Melted (Cooking up a Celebrity Book 1) Read online

“The show was about you trying to get a Michelin Star, correct?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Well, did you get any?”

  “Not this year.”

  The driver eyed me through the mirror. “Too bad. You’re hotter in person.”

  Lena gave me a not-so-subtle thumbs up. “Best night ever?” she whispered.

  I shook my head and sat back, letting the whiskey take hold and praying to the gods above that I’d survive the night without killing anyone.

  Something vibrated between my legs. “Stop, Harry Tickler,” I murmured in my sleep. “You’ve screwed me enough.”

  Thankfully, the vibrating stopped, but it started again, two seconds later. I searched the source with my hand. My phone vibrating on my crouch. That made more sense, seeing as Harry was still dead. I sat up, wondering who would dare call me at the ungodly hour of… 10:00 a.m. Shit! I never slept this late.

  Even more shit. It was my older sister, Rie. Or, as I liked to call her, Rigid Rie. If you thought I was hard, you should see my sister. (That line only worked on the kinky ones.)

  I groaned and answered her FaceTime request.

  “Ah. I see you took the Michelin announcements well,” Rie said dryly, pointing to the nest of empty Cheetos bags around my head.

  I put my hands over my eyeballs. They were pounding. Everything was pounding.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “You to pounce on a great opportunity I discovered. A new traveling cooking show is looking for a prominent chef to judge it. Think Top Chef meets the Amazing Race. Before you say—”

  “No.”

  “Sophia! Let me finish.”

  I plucked a half-gnawed Cheeto off my check. “Nope.”

  “Listen, you mule-headed ass,” Rie rushed ahead, talking over my objections. “You need this. Sassafras is almost a year old. The buzz is going, going, gone. If you’d gotten a star, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation, but we are.”

  “I’m not your client,” I muttered, rubbing my throbbing temples. I was clearly too old and dignified to be pounding cheap, buttery nipples. Or at least, too old. The secret drunk Cheeto obsession could attest to my real lack of dignity. God, if Michelin knew, they’d never star me.

  Rie sighed like I was physically paining her. “I’m good at my job. Let me help you. We can transition you to a celebrity chef with all of your awards. You don’t need a Michelin star to command huge speaker fees, especially with your legs.”

  “Now you’re just coming on to me,” I said.

  Rie persisted. “You don’t want to bend over a cutting board your whole life, only to become the Hunchback of Chicago. My top clients all command upper six figures for television appearances.”

  “What’s the catch?” I asked.

  “No catch. Can’t I just love my little sister and want to watch out for her?”

  “No.”

  “No to the show or no to my love?”

  “Both.”

  Rie wasn’t one to be put off that easily. “Too late. I’ve already booked your tickets to Paris for tonight. Sorry, no directs. You’ll route through JFK airport. Don’t screw this up. I’m sticking my neck out for you here.”

  Rie hung up before I could reach through the phone and strangle her. I slumped into my nest of orange cheese-flavored shame and let out a growl. She’d done that on purpose.

  Fuck.

  Chapter Four

  Hawthorne

  Somewhere over the Atlantic

  Thanks to the complimentary in-flight glass of wine and the two that followed from an anonymous fan—yes, I see you, fifty-year-old mid-life crisis—I needed to piss.

  I got up, stretching my legs and arms, and moved slowly through the back end of business class. To my right, a giant snore shook the cabin. I looked over, expecting to see a troll or, at very least, gray nose hairs waving at me from the wrinkled face of an old white guy.

  It was the opposite. I saw stunningly beautiful woman, and I knew exactly who she was from her pictures: Sophia Sato. Her almond-shaped, piercing eyes and that porcelain skin were hard to forget, but it was nothing compared to her fierce reputation. It was rumored that she fired a line cook a week.

  The night I’d reviewed her first restaurant a few years ago, she wasn’t even there. I liked it better that way. If chefs don’t know you’re coming, then their staff treats you like everyone else.

  Unfortunately for Sophia, her house was not in order. Service was spotty, the duck managed to be overcooked and under-rendered, which I found particularly impressive, and it took over an hour between the entrée and the dessert course.

  Third Coast tanked after my scathing review. I knew she’d recently opened a new venture called Sassafras, but it hadn’t gotten much buzz beyond the grand opening. Now, it had been snubbed for a star. No need for me to try out mediocre food. Been there, puked that.

  Looking at her now, one thing was clear. Her pictures hadn’t done her justice. Despite her pouty pink mouth hanging wide-open and a glistening line of drool running down her chin, my cock sat up and took notice. An especially loud wake-the-dead snore emanated from her delicate nose. How had her neighbors not notified the flight attendants yet? And why was I having this strong of a reaction to a woman whose food was average, at best?

  The ingenuity was there, but the spark to set it all aflame was missing. It didn’t have the love that makes an Italian nonna’s Sunday sauce so damn delicious. It’s never just the tomatoes. It’s knowing her bambino was going to love and enjoy every mouthful. That love goes into every turn of the wooden spoon, every pinch of salt, every bite of freshly ripped basil.

  Sophia lacked it. She had skill, but no heart. Despite my dick’s insistence, I bet that lack of fire extended to the bedroom as well. She was as cold as the fish she filleted.

  She did have a hot pair of legs, though. And I could almost feel her silky black hair trailing through my fingers as I yanked her head back and imagined her sucking my cock. Her porcelain skin breaking under my touch. Her dark eyes going darker as she swallowed me down. Ah, fuck.

  With that image plastered in my mind, I quickly made my way to the bathroom, where I momentarily considered easing my fantasy out into the first-class toilet. In the end, I pissed, washed up, and stared at myself in the warped airplane mirror. That was it, right? Sophia was probably headed to a floozy girls’ trip in Europe to recuperate after getting snubbed for a star again, and I was on top of my game. The last thing I needed was a distraction.

  Anyway, she looked too selfish to suck and swallow.

  Chapter Five

  Sophia

  Somewhere over the Atlantic

  Something was loud. Maybe a train? I ran through the fog, flailing my arms, trying to find the source. Something was really fucking loud. I snorted awake and looked around.

  Okay, that loud thing was me. The change in air pressure always made me snore. Or maybe it was the hangover. It’d been a long time since I’d waken myself up with snoring, though.

  I stretched my cramped legs and rolled my tongue around a few times, clearing the fuzz and dryness from it. As I cracked my neck, a tall man walked down the aisle, his head bent at a funny angle so he didn’t smack it on the cabin’s roof.

  Holy shit! I recognized him. Hawthorne Fucking West. His stupidly symmetrical face had been staring at me from every magazine rack at O’Hare airport as I downed Dramamine like candy.

  What the fuck was he doing on my flight?

  Let’s face it; he was probably celebrating his latest phony accolades. Seriously, who judged these contests? I’d really like to know who sat on the board and poured over shirtless pictures of chefs to determine Hawthorne Fucking West was the sexiest in the land. They needed to get a life and an appointment with their optometrist ASAP.

  He continued down the aisle, getting bigger and bigger as he came. I didn’t think he’d recognize me, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I scrunched into a ball and pulled the scratchy airplane blanket
over my head. The heat nearly smothered me.

  Just keep walking, you fucker.

  I waited another minute until I was sure he was safely back in his seat. I would’ve waited longer, but I could barely breathe.

  Big mistake.

  Hawthorne stood in the aisle, smiling at me like a bloodthirsty hyena. “Sophia Sato, correct?”

  I didn’t need a mood ring turning raven black to tell me I needed to take deep, calming breaths. Hawthorne Fucking West. I hated that pretentious, wannabe chef, douchebag. He was no different than all the other men in the industry. I’d never met him, but I’d bet my lifesavings that he was actually worse—an asshole with an ego twice as large as his overly chiseled body, which was saying something.

  His superiority and celebrity complex oozed out of him like toxic sludge. He was clearly used to making the calls while everyone around him drooled at his feet. It came through in his vivid, animalistic photo shoots, but in person, it almost choked me.

  No thank you.

  I sat up, making sure there was no lingering drool on my cheek, and slid my wet pillow behind my back. “Do I know you?”

  Hawthorne smiled wider, clearly enjoying our game. “Probably not, but I recognized you from your picture on last year’s James Beard nominee list.” He stuck out his hand. “Hawthorne West.”

  He emphasized the word “nominee”, which I’m sure wasn’t an accident.

  I creased my eyebrows and pretended to think. “Ah, the name rings a bell. You had that one restaurant, right? That one you sold for a fancy cookware line etched with your name.”

  We smiled savagely at each other, knowing the other knew exactly who we were. He was so much larger in real life than I would have imagined. All long lines and hardness. His scruff accentuated a strong jaw and predatory nature.

  I immediately wondered if I should grab Holy Water to sprinkle around—for the other passengers, of course—or stake him with a particularly pointy edge of my in-flight magazine. This was a man who deserved none of his status. He’d given up his restaurant after only a year to be a celebrity.

  Fucking sell-out.

  I fake yawned, seemingly unimpressed and uninterested. “Well,” I said. “Nice to meet you.” I pulled up my iPad.

  Most people would get the hint, but Hawthorne wouldn’t leave. “What ever happened to your first restaurant? I’m sorry, the name is escaping me… something about a coast?”

  “You’re referring to Third Coast,” I said, ice in my voice.

  “Yes, that’s it. I believe I ate there once.”

  Fury rose in my blood. If there was any heat seeking technology in the vicinity, my body would’ve seared red all over the screen. “I’m flattered you know so much about me. Will I need to call security and get a restraining order, too?”

  Hawthorne laughed. “Don’t worry about me, Chef. I’ll be on my way. Hope things turn around for you.”

  I resisted the urge to do anything that would get me arrested once we landed in Paris. Rie worked magic, but even she drew the line at assault. Instead, I dropped my head and unlocked my iPad. There had to be something more interesting than Hawthorne Fucking West on there. Like a video of somebody getting a root canal.

  Chapter Six

  Hawthorne

  Somewhere over the Atlantic

  After watching Sophia pretend to hide under her blanket, I spent the rest of the flight wondering which of my Parisian fuck buddies I should call for the week. There’d be plenty of time between filming to enjoy one of my favorite cities in the world and some of my favorite women.

  Except everything roller coastered downhill the minute I stepped off the plane.

  The soulless bastards at baggage claim lost my bag and refused to argue with me about culpability. I had my carry-on, and it only took a few phone calls before new ties, suits, and shoes were sent straight to my hotel room, but still, it was the principle of the matter.

  Next, my driver never made it to the pickup point, so I had to wait in line for a taxi like a prick. I put on my sunglasses and pulled my hat down low so no one recognized me. I was in no fucking mood to be selfie bait.

  Finally, like Odysseus on a ten-year journey, I stumbled into Food & Dine’s office. A cute intern offered me sparkling water, and despite my road weariness, I saw the bottle shaking as she handed it to me. I steadied her hand and smiled.

  “It’s not too cold in here, is it?”

  Someone snorted in annoyance. I turned around. No idea how I missed her imposing presence, but Sophia Sato sat on a couch in all of her pissed-off glory, twirling a straw. She’d had time to change and freshen up since the plane. Clearly, her luggage hadn’t been lost or manhandled.

  Her thick, black hair hung in waves and she wore minimal makeup. With one look at the tightness around her mouth, my balls practically jumped for safety. This woman loathed me. And now I knew why Nathan refused to tell me who Food & Dine wanted as my co-host before I boarded that flight.

  I never would’ve done it without more negotiations.

  The intern stammered at the arctic drop in temperature. “Charlotte, the executive producer, will be here any moment.”

  Sophia didn’t bother getting up to greet me, and I began composing Nathan’s dismissal in my head. There had to be better talent agents out there.

  “Chef Sato,” I nodded. “I’m surprised to see you on vacation. I thought you’d be in your kitchen for the next month coming up with new recipes. What with your Michelin snub, I mean.”

  Sophia barely twitched. It was as if she were made of ice. But I’d wielded sharper ice picks in my day.

  She languidly re-crossed her legs, as if unconcerned by anything coming from me. “You’ve been out of the loop for quite some time,” she said. “I’m not on vacation. I’m here to host a new show.”

  I smirked. “That’s funny. I would have thought Food & Dine wanted real chefs. Which is why they called me to host.”

  Finally, she reacted. She narrowed her eyes. “You’re no chef. You’re a trend chaser. A sell-out that slid by on gimmicks. That’s why you sold your restaurant after only a year—before people caught on. You’re no better than a con artist.”

  I bristled, angry for letting this woman, who didn’t even know me touch, my sensitive areas. Before I could devastate her, the door opened.

  A blonde woman entered, smiling obliviously. She shook our hands, her fingers frail and limp, like an overcooked soba noodle.

  “Welcome! We’re thrilled to have you both on board for our newest show. It’s got all the flavors for a hit.”

  Neither of us took the bait. Charlotte glanced between us. “Have you two met?”

  Ah, picking up on the tension, was she?

  Sophia stood, smoothing her white pencil skirt and silky black blouse to reveal impressive curves on the tall woman. The only thing it couldn’t cover was the pure venom on her face when she glanced at me.

  I recognized the power move. She wanted to establish herself as an equal, if not the alpha. Too bad, sweetheart. That was my brand.

  I stood waiting, not offering my hand in greeting. The air was tense and the producer probably wondered if she’d made a huge mistake. Finally, Sophia caved.

  “Sophia Sato. Executive chef and owner of Sassafras.”

  Ah, so she was going to play the dumb card. I couldn’t decide if that was inspired or idiotic.

  “Hawthorne West. Editor-at-large for Food & Dine magazine.” I smirked, offering my hand.

  She didn’t take it.

  I grinned. “This should be fun.”

  After a sidelong glance between us, the producer handed us our schedules and informed us the contestants were already sequestered in their hotel rooms for the duration of the trip.

  “Contestants will stay two to a hotel room in each new city, except for Italy. There, we’ve arranged for a large villa to house everyone. It’s near the middle of the competition, so there should be plenty of rooms for the remaining chefs and for both of you. Breakfast will be s
erved at the hotel each morning, then taping will take up most of the day. You probably won’t be hungry for dinner after a day of tasting, but we’ve given you a generous per diem. Am I forgetting anything?”

  Charlotte flipped through her notebook. “Ah yes, please no fraternizing with the contestants off-camera. We like to keep that perceived barrier intact.”

  She fanned out a stack of papers. “Here’s a copy of your contracts. Feel free to refer to them at any point if you have questions. Lastly, the producers would all like to meet for dinner tonight before filming begins tomorrow. Please be at Le Jules Verne at seven.”

  We thanked her and headed for the door at the same time.

  Sophia leaned in and breathed into my neck. “You heard her. No fraternizing with the contestants. That ought to be hard for you. Word is, you can’t manage to keep it in your pants.”

  Then she waved goodbye to the producers and slid through the door first.

  And fuck if it didn’t send shivers down my belly. Plain hatred I could deal with. I lived it every day with my dad for the past two years.

  Lust, however, wasn’t as easy, since I always got what I wanted.

  Chapter Seven

  Sophia

  Paris, France

  The moment I laid eyes on Hawthorne in the plane… well, nothing. I’d thought about nothing but my hate for him. Rie’s betrayal didn’t click until the moment he strode into the office, cocky as he’d been on the plane.

  And it was in that moment that I knew I’d be forced to kill my sister. She knew my co-host was Hawthorne and she didn’t tell me.

  I also considered the less violent route of faking a debilitating flu infection and getting the hell out of dodge. That would mean Hawthorne won, though.

  Instead, I grabbed my workout clothes and spun my jet-black hair into a severe bun. The only time I went this tight was when I meant business.