Melted (Cooking up a Celebrity Book 1) Read online

  I made it through, only to fumble with the keys to my back office as the crowd rushed in, jostling me and shouting in my ear. I dropped them. “Fuck!” I screamed, completely losing my fucking cool. Wouldn’t Hawthorne be so pleased when he saw the image of me finally losing my shit? I could see the headlines now:

  Ice Queen Melts Down Outside of her River North Restaurant after Fucking Co-Host. World Not Surprised.

  I bent down, searching for my keys and found them between about a hundred pairs of shoes. As soon as I stood back up, another camera flashed in my eyes.

  “Would you leave me the fuck alone?” I screamed. To emphasize my point, I hurled my keys at the nearest reporter’s head.

  I stared for a moment before running to the subway.

  It wasn’t until I was on the train back to my apartment that the stupidity of my decision to throw my keys hit me. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Clearly, I needed to hole up at this point. The decision-making part of my brain was on hiatus for the foreseeable future.

  Rie lived in L.A., so I headed to Lena’s high-rise. Lena owned an elegant condo overlooking Navy Pier. Condo probably wasn’t the right word. It was more like a piece of art that she happened to live in.

  Floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooked the Ferris wheel with Lake Michigan brooding in the background. She was on the thirty-second floor, so unless a helicopter got too close, I was safe.

  She greeted me at the door, wearing only a bra and underwear.

  “You sleep like that?” I asked.

  Lena smirked. “I put the bra on as a courtesy to you. Figured you didn’t want the ladies hanging in your face.” Lena pumped her boobs for effect.

  “Yeah, thanks. I appreciate the consideration.”

  “I usually strut around naked, but I’ll try to remember to cover up while you’re here. Unless you’re into that kind of thing.”

  Lena sounded fairly seriously, so I informed her that I wasn’t.

  She shrugged. “Your loss. So, what’s up? Why aren’t you in Africa?”

  “It was Turkey, but thanks for keeping up. I sort of got fired from the show.”

  “Is that why you look like a crazy person?”

  “Sort of. I also committed what I’m pretty sure is assault in front of the restaurant.”

  “Um. You’re going to have to explain that one.”

  I pulled out my phone and Googled myself. Sure enough, my meltdown was already online. Lena sat there trying—and failing—not to laugh at the viral video of me throwing a pair of keys.

  “I didn’t know you had it in you!” She rewound the video and played it two more times, giggling harder each time. Then she paused it at the moment of truth, my mouth open, my eyes furious, my arm reared back. “This may be my new screen saver.”

  “Where’s the tequila?” I answered.

  Lena guided me to the couch. “Don’t worry,” she soothed. “Everything we need is right here. My doorman won’t let anybody up without my implicit permission and all delivery food boys will be thoroughly shaken down at the door. No video or photography allowed.” She pulled out her own phone and pushed a couple buttons. “There. I just ordered some Pequod’s pizza. They know me, so they’ll send the cutest delivery boy they have.”

  “Pequod’s, yes. Moping with ice cream is so overrated.”

  I was just grateful that Lena was home. You never knew with her. She very easily could’ve been out, and with Chicago’s 5:00 a.m. bars, not gotten home until sun rise.

  Lena poured two shots and sprinkled some salt on the webbing of my thumb. “Want a lime?”

  Lena’s commitment to shared wallowing warmed my cold heart. After all, it was already nearing midnight. I knocked back the tequila, forgetting about the salt and lime.

  Behind me, I heard a scrabbling noise. “What was that?”

  “Oh, that. That’s my cleaning lady.”

  “At eleven at night?”

  “She likes to clean while I sleep.”

  “That’s not normal.”

  “She’s allergic to daylight. Super weird. But I offered her a garlic-laced smoothie once and nothing happened, so I think vampire is out of the question. Although I’m not going to count out my neighbor down the hall.”

  Her front door softly clicked shut, but Lena smiled and put her arm around my shoulder. “Just the maid, sweetie. Now tell me everything.”

  Two shots later, and I was spilling the last few months onto Lena’s shoulder.

  “I hate them all,” I wailed. “All I ever wanted was to make good food. This is all Rie’s fault. I’m calling that bitch right now.”

  Lena handed me her phone. “Oh yeah. What a bitch who always wants the best for you. Horrible.”

  I eyed her. “She didn’t have to keep pushing me. You know what she is?”

  “Pushy?”

  “Exactly,” I agreed.

  “Yes, your family is bad with boundaries.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Who called me ten times a day while they were gone?”

  What did she want me to do? Chefs give their lives to a cause and mine was Sassafras. Every single day I had to bust my ass to prove I belonged in a professional kitchen. Not just in one. At the helm of one. Now everything was under siege. And that was before my epic key-throwing episode. Now, I’d be seen as “emotional,” which was the death knell for any powerful woman.

  “My whole career has been one challenge after another,” I said. “Now, because of one dick, I’m lower than when I started. I’m disgraced. Hope you’ve got those cable television packages with like five hundred channels, because I’m not leaving here anytime soon, and I like variety.”

  “I never took you for a quitter,” Lena said quietly. She held up her hands at my expression. “I’m not saying you don’t need or deserve a break. Or that you can’t hide out here for a few days or even weeks. But eventually, you’re going to get back out there, cook delicious food, and reap all your due rewards.”

  “Or, I could wallow. What do failed chefs do besides bring shame on their families? Do they become private chefs?”

  “Hawthorne did a real number on you, huh? You’re a bigger bitch than usual. First, private chefs are not failures. They like an alternative lifestyle.”

  I aimed a lime at her head, which she barely ducked. Then she clicked her fingers, an evil look in her eyes. “I’ve got it!”

  “An aneurism?”

  “No. A plan.”

  I shook my head. “I’m so done with plans. I’m done with everyone trying to fix whatever the fuck they think is wrong with me.”

  Lena waved away my self-pity. “What you need is to get out of here. You need to stop with the lists and the organizations and let loose.”

  “Yeah, because that worked so well for the last month.”

  “I’ll admit, I was surprised you didn’t cancel Rie’s tickets and say no. But we always need to stretch ourselves, even if only a little. It makes us grow. Why don’t you take the month that you were supposed to be filming and promoting the show and go travel? Learn some new things, apprentice with that chef you’ve always dreamed about in Japan. Don’t think about projections, stars, or head counts. Just go.”

  I blew out my cheeks. “That’s not feasible.”

  “Sure, it is!” Lena jumped up, trying to paint an invisible picture, but the tequila had taken hold, and she fell over an ottoman.

  I crossed my arms. “Fine. It’s feasible, but I don’t want to.”

  Lena struggled back to the couch. “Nonnegotiable. Your business partner says you can’t work until you go.”

  “When my business partner can pass a field sobriety test without giggling, then we’ll negotiate.”

  Lena poured another shot and gave an exaggerated wink. It looked like half of her face was seizing up, but she still managed to look hot. God, I hated her effortlessness.

  We clinked shot glasses, but I didn’t remember much after that. Or for the next two days. There was pizza involv
ed. I distinctly remember waking up inside a pizza box with pepperoni and candied pineapple stuck to my upper lip. Try as I did to forget that little moment, it struck me as a particular low point.

  I also vaguely recalled hearing Puck’s voice. But maybe that was the alcohol hallucinating my worst nightmare. Day three through six involved a lot of groaning, Netflix, and swearing to never drink again. Or at the very least, to never touch tequila.

  On day six, Lena cut off all my access to phones and Internet after I scrolled through my Twitter feed and found SLUT in big black letters posted all up and down it. The trolls were having a fucking party at my expense.

  So obviously, day seven and eight involved more tequila. Some people never learn their lesson. Rie even flew in for that pity session, and I let the familiar warmth of my sister taking care of me wash over me. Lena was in and out, busy with Sassafras and the holidays with her family.

  I hugged Rie around her neck, blubbering about Harry Tickler and Quick Mitch and stupid, stupid men. She patted my hair and sat me on the couch, pouring me a much neglected glasses of water.

  “Maybe I should try to become asexual. All the most successful people were,” I said. The interesting people in the world weren’t bogged down by thoughts of romance. They did their shit and changed the world. Sex was for lesser beings.

  “Wasn’t Albert Einstein a sex addict?” she asked.

  I passed out while giving her the finger.

  When I came around on day nine, Lena and Rie stood in front of me with their arms crossed. At their feet, I saw my purse and a large Louis Vuitton suitcase. Those bitches had literally packed my bags.

  “Are you trying to get rid of me?” I asked Lena.

  “Yes, but for your own good.”

  Rie handed me a plane ticket.

  “Japan? But I’m needed here.”

  “My couch will survive without you,” Lena said.

  “That’s not what I meant. I’m talking about the restaurant.”

  I figured they’d see reason, but they stood strong.

  “We’re totally fine here,” Lena insisted. “You need to heal.”

  Rie agreed, “Go to the Motherland. Don’t take any pictures, don’t Google anything, don’t even think. Just experience life.” When I didn’t move, she got firm. “I covered for your ass over Thanksgiving while you went on your bender, so you owe me.”

  I groaned. I’d missed Thanksgiving? My head was pounding, and my eyeballs felt stuck to the back of my skull. Rie was going to make me pay up, and she was cashing in immediately.

  “Fine. When do I leave?”

  Rie grabbed my bags, and Lena opened the door. “Your taxi is waiting downstairs,” they said in unison.

  Don’t fly international while hungover, kids.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Hawthorne

  Istanbul, Turkey

  When something profound happens, it’s easier to ignore than you’d think. I let myself ignore it for days, focusing on the show and my paycheck. I figured I could do it for weeks, but I hadn’t fully comprehended the magnitude of Sophia’s effect on my life until I tried and move on without her.

  She’d left her undeniable mark on me and now everything had changed. Thinking about spending the next few weeks finishing this fucked-up show without her left me hollow. And when I thought about the next year, mindlessly reviewing high-end restaurants and attending red-carpet events, I saw nothing fulfilling enough to keep the loneliness away.

  Sophia ripped open a hole in my heart with her icicle, and I saw my whole life through that hole’s ragged edges. Now, I hated everything about it. I hated the cheapness cloaked in luxury foods and clothing my celebrity status bought. I was tired of the games played by television and production edits. I wanted the truth only a partner who loves you without reservations can bring. They alone can call your bullshit in a way that makes you sit up and re-evaluate your life.

  Sophia wasn’t all softness like Emma. She wouldn’t bend under pressure. She stayed upright and pushed back. I wanted that. More importantly, I needed that.

  At first, I thought ignoring her might be easy. I’d hoped it would be. There were only a few memories to revisit, and they all took place abroad. We’d never lived and fucked in Chicago. Otherwise, I’d be forced to see her memory floating on every corner and sidewalk café. And yet she still haunted me. I saw her in every dream and every waking moment. Sparring with her made life interesting again.

  I refused to live like this, and there was only one solution, but it would require a plan. The first part was easy. I used my contacts at the gossip rag magazines for good instead of evil.

  “Hey, Davis. I’ve got some more news about the show.” I leaned back against my hotel bed, smiling. Picturing Jackson’s reputation ruined was too satisfying. “Don’t worry. I think it will interest everyone.”

  After hanging up with Davis, I only had a vague idea of what I wanted to do next. Something along the grand gesture route. I could track her down, wrap a fur coat over her body, and drag her caveman-style to Mongolia to live in secluded peace.

  Maybe that’s how I would’ve done it a year ago, but now I understood I needed to support her, and her dreams included the restaurant business. So I did the only thing I could think of—I called Charlotte.

  When I got to the conference room production rented for my announcement, butterflies the size of bats fluttered in my stomach, and frankly, that image didn’t convey the gut-twisting emotions ripping through my body.

  I knew this decision could very well blow up my entire career. I might not work again. At least, not in the industry I loved. And say goodbye to the freedom to travel and choose my own topics, all while making more money than I knew what to do with. But I couldn’t care less about them anymore.

  They meant nothing without her.

  I still had a line of bite marks on my side that hurt to touch. I fingered them remember why I was doing this. Her pain was my pain, and she was in a lot of pain. Today, this thing here, was the only one way I could help alleviate it.

  I also had a lacey black thong that smelled of her sweetness, but I thought it wouldn’t be quite as classy to bring them with me to the teleconference, so I left it in my bag.

  I steeled my shoulders and pushed open the glass doors.

  The room was completely full. Top executives from Food & Dine were there, the producers, Charlotte, and close to twenty news media outlets, including bloggers, traditional media, and online magazines arms. They all held recorders and microphones. Bloggers sat at the ready to live stream my speech.

  I had clarity and conviction. The memory of Sophia’s face helped with that.

  I cleared my throat and tapped the mic once. It was hot. Static rippled through the room, which had gone silent the moment I entered. A hundred people stared at me in open curiosity, not quite sure what to expect. I opened my mouth.

  Go to fucking hell, you bastards.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Sophia

  Tokyo, Japan

  I pulled my black bomber jacket snugly around my shoulders and zipped it tight. The weather in Tokyo was mild, but had a chilled undercurrent. Hawthorne hadn’t attempted to contact me, which made me think dark thoughts. Luckily, Lena had been there during my freak-out sessions to help me focus on my priorities. Being a great fucking chef.

  I’d always wanted to visit my dad’s roots in the Motherland and to bring more Japanese influences into my cooking. The person I found doing the most interesting work closest to my style was Yoshihiro Narisawa and his flagship restaurant, Narisawa, in Tokyo.

  Narisawa blended traditional Japanese food with its seasons. He’d captured two Michelin stars and was consistently named one of the world’s fifty best restaurants. He didn’t speak any English, so I had to rely on my rusty Japanese and my instincts. I was good at that, though. I watched his every move.

  For days, I didn’t sleep. I learned. And when I wasn’t at Narisawa, I foraged through the outskirts of Tokyo. He
forced me to explore, to get back to nature, to escape. So I did. The seascapes, the mountains, the cherry groves. Each day, I explored a different environment.

  But when I was at Narisawa, it was spectacular, watching a master transform something like soil into a sumptuous soup. Soil soup. Three ingredients. It’s virtually impossible to comprehend, but soil soup taught me more than any year in culinary school ever could.

  And each additional dish gave me a lifetime of knowledge that I hurriedly tried to file away in my brain like a wild animal stockpiling for the winter. I couldn’t get enough.

  I took a weekend trip to Kyoto, my father’s birthplace. With golden robed monks in a mountaintop Buddhist temple, I learned how to make yuba from soy and how to wrap its delicate film around dumpling fillings, which we then stir fried with miso for a dish that was simplicity distilled.

  I slept on rice straw mats and woke at the crack of dawn to the freezing cold and chanting of the monks in their morning prayer. For an entire afternoon, I sat in their garden and meditated under the fiery Japanese maples in their glorious full color display.

  It was some serious Eat, Pray, Love shit.

  Unfortunately, a certain fiery man filled my thoughts regardless of how Zen I tried to be. Disgusted with myself, I left Kyoto in more turmoil, but determined to learn at Narisawa’s feet.

  When I got back to the quiet restaurant, I began to breathe again in the calmness and serenity of an intimately Japanese place. In my darker moments, I desperately thought about staying until cherry blossom season in the spring or beyond. Lena could handle the restaurant. Probably.

  I took notes until my fingers cramped and blackened with ink. And refused, steadfastly refused, to think of a different sort of inked, muscled torso I wanted to ravage. I doubted even Buddhist monks would keep their peace if they knew what was simmering beneath my surface.

  The worst part was, if they knew how much I missed him, how much my heart was breaking, these kind, gentle, detached souls might actually pity me.