Melted (Cooking up a Celebrity Book 1) Read online

Seared

  A reformed bad boy chef looking for a win. A bright-eyed culinary school graduate. Oh, and a virgin. And they’re going head-to-head in an international culinary competition of a lifetime.

  Things are about to get steamy!

  Liam Long has been on a downward spiral for over a year. Fired from a cushy, executive position, he’s recently sober and now finds himself slinging patty melts at a local diner. This competition is everything he needs to skyrocket back to fame and shed his embarrassing past.

  Clara Romero can’t wait to try her first taste of culinary freedom. This competition will prove to the world—and herself—that she’s one of America’s best up-and-coming chefs.

  When the two collide, it’s instant sparks. Clara’s innocence tames Liam’s rough exterior, but only one can win. Will the stress of the competition tear them apart or sear them together?

  Chapter 1

  Clara

  Staten Island, New York

  “Holy shit!” I hung up my phone and opened my email. It was all a fantasy until I saw the offer with my own eyes. It took five heart-pounding minutes. Finally, my inbox binged, and I clicked it open.

  Stupid junk mail! What was the point of a junk mail folder if the junk got through anyway? No, I was not interested in funding a Nigerian prince or enhancing my manhood. Could they not even gender target properly?

  Okay, that last one was probably on me. I’d looked at too many dream Harley-Davidsons, and Google was probably confused. Maybe I should write back to some of these ads and tell them I was a girl. That would teach them.

  My inbox binged again in the middle of my mental rant. Food & Dine’s logo scrolled across the top, and I reread the email three times, branding the words on my brain. I’d done it. I’d really done. It had only been three months since I’d graduated from culinary school, and now I would compete on an international cooking show. A legit one. One that could rocket my career into the very best kitchens in the world and get me the hell off Staten Island where life drags you down and doesn’t let go.

  “Fuck yes!”

  “Language, young lady,” my mother yelled from the kitchen.

  “Sorry,” I called down, barely remembering what I’d said. My whole body tingled with excitement. This was happening. This was freaking happening!

  “Dinner’s almost ready,” she said. “Don’t be late.”

  I patted my hair into place and mentally prepared myself. It was Sunday dinner at the Romero house, and yes, I still lived at home. I was twenty years old. By old-school Italian standards, I had another ten years before I was allowed to leave the nest.

  No, thank you. I’d gotten a taste of freedom during my last year at culinary school, and now I needed to get the hell out of here. The prize money wouldn’t hurt, either. The winner received a quarter of a million dollars, a feature article in Food & Dine magazine, international recognition, and a freaking car. I could really use the wheels. For the aforementioned getting the hell out of here thing.

  Which I would then trade in for my dream bike, a Harley-Davidson Road King Special with ten-inch ape hangers and a custom paint job in scorched orange and denim black.

  I still couldn’t believe they’d chosen me. I figured I had no chance, which was why I straight up told them I’d never left the state of New York on my submission video. The most freedom I’d ever had was taking classes at the Culinary Institute of America, also known as the CIA.

  Now I was about to travel the world!

  I decided I’d rather be late than unprepared when facing my mother. She wouldn’t like the idea of her bambina leaving. She’d take it as a personal insult. I could already hear her now.

  “Mia formagginna! Your papa has only been gone a year, how could you leave your family at a time like this? We need you. You’re going to put your poor mama in heaven right next to him.”

  Then I’d say, “Wait? Don’t you miss him more than life? So, I’d be doing you a favor!”

  Then she’d smack me with a wooden spoon like when I was twelve.

  Deep breaths. Emma would know what to say.

  I hesitated, my fingers hovering over my cell phone. Even though she was two years older than me, Emma Smyth had been my best friend since high school. She’d been the shy new kid taking home economics, and I was the shy loner nobody had wanted to befriend. It was a match made in awkward heaven.

  She’d already been on a show called Mouthful for home cooks. It gave her five minutes of fame, but it also gave her the cooking bug. Emma was the one who pushed me to apply to Cooking Around the World with her. What if she didn’t make it? I don’t think either of us thought we’d actually get picked. And out of the two of us, we both figured it would be leggy, red-headed, bombshell Emma who had the best chance of getting selected.

  I’d applied, because I’d had nothing to lose.

  My phone rang. It was Emma. My heart dropped to my toes, but she’d find out sooner or later. Like when it aired.

  Deep breaths. In and out.

  “Hey, Emm—”

  I held the phone away from my ear so Emma didn’t split my eardrums with her squealing. I made the sign of the cross against my chest. Mary, Mother of God, she’d made it.

  “Happy squealing I take it?”

  “I’m in! I can’t believe it. My goodness, I needed this,” Emma said.

  I nodded. Emma hadn’t had a serious boyfriend since a fling with the sexy judge of Mouthful, Hawthorne West. He’d broken her heart and stomped it to pieces. Actually, it was all pretty reasonable in the course of love, but Emma was sensitive. Apparently, he’d ruined her for all other men, too. That was probably the biggest part of it. The girl liked her sex, and Hawthorne knew his way around a bedroom.

  I had never had a Hawthorne. Or even a Bill or a Ted. I was still a virgin, but the way Emma described the sex made me feel like I was almost ruined for all other men, too. By the way, Hawthorne had been two fucking years ago.

  I did a little hop and spun in place. “Me too! Me too! I can’t believe we both made it. That’s crazy! We’re going to Paris!”

  Something loud broke on her end, and I heard laughing and crying.

  “Did you break your ass?” I asked, wiping tears from my eyes.

  “Just a lamp. Who needs light anyway?”

  “Oh my God, we’re going to Paris,” I said again, with a little less enthusiasm.

  Emma heard the tone change and voiced my biggest concern. “What are you going to tell your mother?”

  I slumped back in my chair. “Good fucking question.”

  Chapter 2

  Liam

  The Bronx, New York

  I was already three minutes into my ten-minute break before I even got outside. I wanted to pound a six-pack on my way, but I didn’t.

  Gold fucking star for me.

  Instead, I rifled through my locker and grabbed my lighter and a pack of the cheapest cigarettes I could find at the bodega, which had been fucking menthol Newports, but whatever.

  Three hundred and thirty days.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. Great. What now? More debt collectors? My AA sponsor telling me I needed to get out of the restaurant industry if I had any hope of staying sober? At the very least, it’d be my mom asking, yet again, when I was coming home.

  I ignored the call and leaned against the bricks, watching a particularly large Bronx rat scurry down the alley. Smoke spiraled into the chilly fall air. Maybe I should go home. Mom was lonely. She missed her only child. That was clear. But going back to Michigan would be admitting defeat. It would be admitting I’d failed and couldn’t claw my way out of the abyss.

  I sighed and scrolled through my missed calls. The call originated from Los Angeles and left a voicemail. Fuck. Now I was getting rejected for the third time from a cooking show that could lift me out of this dead end job flipping congealed patty melts and rubbery omelets.

  I hated what I’d been reduced to and how it’d all gone down. There was no loyalty, no honesty, no fucking int
egrity in this industry. No wonder everyone was an alcoholic or a cokehead. It was the only way to make it through another soulless shift.

  For a second, I thought about deleting the voicemail and moving on from the dream. Both the dream of celebrity and the dream of cooking. I knew I was fucking good at it, but I couldn’t even get an interview at a decent restaurant anymore. Why keep torturing myself?

  My fingers hovered over the red trash button, but that masochistic part of me pressed play instead. I listened in rising disbelief. It was Food & Dine telling me I’d made it as a contestant on their new travel cooking show. The voice on the other end told me how they’d loved my hard-luck story and felt it would be a great chance at redemption.

  At least, my baggage was good for something.

  The show would require around two months of travel if I made it to the end. Shit. My boss was not cool in general and hated me in particular. Apparently, I had an attitude problem. Try living with the stress of being sober, supporting your mentally-ill mother, and having the whole world in reach, just to watch it crumble before your eyes. Anyone who had gone through that would have a fucking attitude problem. If they didn’t, they were a psychopath or a liar. Probably both.

  Talking him into giving me a leave of absence was going to require some delicate maneuvering. Delicate wasn’t my thing, but maybe I could pull something nice out of my ass. This opportunity was worth swallowing my pride. And honestly, I swallowed more shit than my delicate pride these days.

  I found my boss on the line, slinging gravy-soaked meatloaf and chicken fried steak. He pulled another ticket and screamed for more cheddar. I made my way over to him, anger already rising in my gut.

  Breathe, motherfucker. Breathe. He’s just an asshole who will try to take your light. He’ll huff and puff, but it’s all smoke.

  “Hey, Marco.”

  My boss barely spared me a glance, which was more than he usually offered. That meant he was in a good mood, relatively speaking. Maybe he’d kicked a puppy on the way into work to release his stress.

  “Get your ass on the griddle.” His stained, white T-shirt rode up over his potbelly, and the apron he used to cover his hairy belly bulge from grease was in even worse shape.

  I tied my own apron, washed my hands, and began flipping pancakes and burgers. It would be better to play nice. Apparently, you can catch more flies with honey, although I’d have to be dipped in honey and rolled in dollar bills to catch Marco’s good will.

  “I’ve got an opportunity I need to tell you about,” I began, hating how hesitant I sounded. Before Marco could open his mouth and say “no,” I barreled ahead. “Food & Dine chose me as a contestant on their new cooking show, and I feel like I need to take this.”

  Marco stop slinging slop to turn and actually laugh in my face. “Absolutely not. I’m not running a talent agency here, and you’re not talented. Besides, we’re down a line cook as it is.”

  I tried a different tactic. “It will raise the profile of the diner, especially if I win.”

  “You wouldn’t win,” he said dismissively, turning back to the hot griddle and pouring pancake mix on. The white goop sputtered, and steam hissed into the air.

  I took deep breaths, just like my sponsor taught me, even though all I wanted to do was punch Marco’s fucking lights out.

  “I think you should consider it. It’s a short leave of absence for a big reward.”

  He turned around and waved a spatula dripping goop in my face. “The answer is no. Get your ass on the line for the lunch rush, or you’re fired. I don’t care how many guys I’m down. Anything would be better than more of your bullshit.”

  I was halfway through my second deep breath when I knew my rage couldn’t be contained. “Fuck you, Marco,” I said, untying my apron. “I’m done taking your shit.” I threw it in a sink of murky brown dishwater with bits of lettuce and beans floating in it.

  Marco didn’t spare me a glance this time. “Fuck you, too, Liam. Your shitty attitude is a liability. Get the fuck out of my kitchen.”

  “My fucking pleasure,” I said, giving him the double middle finger on my way out.

  So much for delicacy.

  It only took me a couple minutes to collect my stuff, but already the enormity of my situation hung heavily around me, almost as heavily as the stale air pumping out of the vents from Marco’s diner. I had nothing but debt and my disabled mom relying on me. My car had been impounded a month ago, and the friend whose couch I’d been sleeping on was fed-up with my lack of funds. Disability only covered so much, and it couldn’t help Mom’s mental state. Only I could do that, and I only did that when I worked. She didn’t mean to put the extra pressure on me, but she also had made it clear that she lived for my successes.

  It’d been a long time, but in her mind, I was still serving New York’s celebrities and hotshot athletes every night to rousing applause and “compliments to the chef!” I’d gotten so good at spinning stories, I was starting to scare myself. Not enough to stop. Stopping had never been part of my personality.

  There was only one option at this point. I had to fucking win that competition.

  About the Author

  Hadley hides out in her vegetable garden, penning steamy romance novels that would make her organic neighbors blush redder than a radish. If they knew. She also frequently dodges requests to join her two kids’ PTA board meetings to make room for her other hobbies.

  In her spare time, Hadley loves skydiving, funky red wines, and Harley-Davidson bikes, hopefully in the same day. Just kidding. Drinking while skydiving would be dangerous.

  Visit her below or at https://hadleyharlin.com