Melted (Cooking up a Celebrity Book 1) Read online

  She inclined her head. “You’d be surprised where good cooking will get you.”

  “Oh, I’m sure. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  She narrowed her eyes, but said nothing.

  Just then, the duck arrived. Perfect.

  I sliced into its crispiness. “Sophia, do you want to take notes? Here, I’ll narrate for you. First, they scored the skin, careful not to cut into the breast meat. Then, they rendered the duck breast with skin side down until all the fat melted away, leaving the skin ultra-crispy.” I paused. “I don’t see you taking notes.”

  Sophia glared. “I assume you’re referencing your review of my restaurant from a number of years ago.”

  Damn, she had balls. I grinned back. “You caught me. I can’t help but be helpful.”

  “Aren’t you sweet.”

  Sophia didn’t give me much to work with, and the conversation drifted away into production particulars. For some reason, I found myself glancing in her direction more often than I should.

  She carefully kept her utensils in the French way, knife in her right hand and fork upside down in her left. Her presence was undeniable, and more than one professional waiter shook while pouring her next glass of wine. It was clear Sophia Sato took no prisoners and suffered no fools.

  Soon, I would have every morsel of her memorized, from her sleek, black, nipple-grazing hair to her kissable, pink, pouty lips. Maybe she was into a hate fuck. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d indulged an angry chef after receiving one of my reviews. Or the last.

  It would solve so many things. Like getting rid of this sexual tension. And scratching a fucking itch that had been gnawing at me since seeing her snore on the plane. Something about seeing her vulnerable made me curious about what she was really like beneath her icy exterior.

  Dinner finished agonizingly slow, but finally, production paid the bill. Charlotte lingered and I could tell where this was heading. I may have been a slut, but even sluts have standards. Charlotte was not my type. I gave her a quick handshake and walked to catch up with Sophia, who I noticed hadn’t said much more than goodbye. She clearly didn’t know how to play the show business game.

  “I don’t care how famous you are, Hawthorne. You don’t intimidate me.”

  I feigned a look of surprise. “It was never my intention to intimidate you. Besides, I have a hard time believing you’re easily intimidated.”

  “Save your flattery for someone who buys it.”

  “My flattery isn’t for sale.”

  Sophia marched into the chilly Parisian night. “Good night, Hawthorne West. I don’t need help getting back to the hotel, so why don’t you go take your bullshit lines out on someone else tonight. We have a job to do in the morning.”

  “Now that’s the best idea you’ve had all night.”

  As Sophia stalked off without another word, I watched appreciatively as her hips swayed. Oh, we were going to have so much fun over the next month while I got my revenge for her antics tonight.

  I’d have to carefully coordinate a few surprises. I may have unintentionally started our feud when I reviewed her restaurant, but I was sure as hell going to finish it. Her shots had been glancing ones, meant only to aggravate me. Unfortunately for her, when I took a shot, it was to the heart.

  First, I was going to find out once and for all if she could swallow.

  Chapter Ten

  Sophia

  Paris, France

  After the dinner fiasco, I didn’t see Hawthorne until the next morning. He waved at me from across the lobby when I entered, which immediately made me suspicious. I ignored him and ordered a petit café at the coffee shop inside the hotel. With the jet lag, I needed a little pick me up.

  The barista gave it to me with a smile, but as soon as the coffee hit my lips, I almost choked. It was as if a salt bomb went off in my mouth, almost gagging me. I fought the sensation and swallowed, barely showing my discomfort outwardly.

  Clearly, Hawthorne had arranged a little surprise in my coffee, and I didn’t want to give him the pleasure of a reaction. I wondered if he had to pay the barista or if he only had to flash her that sultry smirk to get what he wanted.

  He sat in a little Parisian café chair, sipping his café au lait. He looked relaxed and perfectly at home in the chic surroundings of our hotel, except for the unfortunate dimensions of such a dainty chair. When he saw me looking at him again, he raised his petite white cup in salute. I could see his gray eyes twinkling from across the room.

  Bullshit. I wasn’t going to play his little games. I stalked over, not waiting for an invitation, and sat down. He lazily waved to the chair I was already sitting in, my arms crossed against my chest.

  Hawthorne spoke first. “Good morning, sunshine. Enjoying the famous Parisian hospitality?”

  “Cut the crap. I mean, I get it. You think you’re going to look like an amateur next to a real chef during today’s first judging,” I said, ignoring his mahogany scent. Completely ignoring it.

  Hawthorne cocked his head. “What makes you think that?”

  “Why else would you try to blow out my palate with a salt bomb?” I held up my hands at his protest. “Don’t worry, I won’t hold fear against you. I understand that I’m quite formidable. Not many people like to be on my shit list, though.”

  He leaned in closer, his low, husky voice vibrating into my soul. “Is that a threat?”

  I met him halfway across the bistro table. “If you think you intimidate me…” I paused, emphasizing my last words. “You wish.”

  I grabbed his cup and downed the small latte in one go. “See you in an hour.” As I walked away, I looked over my shoulder. “And thanks for the coffee.”

  I didn’t look back again, but I’d bet Sassafras he was watching me. My ass was tight from daily kickboxing, and I’d made sure to choose a form-fitting pair of pants.

  I headed to makeup and wardrobe upstairs. It was located in a random hotel room that production had commandeered. They’d filled it with racks of clothes, intense lighting, and a Sephora-sized makeup counter.

  I chose sparkling gold high-tops, fitted skinny jeans, and a flowing, button-down silk shirt tucked in to accentuate my curves. I rolled up the sleeves to my elbows, so my tattoos peeked out. Casually chic. As requested, the makeup artist kept it simple. Mascara, a shimmer of sparkly gold eyeshadow, a touch of bronzer, and nude lip balm. The whole time, I sat drumming my fingers on the chair, wondering how I was going to work with this man. He was as thorny as his name.

  The makeup artist spun me around. “What do you think?”

  “Hm?” I looked up. The gold sparkles really complimented the almond-shaped, brown eyes I inherited from my Japanese father, and the bronzer gave me a Provenance-sun-kissed glow.

  “Perfect. Thanks.”

  She blotted setting powder everywhere and lowered the chair. Now, I needed to focus on the first segment scheduled in twenty minutes.

  According to Charlotte, the main challenges would take a day to film. There would be an elimination round on the second day. Hawthorne and I would also shoot a segment about the country we were in by ourselves. As the only two judges, we would have to agree completely about who to cut. I actually snorted out loud when I heard that.

  We met up in the hotel lobby. Hawthorne had changed into a fitted royal blue suit with a white shirt open to reveal a hint of his tattoo along his collarbone. When he stuck his hands in his pockets, his suit tugged around his broad shoulders as if it were ready to burst at the seams.

  His dark hair was slicked back, and I blinked a few times to bolster my composure around him. It really irritated me how delicious he looked. I didn’t even like jawline stubble. Pretty much every male in the restaurant industry insisted on it, so I tended to go for the clean-shaven type. Or at least, I was going to—once the celibacy train was back in the station and stopped running my life.

  Get it together, Sophia. I mean, he’s hot, if you’re into that kind of thing. Which you’re not,
I reminded myself. You’re celibate.

  Mitch, my last boyfriend, owned restaurants and jawline stubble. His places exuded a low-key, bros dining vibe that actually served subtly intense flavors. They were always experimenting. It was the unpretentious, creative environment that drew me to Mitch. And him to me, I thought.

  Nothing screamed spellbinding sex, but it worked. Mitch pretty much let me take control and have my way. Which was usually a quick girl on top type situation so I could get in, get out, and get sleep.

  After dating for a year, we had THE TALK. I always assumed we’d marry, but I didn’t want kids. I wanted a restaurant. My restaurant. Mitch always assumed I’d be barefoot and pregnant and as happy cooking for our family as I would for the world.

  There’s not much else to do except part ways when you fundamentally think the dude is a chauvinistic asshole. In the end, I guess bros will always be bros.

  Hawthorne appeared to have gone to the same academy. He had all the qualities of an epic douchebag. A little celebrity validation, arrogant attitude, great bone structure. I already knew he had a banging body and sexy mystery tattoos. What else was he hiding?

  Someone shoved straight into my chest, almost knocking the wind out of me, and I came spinning back down to the present. A crowd surged around us, shoving and pushing. I was tempted to ask someone where the fire was, but I didn’t hear any alarms or smell smoke. Also, I nearly lost my hearing when a girl screamed next to my ear.

  “There he is!”

  As the crowds rammed right past me, I noticed the demographics were 99.9 percent female. And they were all screeching to get a selfie with Hawthorne.

  “Hawthorne! Hawthorne! Hawthorne!”

  “Will you pose for a picture?”

  One woman licked her lips provocatively. “Can I touch your knife?”

  I caught a flash of a lacey black bralette on a grown woman. “Sign my boobs!” the woman screamed.

  Hawthorne held up his hands, smirking, because that was the only facial gesture he could figure out how to make. To me, it looked feral.

  “Ladies. I’d be happy to do a few pictures, but I’m due to start filming my new show in fifteen minutes.”

  Oh, so now it was his show?

  He held up his platinum Rolex and tapped it. “I can only stay for a few minutes.” Then, shockingly enough, he turned to me. “Do you mind waiting, Chef Sato?”

  The roaring mass decreased to a dull roar as I gapped at him like a lunatic. His eyes bore into mine as if he felt it was only us in that moment.

  “Uh, yes. I mean, no, I don’t mind. Whatever.” I waved my hands awkwardly, indicating the crowd and turning to leave.

  I so did not need to see a bunch of groupies groping ass. Hawthorne’s eyes met mine, and he gave me a slow wink.

  “Great, thank you, Sato. Actually, can you take our picture?” He held out the woman’s phone.

  I gave him my perfected death glare. Motherfucker. With a gritted-teeth smile, I took the phone from his hands, our fingers touching as he handed it over. Heat shot down my core.

  I angled the lens perfectly, cutting Hawthorne’s head from the photo, and tossed it to the woman. “I did the best I could with what I had.”

  The woman let out a squawk of protest, and I slipped outside into the plaza, avoiding the two dozen cameras flashing in Hawthorne’s direction. For some reason, I couldn’t help glancing back at Hawthorne graciously signing autographs, smiling for pictures, and holding everyone’s attention in the hotel lobby like he’d been born to it. It hurt to admit it, but he was charming. Infuriatingly so.

  I slipped an oversized pair of black sunglasses over my eyes and stalked to the car, reminding myself it was only three months. Three months of hell, and then I could escape back to Sassafras.

  Chapter Eleven

  Hawthorne

  Paris, France

  It was so fucking satisfying to watch the jealousy streak across Sophia’s face at the hordes of women mobbing me and ignoring her. I was used to getting pictured in the tabloids with my dick out, metaphorically speaking. But at this moment, for some God forsaken reason, the last thing I wanted was to offend her by sticking my tongue down some pretty little thing’s throat.

  Sophia had taken my salt stunt like a champ. It almost made me feel bad about doing it. She’d swallowed with the best of them and even had the balls to call me out to my face. It was fucking hot as shit.

  I posed, I smiled, I signed a boob. Then I hopped in the car with Sophia, reigning ice queen. She didn’t once mention the women. Or the boob.

  Our driver ferried us to a little classic bistro called Le Chat Rose. Sophia and I stood at the bar, waiting for production to finish up a few last lighting issues inside the dark bistro. It was lushly decorated, as if it were still 1920s and Hemingway and Fitzgerald were about to come crashing in and challenge each other to a boxing match. Hemingway would win, and Fitzgerald would whine about it in a book and make more money.

  Charlotte came over and gave us each a handshake. “Remember, have fun! Hawthorne is an old pro at this, so feel free to let him take front and center, Sophia.”

  She put a hand on my shoulder and slid it down my arm.

  I stole a glance at Sophia. She looked like she wanted to smack me and Charlotte, so I leaned in, giving Charlotte the slightest bit of encouragement, which she ran with, laughing and squeezing my bicep.

  The sight made Sophia look like she had taken a gulp of curdled milk. Frankly, it was a fucking turn-on. Why was every single thing that ice queen did making my cock twitch? Why did I want to piss her off and get her off in equal measure? I was supposed to be keeping this strictly professional.

  Maybe it was the tight way her jeans hugged her curves or her sculpted collarbone peeking out of her shirt. Or maybe I just hadn’t had a good fuck in a while. I’d had fucks, but not memorable ones. That was the biggest part of it. Not Sophia’s long eyelashes or her even longer legs begging to be wrapped around me.

  Ever since parting with my ex a year ago to take the editor-at-large position for Food & Dine, I’d kept a string of women in various cities around the world, but even that had gotten tiresome these last couple of months. Milan was a blur of alcohol and models.

  To her credit, Sophia smiled and thanked Charlotte. “I’m not worried. I spent the night going over the script for today, and I’m looking forward to the shoot,” she said.

  Charlotte frowned. “Well, don’t get too caught up on the script. Once we do this introduction, it should be a conversation between the two of you. Easy, breezy fun. It’s only cooking!”

  I knew by Sophia’s raised eyebrow that she felt the same way I did. Cooking wasn’t just anything. It was everything.

  The boom guy got into position and tested our audio. “Ready to go,” he said.

  Soon, cameras were rolling, and we stood side by side, large smiles welcoming the eight contestants.

  “Come on in, Chefs,” I said.

  A few whistled at the sight of us, and one guy turned to his neighbor and mouthed, “Oh fuck, that’s Chef Sato.”

  I was impressed. That kid clearly knew his shit if he studied chefs and their restaurants. I decided to keep my eye on him.

  Suddenly, I saw her walk in with a mane of deep red hair, flipping it over her shoulder, a gesture I remembered too well. I reflexively stiffened, and Sophia felt it standing next to me. She turned to look at me, questions in her eyes, wondering who had caught my attention, but the cameras were rolling and I kept my face mask-like.

  How the fuck was this happening? My last serious girlfriend, Emma Smyth, took her place with the other contestants, smiling and laughing with a small, Italian-looking girl. She hadn’t noticed me yet, or she was trying to play it cool for her fellow contestants. Maybe she was scared of them thinking I’d give her preferential treatment because we used to fuck. She could also be terrified I’d screw her over, like I’d already done once before. Suddenly, I felt the need to reassure her that her food would do the talking. B
ut I couldn’t. I hoped she wouldn’t suffer too much. Emma was the sweetest person I’d ever met, and I really fucked it up.

  Sophia took my moment of surprise and wielded it against me like a meat cleaver, smoothly cutting in on my lines. The balls on that woman.

  She lifted her chin confidently. “The eight of you have been chosen from thousands of applicants to participate in an unprecedented culinary competition. All of your skills will be put to the test as we travel across the world, examining some of the best cuisines the locals have to offer and trying your hand at recreating them with your own personal twist.”

  I stepped forward, spreading my hands. It had the dual advantage of forcing the cameras to focus on me and effectively shortening Sophia’s space in the frame.

  “I’m Hawthorne West, food critic and author of three James Beard award-winning cookbooks. Currently editor-at-large for Food & Dine. This is Chef Sophia Sato. She was named James Beard Rising Star and Best New Restaurant in back-to-back years. Be very afraid.”

  Sophia smiled, I think, but it looked like a fierce snarl. “Name a publication, and we’ve been featured in it. After winning this competition, the same will be said of you.”

  I moved past the introductions to the challenge. “Despite its monotonous reputation, Paris’s bistro and café culture is alive and well, Chefs. Whether it’s a flirting couple enjoying a late-night cigarette and a glass of Bordeaux, or writers trying to recapture the magic of moonlight with absinthe, bistros welcome everyone.”

  Sophia stepped in, competing equally for the camera’s light.

  “For today’s challenge, we want you to reinvent some of these classic bistro standbys into something more modern. There’s an appetizer and a main course listed on each of these cards. Take one of each and spin them into a cohesive, updated dish,” she narrated, clearly from memory.

  Sophia turned away from the cameras so only I could see her face. She gave me a seductive as hell smile, her lidded eyes dragging down my chest and lower until she made sure I knew she was checking me out. Or sizing me up. The confidence on that woman was striking.