Hawthorne wouldn’t let me look away. Wouldn’t let me escape the intimacy of the moment. “Not this time, Ice Queen. I want to see it. I want to watch you lose control.”
His thumb under my chin brought me right back to his stormy eyes. Somehow, he still managed to hold me up with those arms, sexy enough to grace international magazine covers, and stared deeply at my face, watching every angle of my pleasure. I could barely keep my own weight, let alone anything else.
He drove harder, and I barely felt his dick pulsing with his release in the midst of my own stacking orgasms. His kisses were wildfire, unpredictable and raging in their terrifying wild beauty. I let myself be consumed and enjoyed the burn. The moment Hawthorne felt my first orgasm, he pressed his fingers to my clit and helped them climb. Even as they finished, he kept that sweet pressure right where I needed it.
Quick Mitch didn’t know to do that. In fact, nobody knew to do that. I’d always run quickly to the bathroom in embarrassment to release the last of the heat after my initial orgasm faded.
So I did the only thing I was capable of doing in the moment. I clung to him as he lowered me to the marble floor. Standing was not an option, judging by the quaking in my legs. Hawthorne laughed deliciously, sliding his arm under my knees and cradling me as I collapsed against his chest.
“What are you going to do when this is all over?” I asked. We lay tangled up in each other, letting the water evaporate off our bodies in the heat of the Turkish spa. I usually snuck back off to my room by this point, but I felt my resolve at no emotions crumbling. I thirsted to know more, and I was curious. What were his plans?
Did I mention I was fucked?
Hawthorne looked thoughtfully at me for a moment, tracing the path of a drop of steam as it rolled down my belly.
“Probably seclude myself in some yurt on the Mongolian Steppes and learn to cook yak. As long as I make it sound good, Food & Dine pretty much lets me decide where to go and what to cover. What about you?”
I absently stroked his chest and listened to the way his heart beat against mine, as if in rhythm. The truth was much more complicated, of course. For some reason, the rat race for stars didn’t seem as appealing anymore. A yurt in Mongolia did, though.
The first time, it was more than sex. Just sex I could handle, but this felt like something else. Something dangerous.
So I said, as absently as I could muster, “Sassafras. It’s my home.”
I didn’t want to. I really didn’t. But my heart was pounding, and it was either stay in his warm arms, letting him trace little circles along my abdomen, lower and lower. Or go back and collect myself. Re-focus. Call Lena. Scream at Puck.
I really needed to go back to firing cooks more often. Softness was not something I could afford.
I stood abruptly, aware of the mixed signals I was sending, yet unable to stop myself. “I think it’s time I got to sleep. The makeup girls do wonders, but there’s only so much you can do to hide the bags you’re giving me.”
Hawthorne cupped his palms around my face, and I resisted jerking away. “I don’t see any bags.”
“Oh, they’re there,” I promised, flinching only slightly at this most intimate touch yet.
Hawthorne sensed it. He took his hands off me and sat back. He was feeling something, too, and he was scared.
“See you tomorrow, Ice Queen,” he said.
I waved a small, beauty queen-approved wave in goodbye. Then I practically ran the whole way to my room.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Hawthorne
Istanbul, Turkey
Her scent lingered everywhere she kissed me. Her taste was still on the tip of my tongue. I could feel her slickness on my cock, which hardened at the image. The way she begged, so delirious to be fucked. It was the hottest fucking turn-on.
So what the hell was her problem? Just Sophia being Sophia, Ice Queen Extraordinaire? It wasn’t like I was asking her to make it official, but the moment I mentioned going somewhere else, she froze up. Either she was terrified I’d ask her to go to Mongolia with me, or she was terrified I wouldn’t. I wasn’t sure which prospect scared me more.
Despite weeks in each other’s presence almost every second of every day, I still couldn’t read her. I couldn’t tell how deep this thing went, and I couldn’t even figure out if I cared.
The obvious answer was that I did care. I cared way too damn much to be expending this much emotional output on what she was thinking. I needed some perspective. I needed to call my dad. He was always good for scaring me shitless about relationships. Luckily, it was only 6:00 p.m. in Chicago. Fucking Sophia had taken two glorious hours.
He answered immediately. “What did you do?”
“My day is great. Thanks. Good to hear your voice, too.”
My dad scoffed. “You’ve never been great at pleasantries.”
“Fine.” I paused. “I do have something I want to ask you. I was curious…”
“Spit it out, Son!”
“Because you’re making it so easy,” I retorted, but I held my tongue after that. My dad had been through hell. He didn’t have a great emotional tool bag to help him, either. This was his way of being interested in my life. I took a deep breath for inspiration. “I have a question about Mom, actually,” I said, wincing. Waiting for the emotional tsunami.
But he only sighed. “You know everything.”
“I want to know about you. I want to know if it was worth it.”
He was so quiet on the other end, I wondered if I’d shocked him into a stroke. Then I heard a whimper. My father, a marine deployed in Vietnam, hardass and shit-storm bringer, was tearing up. What was it about my mother that did this to him? And why was I even entertaining the thought of letting a woman do it to me?
“Of course, it was goddamn worth it, you fucking idiot.”
Ah, there he was. But he wasn’t finished. He was opening the floodgates for me, and there was no closing them.
“Your mother was the one bright moment in a dull existence. She gave me my life back. Then she gave me a son. If you think for a moment that every tick of pain on the clock since she’s left wasn’t worth the time she was here, then you don’t deserve someone like your mother. But I sincerely hope you do. All the accolades you chase, all the meaningless magazines and reviews and bylines you attach your name to, mean nothing if you die alone. And even if I die soon, I will never be truly alone. Your mother gave that to me. I just hope I gave her even half of what she gave me.”
Emotion thickened my throat. I coughed to clear it. “The last moments I was with her, she only thought of you,” I admitted for the first time. “She said she loved me and told me not to miss her too much, but I could tell her thoughts were of you. It bothered me at the time.”
I could tell my dad had broken down and was sobbing. “God, I miss her.”
“Me too, Dad. Me too.”
There was nothing left to say. We sat quietly, thinking of this woman, this amazing woman that connected us. My thoughts reached out to Sophia. I wanted to know where her head was at. I had no idea how to ask her, but there was time. There was a whole show to finish.
We hung up, but I immediately called the hospital’s mainline and made sure Dad’s nurses knew the emotional strain he’d been put through so they could keep a close eye on him this week.
Now, to figure out what to do about my Ice Queen. She was pulling away. I could feel it. Typically, I would let her. It would be easier that way. But sometimes, when the stakes are worth it, you have to take a chance.
We met the contestants in a spectacular five-star hotel in Istanbul. The imposing stone castle had spectacular views of the winding Bosporus Strait. The Marmara Esma Sultan was a luxury hotel with an old history.
It was given to the sixteen-year-old teen bride, Esma, as a wedding present from her father, the Ottoman sultan, in the nineteenth century. Its opulent beginnings were overshadowed, however, by its current function: a very chic wedding venue.
Lavi
sh weddings for the couples’ five hundred closest friends were all the rage in Turkey. Typically, wedding feasts had so much buzz, pomp, and circumstance that they’d put even the ritziest American bride to shame. And our oblivious contestants were about to get thrown into the fire.
Today, we told the contestants to work with local chefs in preparing a menu for the bride and groom to taste test. Sophia and I would be judging with the couple to choose two more dishes for their bridal buffet, while the losers would face yet another secret round of elimination. Twists made for television. I doubted when the real wedding day came the couple would actually put the dishes on the menu. Call me a pessimist.
Charlotte swept by me, ordering the crews where to set up and which shots were vital. She brushed my arm, giving it a squeeze and a smile before going off to orchestrate. She seemed different today. Giddier than normal. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it felt like she’d gotten some good news and could barely keep it a secret.
Sophia and I went to our marks and waved the contestants over to tell them the gig. Most of them couldn’t keep their mouths from dropping open at the setting.
It was a gush of flowers and green vines hovering over an ethereal scene of floating candles and solid gold cutlery. At one point, I would have scoffed at anyone spending this sort of cash for something as fleeting as a marriage. Or as suffocating. But that wasn’t quite the truth anymore. The talk with Dad had shaken me more than I wanted to admit.
Suddenly, the problem wasn’t me and my fear of commitment. It was Sophia. What did she want? When I had casually asked in the spa, she hadn’t hesitated. Sassafras. It was always Sassafras. Like actual sassafras, Sophia was dangerous. I knew she wouldn’t rest until she’d gotten her stars. It was something I appreciated about her. That drive, that desire to be the best. But I didn’t know if that left any room for me.
Dangerous.
Dangerous to fall in love with a toxic beauty.
Deadly.
Brooding wasn’t my style. I intended to find out. Tonight. We had already found our sweet spot of sex after a long day of filming. It was the release we needed with mutually agreed upon transparency. Now, I needed to broach a topic that frightened us both.
“Okay, Chefs.” I clapped, trying to shake myself out of a Sophia stupor. “You’ll have three hours today to talk with local chefs and prep and two hours tomorrow to serve fifty of the bride and groom’s closest friends. They will listen and take into consideration their loved ones’ comments, but it is ultimately up to the couple to decide which of the dishes deserve a place on their special day.”
Sophia continued. “Use your three hours today to confer with the bride and groom and the amazing chefs here at Marmara. A fully stocked kitchen is available after that for you to begin prep. Don’t waste a second.”
I held up a clock. “And your time starts now!”
The chefs sprinted to their stations, grabbing pens and paper to begin jotting down ideas. We let the cameras follow them and turned off our mikes for a minute.
“How are you?” I murmured, wishing I could reach out and touch her. She wore an elegant navy and white striped jumpsuit that accentuated her long lines, and her hair had been swept up in a sleek topknot. It was delicious, and I couldn’t wait to unwrap it all tonight.
She smiled coyly. “Fine. Beautiful breeze, don’t you think? I’m hoping Clara can continue her streak. Emma’s also an interesting one to watch.”
My stomach lurched at the mention of Emma’s name. Sophia still didn’t know about our history. At the beginning, it didn’t seem like a big deal. We had agreed it was only sex, but the longer it went, the more it felt like I was hiding something from her. I cleared my throat, not sure if I should tell her here on camera or wait. Both were equally scary. She couldn’t exactly flip out on camera, which wasn’t her style anyway. But a stray boom could overhear us.
I mhmmed instead.
Sophia turned, sensing something was off.
I opened my mouth to spill, but murmured, “Meet me tonight?” instead.
She nodded, and a bloom of red darkened her cheeks. We turned on our mikes, quickly falling into our pre-approved small talk that felt so unbelievably comfortable. Beneath the comfort, another feeling simmered, unchecked. One I was quite familiar with. One I stared down when my mother got sick and the moment I found my father.
Fear.
What exactly was I going to tell her tonight? Or ask her? More importantly, how exactly did I want her to answer?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Sophia
Istanbul, Turkey
Hawthorne had worried me with his half-truths and hedging. It was so unlike him. I wondered what was really going on. Maybe some pillow talk would drag it out of him. Or maybe I’d just run away again after some mind-blowing sex. It was dangerous to stick around. I didn’t need to be the one developing feelings.
That was what we had agreed to, anyway. I re-knotted my hair tightly on top of my head and took my hotel room key. It was a short walk around the corner of the damask decorated halls to Hawthorne’s private suite.
I quietly moved across the thick carpet, fully aware I was only wearing a red lacy thong underneath my thigh-grazing trench coat. I hadn’t even bothered with a bra.
I could feel the anticipation building, the heat growing inside me. Whatever color represented unadulterated lust on that imaginary mood ring, mine would be the neon red version visible from space.
But the moment I turned the corner, I heard a voice and froze. My heart rate spiked as I slunk out of view. Please God, not Charlotte. Anyone but her.
As subtlety as possible, I peeked around the corner, hoping to see a random hotel guest. It was amazing how often I found myself wishing for CIA spy training. Clearly, I missed my calling in life.
It wasn’t Charlotte, but what I saw standing at Hawthorne’s door made my heart plummet straight to my toes. Irrational jealousy coursed through my body at the cascade of thick, red hair and creamy white legs disappearing into his room. I knew instantly who was going in there. Emma.
My mind flooded with questions. Why would a contestant seek out a judge? The no fraternization rules were clearly laid out in our contracts. Emma never should have knocked, and Hawthorne should have sent her packing right then and there if he valued his job.
Or his integrity.
That alone was suspicious, but something else was nagging at the back of my consciousness. From the very first day, Emma had looked so familiar, but why?
I watched for a few more minutes, waiting to see if she would emerge quickly. As I waited, I refused the temptation to let myself think of the possibilities. What was the probability they were having an innocent, heart-to-heart chat? Not great, considering Hawthorne’s reputation.
I didn’t hear a peep. I considered sneaking up and listening, but that felt a little too desperate. I could only imagine what would happen if they opened the door and found me running in the opposite direction as fast as possible. Or worse, falling into the room. So, instead, I did the only thing I could think of doing. I slid back into my room and sat tapping my toes.
I shouldn’t care. Less emotions equaled less mess. But I did care. That much was painfully clear.
All that remained was figuring out what I was going to do about it. I pulled up the slow Internet connection and Googled Emma’s name. I found a few pages about her graduation from culinary school and first job. The job she’d left for this show, blah, blah, blah.
Ah! There. Cooking Around the World wasn’t her first go at celebrity chef television. She’d been a contestant on—
My stomach felt gutted. I sucked in a raw breath, watching the video clip of her on the Mouthful over and over and over again. She was the young contestant offering a spoonful to Hawthorne that I’d watched my first morning in Paris. Not only that, she was the one fucking him in the green room, the makeup chair, and even the broom closet. Rumors swirled around those two before and after filming.
Hawthorne
had been running his restaurant, making guest judge appearances on various cooking shows, and racking up awards. But after Mouthful premiered, he sold his restaurant. I slowly pieced together more of his timeline in my mind. His mom got cancer. He sold the restaurant. She died, and he took time off to do God knew what. Somewhere along the way, he broke things off with Emma and took the job at Food & Dine.
And here we were—with Emma and him in his hotel room, and me being played like a fool.
The more I thought back on our individual evaluations of the chefs, the more I realized how easy he’d gone on her. I didn’t know if it was because he still had feelings for her or if there was something deeper at play, but I frankly didn’t care. Something was going on and it wasn’t professional.
It was personal.
Chapter Thirty
Hawthorne
Istanbul, Turkey
The champagne I had resting on ice now swam in a watery bath. I’d turned the dimmed lights back to full strength. While a beautiful woman did occupy my bed, it was not the one I wanted.
Emma stared at me with her large green eyes, eyes I’d always found myself drowning in from across the room. She was so easy to want to protect. So easy to care for. And now she was here, wringing her hands and babbling.
Reality TV always fucks with the mind.
She frantically stood up and paced around my suite. I grabbed her hands and stopped her before she ruined the expensive Turkish carpets.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
She sank down into the feathery mattress, her head in her hands.
“I miss that,” she whispered.
I cocked my head. “What?”
“You,” she said simply. “The calmness. The strength. The stability. I’m a mess. This competition is turning me into a crazy person.”
Melted (Cooking up a Celebrity Book 1) Page 13