Melted (Cooking up a Celebrity Book 1) Page 11

  This was why I didn’t get involved with women I’d be forced to see on a daily basis. Women I’d be forced to see ever again, for that matter. And here were two of them on the dewy hills of Tuscany.

  “Sixty seconds, Chefs!” Sophia told them.

  We counted them down together. “Step away from the flowers!”

  While we made a good show for the cameras of examining each bowl and weighing it on a scale, it was obvious the girls had far outstripped the boys.

  Everyone was out of breath as we informed them that the girls had won.

  “You’ll find out tomorrow at eliminations what your advantage is. Everyone will be cooking, and no one is safe, so this win was especially important. Now go and take in all that this ancient town has to offer.”

  Sophia improvised. “I hear the oldest gelato shop in existence is exceptional.”

  I shot her a sideways glance, trying not to be taken in by her intoxicating scent or display of power. As if I could resist.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Sophia

  San Gimigano, Italy

  I was settling in, getting ready for my nighttime rituals. First, a ten-step face washing routine, charcoal mask, and teeth brushing, finished with a nightly masturbation to Hawthorne Fucking West.

  You know, normal bedtime stuff.

  Just as I was getting to the good part, working my fingers over my body, my phone lit up with my sister’s face. I heaved a sigh and flopped back. She was the worst.

  “Hi, Rie. Yes, I know it’s been a long time. Yes, I saw the article,” I began.

  “You can’t back out because of a little bad publicity. You signed the contract. Plus, Sassafras needs this.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Actually, I’m not planning to back out. I’m perfectly fine.”

  Rie straightened up on FaceTime. “I can hear something in your tone. Something not good. Something I should worry about.”

  I grimaced. Rie was too good at this.

  “No, not great.” I allowed. “One of the contestants came on to me after hours. And he didn’t stop there. Hawthorne had to pull him off.”

  “Fucker,” she hissed. “Which one was it? Tell me you at least kicked him in the balls.”

  “Better. I bit his tongue.”

  Rie nodded once. “That’s my girl. So, how is Charlotte going to explain his absence on set?”

  “She’s not. She says there’s no evidence, but Hawthorne and I both know it’s because they want him to win. He’s charismatic on camera.”

  Rie bolted to her feet, seething in righteous anger. God, that’s what sisters were good for. “She is not going to get away with this! I’m going to call every fucking production company—”

  “Calm down and listen. Trust me, I’m going to put him through the ringer before sending his pathetic ass home early. There will be a few well-placed comments in interviews and magazines later that make it clear that something crossed the line, even if I’m not allowed to say what exactly happened.”

  Rie eyed me wearily. “You’re getting good at this. So, what am I supposed to worry about?”

  “Nothing,” I said a little too fast. “Just keeping you in the loop. Sister. Favorite sister. Okay, only sister.”

  “You’re lying about something. Withholding information. Babbling.” She ticked off my tells on her fingers.

  I put my hand up to my ear. “Listen, Rie, I think I hear someone knocking. I’ve got to go. Work and all that. Thanks for having my back.” I waved and clicked off. Sometimes I truly believed it would’ve been beneficial to go through CIA interrogation training to deal with Rie.

  It would probably be good for dealing with emotions, too. Despite all my promises to myself that I wouldn’t get involved, I couldn’t wait to see Hawthorne again. Part of me wondered if it was because of the thrill of discovery. It was sexy and taboo, and as the little voice in the back of my mind kept whispering, it would end poorly.

  If only someone would let the woman downtown know.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Hawthorne

  San Gimigano, Italy

  Sophia stared down each chef as they entered the kitchen for the elimination challenge. Some still had mud on their shoes from their daybreak saffron adventure. She clearly wasn’t impressed.

  “Wipe your feet when you enter, Chefs,” she said icily.

  I glanced at her, making sure frost wasn’t sparking from her fingertips.

  She ignored me and continued. “Today, we’d like a single egg yolk ravioli in a delicate saffron broth. All pasta should be made from scratch and hand rolled. The trickiest part will be timing the pasta. The dough needs to be cooked through without overcooking the yolk.”

  Clara raised her hand, that good little girl. “I thought you said we’d be making gelato!”

  I smiled sinisterly. “We thought you guys needed a delicious break. How could we possibly do an Italian challenge without pasta? Now for the advantage. Ladies, for your speed, you will be rewarded with a head start. Only the women will have the full hour. The men will have to wait fifteen minutes to begin their pasta.”

  As expected, the men grumbled and shuffled their feet. Sophia clapped. “Ladies! On your marks, get set, go!”

  The women raced into the kitchen, and Sophia and I fell into our routine. We asked questions, sampled their progress, and made bullshit small talk. I barely noticed. All I wanted was to take her out back, spank her, and make her beg for more. I had my vices, but I was never the addicted type. Yet here I was, like a junkie needing more.

  The men prowled on the sidelines, anxious to begin. After fifteen minutes, we let them get to work and asked them the same basic questions. Then we stood back and let the chefs work their magic. The challenge was extremely tricky, and by the sounds of it, post-production was going to be bleeping the shit out of their mouths.

  By the end of the time, they were all sweating and cursing, except for little Italian Clara. We went to her table first.

  Picking up a fork and knife, Sophia asked if she had any trouble executing the pasta or broth.

  Clara shook her head. “I’ve been making pasta since I could hold a spoon. This was my challenge to dominate.”

  “You’re pretty confident,” Sophia noted. “Does that mean we’re going to see a runny yolk when I cut into this raviolo?”

  “Absolutely,” Clara said with conviction.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s see the money shot.” I dipped my knife into the perfectly al dente raviolo. Sunshine yellow dripped out into the broth, making it richer. We nodded in approval.

  “Now we taste.” Sophia picked up a piece, and both of us savored this perfect bite from the youngest contestant. Impressive.

  “How did you ensure the yolk wouldn’t break?” Sophia asked.

  Clara’s smile widened. The dark horse was getting her feet under her. “My mother always sprinkled a bit of Pecorino cheese over each egg yolk before sealing them.”

  “Home field advantage,” I agreed. “Smart.”

  We didn’t comment on the taste, but I gave her a small wink.

  We examined the rest of the female chefs’ food next. Their dishes weren’t spectacular, but both Bethany and Emma had done well enough. Besides dark horse Clara, they were sailing through in the middle. Only time would tell before they either rose like cream to the top or got lost.

  Next came Liam. From the first glance, it was clear his dish was a bit of a mess. The yolk was clearly overcooked, the pasta dried out, and his sauce hadn’t even made it on the platter. In fact, he looked a bit out of it in general. I wondered what would pop up once post-production shifted through the footage and edited their after hours life and individual interviews.

  He shook his head as we attempted to open his raviolo. “I know.”

  Sophia gave him a hard stare. “But we still have to eat it.”

  He nodded, a tired look in his eyes. After we both suffered through a mouthful, we set down our utensils, thanked him, and walked to Pierce.


  It was more of the same. Overcooked yolk, crumbling pasta, and a sauce that had so little depth, it could have been a puddle.

  Finally, we came to Jackson. It was the showdown I was dying to have.

  Sophia picked up her knife. She didn’t say a word to him, but her eyes drove daggers into his. This woman seriously did not get intimidated. Jesus, I loved watching her take opponents down.

  Luckily for the asshole, Jackson executed a perfectly acceptable egg yolk raviolo. While not as spectacular as Clara’s, it would get him through.

  “What did you seal the raviolo with?” she asked.

  “Only water,” he answered, his eyes betraying his fear. “It’s traditional.”

  “Some traditions are meant to be broken, wouldn’t you agree?” she asked. “If you’d used beaten egg yolk to moisten the edges, it would have stuck together better.”

  “Yes, Chef.”

  We walked to the front and told them the news.

  “While we had some truly exceptional takes on the classic, one dish stood out above the rest. Today’s winner is Clara. Great job!” I said to anemic applause. She smiled graciously, then punched Liam playfully in the shoulder. Interesting.

  Sophia took up the mantle. “We also had some abominable efforts,” she said, refusing to sugarcoat a thing. “One of you squeaked by, although barely. Unfortunately for the other, everything was too dry and the yolk overcooked.”

  I shook my head. “Pierce, Italy is the last stamp on your passport.”

  He nodded, eyes downcast.

  Charlotte was lucky her front-runner squeaked by or her ass would be mine tonight. And not in the way she wanted it.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Sophia

  A Tuscan forest, Italy

  Northern Italy was still chilly in the mornings, but the temperatures rose to the mid-sixties during the day. I selected an ox-blood leather jacket to go over a flowy yellow sundress and matching red ankle boots. Today, we were truffle hunting in the forests of Tuscany for one last promo before heading to Istanbul. Everybody claims the best city in the world is Paris in spring, but I’d say any city in Tuscany, especially in the fall, would give Paris a run for her croissants.

  The forest wasn’t very dense, and sunlight easily poked through, warming us as we crunched through the scattered leaves. The air smelled earthy and robust with a hint of winter. The chill and tiny goose bumps rising on my bare thighs felt exhilarating, like a promise of things to come. My heart sped up, and a warmth crept up my thighs at the sight of Hawthorne strolling over to me. Damn me and my stupid celibacy promise!

  Hawthorne joined me. He wore a dark blue blazer and tight khakis, like a GQ runway representation of a truffle hunter, not like someone who was actually about to get dirty. He moved closer, kissing me on both cheeks in an Italian greeting, and I inhaled his spicy aftershave.

  He shot me a wicked grin that sent shivers downtown.

  The expert truffle guide Mario greeted us with a fluffy, little white dog that looked like it should be curled around some kid’s bed rather than nosing through the forest. Mario thrust a small, triangular spade in each of our hands.

  “Buongiorno! Good morning. Let’s hunt for truffles.”

  The cameraman followed behind, and the dog scampered ahead. I started by asking basic questions, like why Mario got started (family business), how long he’d been doing this (since he could walk), and what his favorite part of hunting truffles was (communing with nature). How quaint. Hawthorne asked him why pigs weren’t used anymore to hunt truffles.

  Mario gave us a saucy smile.

  “Sows were the preferred hunters for centuries, but they tear up the dirt too much,” he explained, digging with his spade in illustration. “The females are usually in heat, and they lust after the truffle, as it smells like a rutting boar. It was hard to keep the sows from eating the truffle without getting a finger bitten. Bitches are much easier to train.”

  I raised an eyebrow, trying not to let the heat blooming across my cheeks show on camera. Hawthorne didn’t help. He leaned down and whispered, “Horny hogs and trainable bitches. I’m liking our man Mario more and more.”

  At least, we weren’t miked.

  After an hour, while the cameras were getting money shots of the truffles, I decided I couldn’t resist Hawthorne’s charm any longer. I’d been distant and silent, but I needed to feel him again. Besides, what was the harm? We weren’t fucking. I could talk my way out of this if we were caught, and Rie couldn’t be mad. The lust and chemistry was still red hot.

  I jerked Hawthorne behind a tree, slipping away from the crew. He pushed me against the rough bark. Leaves and twigs rained down as his tongue lashed against mine. I unbuttoned the blazer and ran my hands along his pristine white shirt, easily feeling his stone-like muscles beneath. I met him nip for nip as we hungrily gasped for each other.

  “I want to taste you again,” he murmured into my hair.

  His fingers roamed up my sundress, deftly pushing aside my panties with his finger and circling my lips with his thumb. I wasn’t ashamed to admit I pretty much melted into his arms at his touch. It was way better than my nightly ritual practiced alone.

  Suddenly, we heard an excited yelp. The dog was going nuts, digging into the soft earth of the hills. We grudgingly broke apart, and I was certain a sheepish grin dotted my face.

  Mario grabbed the dog and beckoned us to dig. Hawthorne bent down and got to work, unearthing a large truffle half the size of my head.

  “Bravo! Eccellente! Holy cow!” Mario could barely contain himself.

  Eccellente, indeed.

  We trudged back to the lodge where a blazing fire and a charcuterie board were waiting for us.

  Mario poured us a glass of his last year’s vintage from his family’s winery, pausing to let the cameras capture perfect shots of the wine.

  We watched his nonna make pasta and pesto; we helped break into a thirty-six-month aged wheel of Parmigiano-Reggiano, and we tasted three varietals of his family’s grapes. It was decadent and homey all at once, and I found myself wondering why I didn’t stay here forever. These Tuscans knew what they were doing.

  After lunch, we were free for the day.

  Hawthorne and I walked a little through the fields, enjoying a glass of red chianti. It was beautiful finding someone to walk silently next to, weaving in and out of the vineyard’s rows. The grapes had been harvested for the season, but their sweet smell lingered in the air.

  Then Hawthorne asked me about Sassafras and sucked all the sweetness from the day.

  “Do you really care or are you just trying to be nice?” I asked.

  “I’m interested. I always thought you had that spark that can’t be taught. It just hadn’t been lit properly yet.”

  “And now?”

  Hawthorne lifted a vine for me to walk under. “I don’t know. I honestly haven’t tried your new place.”

  “Sometimes, a little flattery and a white lie go a long way,” I said.

  He shook his head. “That’s not my style.”

  “Well, I’m not inviting you. Chefs hate critics. That would be like inviting a wolf into your home. There’s no upside.” We moved under a trellised archway and sat on a stone bench. I continued. “A critic’s food knowledge can be impressive, but they don’t have to break their bodies in a hot kitchen eighteen hours a day.”

  “Is there question in all of this?” he asked dryly.

  I batted at his bicep. “Yeah. Why switch? Your restaurant had so much potential.”

  Hawthorne’s gray eyes went glassy. Like a lake before a storm. “You want the truth?” he asked.

  “I can handle it,” I promised.

  Hawthorne nodded, and I sat patiently next to him as he gathered his thoughts.

  Finally, he let out a deep breath. “My mom died of cancer two years ago. I sold my restaurant to pay for an experimental treatment, but it didn’t matter in the end. She died a few weeks later. After that, all I wanted wa
s to get away. From the restaurant, from food, from life. Turns out, food was all I knew how to do, but I didn’t want to step back in a kitchen. Food & Dine offered me the editor-at-large gig, and I didn’t think twice.”

  I touched my knee to his, silently sitting next to him, unsure what to do. Grief was a hard thing to share, especially with your enemy… if that’s what I still was. I reached over and squeezed his hand. He continued, so I took that as a good sign.

  “My dad felt differently. I’m the one who found him, bleeding like a pig. He didn’t even have the decency to blow his brains out, although his shotguns were right next to him in the cabinet.”

  I looked questioningly at him, and he gently turned over my wrist, slashing an X across them. “Slit them from here to here,” he explained. “Said he didn’t want to live without her. Now he’s locked up in a mental institute for retired veterans.”

  “Jesus,” I said. “You hide pain so well.”

  He resumed our walk. “Yeah, well. It’s better than the alternative.”

  I looked at him with questioning eyes.

  He stopped at the end of the forest. Mario’s house was in the clearing, and he stared at the picturesque smoke swirling into the sky. He turned and gave me the saddest smile in the world.

  “Going fucking crazy.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Hawthorne

  San Gimigano, Italy

  Neither of us mentioned my parents again. If it had been Emma, she would’ve tried to get me to spill my guts and have me rocking on the floor, babbling incoherently like a baby as she stroked my hair. She always had too much mothering instinct in her, too much softness. I was shocked when she decided to go to culinary school after we broke up. And even more shocked when the line didn’t eat her alive.