’s it.”

  I took a sip of a bottle of water. “You want us to fix the competition.”

  Charlotte nervously giggled. “Heavens, no. Nothing of the sort. We just think Ava isn’t up to snuff.”

  Hawthorne had thunder in his gray eyes. “And have you tasted any of the dishes since this began?”

  “Well, no, but taste isn’t the only factor. Sophia mentioned plating today. Creativity is also important, since viewers can’t taste. There are many factors.” Charlotte hesitated. “Look. We don’t plan to step on your toes much, but this is one episode where production is putting its foot down.”

  “You mean you. Seeing as you are production,” I said.

  Charlotte laughed nervously. “Oh no. I’m one tiny cog in Food & Dine’s machine. I promise, it won’t always be like this.”

  As Charlotte sashayed away, Hawthorne caught my eye. This one time, we were in total agreement that Ava had to go. But what happened when we weren’t?

  “Welcome to showbiz,” he said, flashing his million-dollar smile.

  I didn’t reply. The time to make nice with friendly banter was over the minute he called that reporter.

  I tapped the keys on my laptop so hard, it was anybody’s guess how they hadn’t broken off yet. If Hawthorne thought he had the last word, he had another thing waiting for him when I posted my response in the morning.

  The knock was so quiet, I wondered at first if I’d imagined it. I peeked through the peephole.

  Hawthorne.

  What the hell? He didn’t get enough torment in during the day that he needed to fuck up my evenings, too?

  When I didn’t answer, Hawthorne knocked again, a little harder. “I know you’re in there. In fact, everyone does. The whole building has been listening to you punch your computer for the past hour.”

  “Fine. I’m here,” I said. “But it’s not a good time. I’m preparing something.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  I didn’t respond. He’d find out in the morning.

  “Are you going to let me in or not? You can still do whatever underhanded thing you’re planning after I leave.”

  My pulse rose in my neck, and I looked around the room in a panicky way. It was a disaster. I’d been too eager to get started that I’d kicked off my heels and peeled away my tight-ass dress—which I’d looked like a freaking knock-out in today, thank you very much—and just threw it all on the bed. The dress had slipped to the floor and most of my suitcase was everywhere but inside my suitcase.

  In fact, I was only wearing a bra and yoga pants to compose my masterpiece rebuttal that would savage Hawthorne’s cocky reputation.

  Hawthorne didn’t know any of that, though. He knocked again, even harder. “And I can smell your perfume.”

  Okay, so he was serious.

  I made sure the door latch was flipped over to lock and opened the door a crack. “What do you want, Hawthorne?”

  He stepped aside and motioned to a room service cart sitting behind him. “I come bearing gifts.”

  “You know, if you’re trying to poison me, it’s best to have lackeys to do it. You may already have the prison tatts, but I doubt you’d last long in prison.”

  He peered around my head. “Can I come in?”

  “No.”

  Although I hadn’t tried to shut it, Hawthorne stuck his foot in the door. Probably a good idea. “I’m calling truce.”

  “Ha!” I said. A pretty witty comeback.

  Hawthorne got down on his knees. “Seriously. No tricks, nothing but an apology. And booze.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “What kind?”

  He lifted the cloche with a flourish, revealing a plate of knockwurst, a bottle of Jägermeister, and two crystal tumblers. “I thought we’d need something a little stronger than beer, and you know what they say. When in Kaiserslautern, Germany.”

  I shut the door in his face. Took two deep breathes. What. The. Hell.

  Slowly, I flipped the latch back and opened the door all the way.

  Hawthorne was still there. “Is that a yes?”

  “Sure,” I said, hurriedly cramming a few shirts, panties, and bras I’d flung all over the hotel room into my suitcase. “Although, I’m pretty sure Jägermeister is only legal on American college campuses.”

  “Probably,” he said, watching me stuff a toothbrush under a pillow and throw on a racer-back tank top.

  Hawthorne couldn’t help himself. He smirked, picking up a lacy red number from the floor, and handed it to me. “You missed one.”

  I crossed my arms against my chest. “Weren’t you here for some sort of truce or was that all a scam to see my dirty underwear?”

  His face immediately sobered, and he tossed me the panties. So, he did have a small conscious.

  Hawthorne opened the Jägermeister, poured us a tiny finger’s worth, and handed one to me without a word.

  We clinked, our eyes never leaving each other’s, then downed our shots. He coughed a couple of times as he slowly set down his tumbler.

  “Waiting for the good stuff to kick in?” I asked, not enjoying the burn, either. Heat fled down my throat and spread through my stomach, relaxing all of my muscles.

  “Something like that.”

  I filled both of our glasses a little more generously this time, and we clinked again.

  After that round, he cleared his throat. “Sophia, I wanted to say sorry. Even if I think you’re a shit cook”—he held up his hand at my disgruntled yelp—“you still didn’t deserve to be called out like that in a gossip magazine.”

  “Wow, thanks,” I said, rolling my eyes. “You’re really good at this apology thing. Hey, quick question. Did you not get your daily quota of kitten smashing in today? Want me to call down to the front desk? They can probably arrange to have some innocent kids rounded up so you can tell them Santa Clause doesn’t exist.”

  “You are no kitten,” Hawthorne said. “You’re strong enough to handle any shit I throw at you.”

  “I don’t want to talk about the article, so if that’s why you’re here, I’ll tell you this now. I’m fine. We can put it in the past, although if you do it again, I’ll kill you with an icicle.” I paused. “You know. So the evidence melts away.”

  “I’ve no doubt, Ice Queen.”

  We sat in silence for a few moments. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world. He always smelled spicy and sweet, and his large presence filled the entire room. He was as intense as his gaze.

  Suddenly, he spoke.

  “Actually, I don’t think you’re an awful cook.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “What a glowing review. Please, send that over to Food & Dine immediately.”

  He shrugged. “I just think you’re holding back. I’m not in the business of rewarding someone who doesn’t bleed their heart on the plate.”

  I sat back, carefully folding my arms. “So I don’t bleed enough for you. Well, that’s some standards.”

  “Only when I know it’s there. There’s snatches of it in your menus, but you’re holding back.”

  “Hm,” I said. “Well, I really didn’t ask for your input, and I don’t need tough love.”

  “No, probably not.”

  I figured that ended this portion of Hawthorne tries to make nice until he asked, “Care to play a game?”

  “Sure,” I answered, my voice a bit more
husky than I expected. Damn Jägermeister. I hoped he didn’t notice.

  He poured us another shot each. “Truth or shot. If you don’t answer, then this very fine quality Jäger is going down the hatch.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Dangerous.”

  “Yes, I am.” He handed me the glass. “We’ll start easy. First job out of culinary school.”

  “That’s too—”

  Hawthorne held up a hand. “Not done. I know where your first job was and what the head chef there was like. I want to know how many times he groped you, and”—he gave me a sly look—“how many times you let him.”

  I laughed out loud. “Too many times to count. I’ll let you decide if that answers both questions or not.”

  He smiled gamely. “Fair enough.”

  “Let’s see.” I tapped my chin. “Weirdest hidden talent.”

  Hawthorne answered by curling his tongue into a three-leaf clover.

  “Oh!” I couldn’t help but imagine that skilled tongue doing things like that in darker places. “That is weirdly erotic.”

  “I know. Okay, show me yours.”

  I tapped my glass with a long, red fingernail. “I don’t have anything weird. I’m perfect.”

  “You better drink to that bullshit answer,” Hawthorne said.

  I obliged and thought for only a moment. “Name the most embarrassing thing to happen during a hook-up.”

  “Why do you think I embarrass easily? The chocolate shop should have proven beyond a doubt that it takes a lot to shame me.” He grinned. “Although to be fair and play the game, let’s say I found out I was allergic to latex the same night I lost my virginity. Ever since, I carry specialty condoms at all times for all emergencies.”

  My arm spasmed inexplicably. Seriously, no idea why picturing Hawthorne with a boner and another women would do that to me.