Melted (Cooking up a Celebrity Book 1) Read online

  The girl suddenly fumbled her brushes, dropping everything into her palette. Colorful pigment exploded in our faces and I knew she wanted to crawl under her makeup stand and die.

  “Here, let me help,” I crouched, and we scooped up her tools. She sat me back in the chair to dust away errant pinks and purples from my cheeks.

  I pushed up from the armrest, about to meet her dimpled mouth when the producer entered again to walk me to the waiting wings of the stage.

  Instead of ravaging her, I winked. “Thanks for the look.”

  I walked out to the roaring applause of the audience, smug that the producer didn’t have to cue up the clap sign. All of the spectators stood in the darkened, live audience stadium seating and a few fans wolf-whistled.

  White-hot lights beat down over the studio where two cushy chairs and a cup of coffee waited next to the smiling hostess. She was some home chef with a blog who had made it to the big time. A small kitchen was set up on the other side for the second half of my segment.

  She spread her arms as the camera panned between us. “What a warm welcome for our favorite bad boy celebrity chef, Hawthorne West!”

  The audience stamped its feet, sounding like an arena during gladiatorial games. She sat me next to her and smiled.

  “I’m thrilled to be the first stop on your tour after the news broke! Congratulations, Chef!”

  I winced inwardly. I didn’t really go by chef anymore. Not since selling my restaurant almost two years ago, but my oblivious hostess didn’t notice.

  “Just Hawthorne,” I said.

  “Okay, Hawthorne. You already had your photo shoot for the new issue of People Magazine, correct?”

  I smiled to the clapping of the cued-up audience. “Yes, we shot in an abandoned warehouse yesterday. The photographer wanted an edgy, urban vibe, so there’s plenty of graffitied walls and crumbling cinder blocks in the background.” I paused. “And little to no clothing.”

  The audience gave me a standing ovation for that imagery.

  I shivered, remembering the freezing cavernous room. They’d let me wear jeans at first, but I knew it was only a matter of time before they came off. By the end, I’d gone down to my boxer briefs, with nothing to keep me warm except for my tattoos and my pride.

  “Sexiest Chef alive for three years running is pretty impressive,” she continued. “And you were named top five hottest chefs in a few other publications.” She began ticking them off, reading through a digital list of the who’s who of publications, including my own employer, Food & Dine. “You’ve been busy!”

  “I try.”

  “Well I’d love to chat forever, but you came here to teach us! We’ve got you all set up in the kitchen for a master course straight from your brain. I’m dying to see you in action!”

  I moved with purpose behind the kitchen, washing my hands like a surgeon and belting my apron tightly across my perfectly tailored Armani suit. Finally, I could stop thinking and cook. That, I could do.

  “So today, we’re building a bridge between the last of the summer produce and the more earthy tones of fall,” I explained, sharpening my favorite knife with my honing steel rod. “I created this dish for a Food & Dine special issue, which will be on stands later this month to celebrate modern cuisine.”

  Damn, I sounded like a corporate robot. It was amazing how much shit I swallowed these days, simply to have the opportunity to keep running. Fast and far.

  Before Milan, I’d run all the way to Raja Ampat Islands, a small chain of islands of indescribable turquoise beauty off of the coast of Indonesia. The volcanic coast still had its pristine waters and beaches. It was less touristy than Bali, but every bit as beautiful, if not more. Although even the oceans were nothing in comparison to its gorgeous women.

  After today, I might run to Fiji. Or Sicily. Anywhere with golden beaches and tanned skin worked for me.

  “First, we start our mise en place. In French, that simply means everything in its place. At home, it means you prep, cut, and lay out all of your ingredients before you turn on your stove.”

  The cameraman panned over to the hostess. The entire audience, including me, followed the lens.

  “If I could interrupt for a second?” she said.

  I wiped my hands on my apron. “Uh, sure.”

  “We have a surprise guest today. One Hawthorne didn’t even know was coming.” The hostess gave a shit-eating grin. “Come on out, A.J.”

  Camera two got my exact shell-shocked reaction as a bald girl walked out on stage to the polite, but confused studio applause.

  It was hard to concentrate with A.J. glued to my side. Her hands were shaking and her eyes large. Of course, they were. This was her first time in front of a camera. She was twelve fucking years old.

  Her signature neon pink bandana was tied in a bow on top of her head, and I admired how she embraced the bald. She was so strong, because that’s what life had forced her to be.

  One of the stage crew handed her an apron, and we stood behind the counter as I sharpened her knife and murmured comforting things. “Forget about the cameras and act like it’s your kitchen. Don’t even look in that general direction. You’ll be fine. I’ll help you.”

  The hostess corralled everyone’s attention. “Hawthorne, we wanted to give you a nice surprise! Word on the street is that this is your mentee. Can you tell us about your relationship?”

  I continued sharpening, trying to gather my thoughts. A.J. was my secret. No one else’s. Unfortunately, not anymore.

  “Yes. I’m not quite sure how you found out, but I work with a few organizations, including Make a Wish. I met A.J. last year after her second round of chemo, because… well, why don’t you tell the story? Why did you choose me?”

  A.J. didn’t freeze. She gave me that radiant smile that had captured me. “I want to be a badass chef. Like you, only better!”

  The audience cheered and gave her a standing ovation. Once they finished, the hostess pressed on. “I heard you’ve been paying for her travel and treatments. Where do you find it in your heart to do that for a total stranger?”

  I gritted my teeth. Not even A.J. knew those details. She didn’t need to know where that money was coming from. This was starting to feel like a fucking ambush. Clearly someone had set me up, and I had a pretty good idea who.

  “It’s a joy to do.” I turned to A.J. before the hostess could come up with anymore asinine questions. “Do you want to start by taking the corn kernels off the cob? Perfect. Long strokes of the knife.”

  I flipped the stove’s knob, and a flame danced to life. “First, we’re going to simmer a seafood stock with these corn cobs and lobster heads to really coax out a great depth of flavor. This broth will add a silky richness to swim our butter poached lobster in.”

  A.J. and I worked in tandem. I set her up with a truffle shaver and a nice, knobby summer truffle. We dusted the final plate with Espelette pepper and stood back for camera three to get a few shots.

  “It’s decadent with the lobster, but feel free to substitute with shrimp or even crayfish on a budget.”

  “Thank you!” the hostess gushed, taking a fifty-dollar mouthful of lobster. “And we’ll have the recipe up on the website, I believe?”

  I nodded. “Happy to.”

  Since I’d already walked into the trap, I decided I might as well get something out of it. “And if you’d like to donate to kids with cancer programs, I’ll also add a few links to some of my favorite organizations.” I slung my arm around A.J. and the two of us waved as one. “Thank you!”

  The moment the segment ended, I quickly ushered A.J. off stage. “You didn’t seem nervous at all,” I told her.

  “Not with you. Once we got into a rhythm it was awesome!”

  I managed a smile for her. “I’ll give your parents the names of some restaurants I want you to try while you’re in New York. I hope the show got you guys a great hotel and flight. None of that layover bullshit.”

  “Direct from Chicago,” s
he promised.

  “Good, good,” I said distractedly, running a hand through my hair. I pulled my talent agent’s business card from my wallet. “Call this number before dinner. Nathan will arrange your reservation and forward me the bill. Have fun, kid. I’ll see you in Chicago next time I’m in town.”

  The moment A.J. was gone, I stormed back to my studio and grabbed my phone, ready to raise hell. The make-up artist was cleaning her brushes in the sink, but I barely gave her a glance.

  I angrily punched my agent’s face in my phone while I thought of depraved ways to make Nathan pay for ambushing me. He picked up immediately. As he should. I was his fucking meal ticket. The one who afforded him his latest Range Rover and the one before that.

  “What the fuck, Nathan? A little fucking heads-up would’ve been great.

  Nathan’s sharp intake of breath told me all I needed to know. Complicit motherfucker.

  “Look, Hawthorne. You’ve got the bad boy image down, but we needed to soften it. I’m just giving you layers.”

  “I’m not a fucking onion. Stop trying to peel me.”

  “I never said you were.” There was fear in his voice.

  “The things I do in my very limited spare time are my business. They are not for public consumption, especially not for a bunch of bored housewives at ten in the morning.”

  “Sorry, man,” he said for the tenth time. “I considered asking your permission, but it would’ve looked too staged if you weren’t shocked.”

  I didn’t say anything, so Nathan continued. “Please tell me you looked shocked.”

  “Yes, you asshole. I was fucking floored. This isn’t helping your cause.”

  Nathan groaned and I heard a rustle on the other end. “Hawthorne, I’m down on my knees over here. I’m sorry I ambushed you, but that story coupled with that look probably earned you a cool ten million. How many wishes can that kind of money fulfill?”

  “You better be right or you won’t be my agent much longer.”

  “I am, and I already have good news.”

  “What is it?” I said gruffly.

  I was still pissed my personal business was out in the world, something I tried hard to keep to myself, but I was also curious. I’d been expecting opportunities to flood in, perhaps even a book deal. I could practically hear Nathan’s devious smile over the phone. He was a scary man in the business. So, what did it say about me that I scared him?

  “How about another hosting opportunity?” Nathan said. “This one is international. You and a co-host will travel around the world following chefs as they do a series of escalating challenges. It’s going to be super classy.”

  “Right,” I scoffed. “Classy. Isn’t that what you told me about Mouthful?”

  “No, absolutely not. This one is for professional chefs. We used Mouthful to launch your celebrity career, which it did. Now you can be more selective about what shows you take. I’ve already spoken to Food & Dine, and you can have a few months off from submitting any articles to do this show for them. It’s their production.”

  I didn’t say anything, so Nathan kept talking. “Look, don’t take too long to think about it. I’ve got tickets on hold for a direct flight to Paris tomorrow.”

  “Shit, tomorrow? A little warning would be good.” I’d promised my dad I’d visit this time. We both knew I wouldn’t, but now he’d get to gloat about being right.

  I needed to make seeing him a priority at some point this year, and it was already fall. “How long will we be filming?”

  “Until the end of the year.”

  “Motherfucking shit.”

  “Problem with that?” Nathan asked.

  “Nothing. I’ll figure it out.”

  At the awkward silence, Nathan sighed. “Listen, I’m sorry about the kid.”

  “A.J. Her fucking name is A.J.”

  “A.J.,” Nathan amended. “God, you’re in a bad mood. I’m only doing this for your career.”

  I laughed without humor. “And yours. Don’t think I don’t know that.” Nathan didn’t respond, so I knew he’d gotten the point. My personal life was personal. I took his dangling body off the hook. “Tell me more about the show.”

  The makeup artist came over and started wiping my face clean. By the way she casually shoved her tits in my face, it was clear she had other intentions.

  I put a hand over the speaker. “Not right now.”

  “No shit, not right now. Tomorrow night. Do I need to get you a personal assistant to help you get your shit together?”

  “Not you, oh, forget it. Who else has signed on for the show? You mentioned a co-host.”

  “They haven’t settled on the co-host yet.”

  “Okay, well, who’s in the running?” I persisted, knocking away her hand. She finally took the hint and left me alone. Not that she wasn’t attractive in that young, artsy kind of way, but I needed some space. I’d had nothing but crushing bodies, booze, and bad decisions follow me around for the last week. Or month.

  Okay, two years.

  “The producers have someone they’re trying to lock down. I’ll fill you in later. Just be on Flight 107 leaving from JFK at 8:04 p.m. tomorrow night.”

  “Fine. As long as you say it’s the real deal. It’s time to transition back to being serious.”

  “I hear you loud and clear. No more Mouthfuls.”

  I was about to hang up when Nathan cleared his throat. “Remember, no matter who they choose to be your co-host, you’re the star.”

  That made me pause. “Are you suggesting I’d be intimidated? Who are they looking to snag? A reincarnated Anthony Bourdain? Jonathan Gold? Jesus?”

  But Nathan was already gone.

  Chapter Three

  Sophia

  Chicago, Illinois

  Lena showed up a half hour before service ended, probably to make sure I didn’t slip off into the night. She swaggered into the kitchen, waving a bottle of Maker’s Mark above her head, her buoyant personality already charming the staff. “Hurry up, Sophia, the last tables are on dessert, so I know you’re finished. You suck at pastry.”

  She was all ready to go in a sequined white mini dress that was neither subtle, nor easy to look at directly under the lights. I could only imagine what she’d brought for me. It wasn’t like I wore grandma clothes—I liked to flaunt my military-grade workout regime as much as the next girl—but I preferred tight skirts to short ones. Not so for my sweet, young, misguided Lena.

  I pursed my lips. “Wow, I’m super looking forward to hanging out now.”

  She knocked back a shot. “Me too!”

  Oh, sweet Lena. When you’re rich, it’s easy to mistake sarcasm for actual excitement. I doubted few people turned down Lena Beaumont.

  We’d met at a hoity-toity food charity that chefs are expected to both attend and throw for obscure food causes every year. Lena was a trust fund baby with money to burn, and we’d hit it off backstage while making fun of the whole charade, eating lobster and caviar canapes until we burst.

  I figured it was a one-night thing, but Lena was dogged and determined to do something outside of the shadow of her last name. She pretty much stuffed so much money down my throat that it become impossible to say no to being her business partner. I was still licking my wounds from having to close my first restaurant, Third Coast, due in no little part to Hawthorne Fucking West. When it came down to the details, it was an easy yes. Lena loved all of my ideas and even offered a few solid ones of her own. She was great with customers and generous with money.

  She was enthusiastic, too. A little too enthusiastic. You know what they say: watch out for the little ones. Lena stood a fun-sized five-feet tall in socks.

  She rifled through her designer bag, pulling out a string of flavored condoms, two packs of Juicy Fruit gum, a black Amex card, and finally, a little black dress. She threw it at me.

  “This is going to really make your legs and boobs pop!”

  When I got back to the kitchen, grumpy as hell in a short, lacy
number, she’d already filled shot glasses for everyone and was holding hers in the air. “To Sophia!” she shouted, downing it in one go. Everybody followed suit, and she poured another.

  “Go on, cheers yourself.”

  That was the problem with Lena. She celebrated the first green bud in springtime and every made-up national pizza, donut, and fro-yo day in between. The word restraint had no meaning in her universe. I grew up in a half-Japanese household.

  My dad wasn’t super strict or traditional—otherwise I doubt he would have married my Midwestern mother and moved to Chicago in the first place—but they had a solid mix of blue-collar Midwest values with ancient Japanese expectations that I was expected to follow. They were even fine with the cooking—something unheard of for a Japanese woman—so long as I was fucking good at it.

  And I guess they didn’t love the cursing.

  I accepted the tumbler and swirled the amber liquor. After staring it in the eye, wondering if I could see my soul matched in its fire, I threw it back.

  “That’s my girl.” Lena patted me on the back. “Let’s go. Puck will close up.”

  I pulled away. “Did you wait until after I took the shot on purpose? Puck is not trustworthy!”

  She looped her arm through mine and guided me to the Uber waiting outside. “He has my complete trust. That’s the beauty of equal business partners. Sometimes I get to make decisions.”

  “Where are we going?” I grumbled.

  “A new wine bar to loosen you up, then we’ll see where the night takes us!”

  “That’s not how the night works,” I began, but Lena was already chatting away with the driver, easily getting his life story and then some.

  The driver looked at me through the rear-view mirror. “Hey, aren’t you that chef? That one Netflix did a piece on.”

  Lena elbowed me. “See?” she mouthed. “Famous!”

  I elbowed her back. “Uh, yeah. That’s me.”

  “Did you get any?” the driver asked.

  “Excuse me?”