Melted (Cooking up a Celebrity Book 1) Page 9

None.

  To compensate, I stood up quickly, pretending to get another round ready. But, off-balance from the alcohol, I accidentally knocked a bottle of water and the two shot glasses off the tiny hotel table and onto Hawthorne’s black shirt instead.

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I said, not sorry at all. “At least it won’t stain.”

  Hawthorne pulled one side of his shirt up over his head, letting his flexing muscles do the talking. I tried not to gasp.

  No food critic had any right to be so fit that Adonis would be jealous of his Adonis belt. I licked my suddenly Sahara Desert-dry lips.

  Why, God, have you taken all the moisture out of this room?

  I barely hid my gawk, my eyes following the V lines to the bulge in his jeans, large enough to suggest an endowment he had no rights to. My pulse quickened as the image of him taking me in the shower and all the things he would do with that… endowment. Latex-free, apparently.

  Hawthorne laid his shirt out to dry and sat back in his chair. He cocked his head. “Is that my suitcase?”

  “Uh.”

  “You took it! Did you call off my driver, too?”

  For my official answer, I drowned another shot.

  “You little—fine. But I’m taking another turn. I had to take a regular taxi and buy an entire new traveling wardrobe in Paris.” Hawthorne gave me measure look. “So I want to know your longest dry spell.”

  I cleared my throat, hoping it would miraculously clear my head. “Um. Wait, did you ask when was the last time I had sex?”

  “No. But I think that answered my question. In the midst of a record-breaking drought?”

  I threw back another shot. This was getting out of hand. “Your turn. Worst bang.”

  “No such thing. Not if I’m in control. It’s all about dedication and passion. A skilled tongue and hands doesn’t hurt, though. I can make the most insecure flower open under my touch.”

  “No need to tell me about passion. I got the damn word tattooed on my ass.”

  His eyebrow rose. “Tell me you’re joking.”

  I giggled, picturing the Jägermeister burning straight through my esophagus. “That was a teenage mistake. But get this: the I is dotted with an itty bitty artichokey.”

  “Show me,” he ordered.

  I put the tip of my finger into my waistband and dragged it along suggestively. “I will if you will. “Worst tattoo. Name it.”

  Hawthorne hesitated. He ran a hand over his stubbly beard and stood up. “Actually, I think we’re starting early tomorrow. It’s probably best if I call it a night.”

  And then everything turned confusing. I stood up, too. I was a tall woman at five-foot-nine, but still, my eyes only came to his lips. His reddened, pouty, soft lips.

  Except, it felt like the air had been sucked out with a vacuum, and we were left gasping for oxygen. That’s why he said he had to leave. There was no room to breathe. Not because I tried to cross some imaginary line and got rejected.

  Of course not.

  Heat bloomed up my legs at the proximity when he brushed past me. Down, girl, he’s leaving. He doesn’t want you.

  “Thanks for the booze,” I said.

  Hawthorne turned at the door. For a split second, I read the eager, dark look in his eyes. But he turned quickly and maybe I imagined it.

  “See you tomorrow,” he replied, rolling his suitcase behind him.

  The door clicked shut in a very final sort of way.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hawthorne

  Kaiserslautern, Germany

  I’m pounding her into the table, threatening to topple the entire thing. Plates and silverware clatter the ground. A plate of spaghetti goes flying against the wall. She’s screaming my name and driving her fingernails down my back. I slam into her, again and again, watching her hooded eyes look at me and only me.

  When I woke up, my blue as fuck balls were threatening to emancipate if I didn’t do something about it. Emma was the obvious choice. Even with our messy and complicated history, she was always down for a round or four.

  But for some reason, I couldn’t imagine going to Emma’s room. I couldn’t imagine going to any woman’s room but Sophia’s. I banged my head against the backboard. What a joke. The one woman I wanted was the one woman who hated my guts. Unless she was drinking Jägermeister. Then she opened up.

  At least I knew the secret way to her truths. Although, the moment I saw another artichoke, I was going to imagine grabbing her hips and licking her secret tattoo into ecstasy.

  I went to the gym at 6:00 a.m., beating my frustrations out on the irons. It didn’t work. Even worse, we were driving through the Swiss Alps today on our way to Italy. In November. What fucking dumbass booked this shit?

  Sophia had to know my schedule by now. She must know what time I woke and went to the gym. Was she too hungover to want to exercise or too embarrassed to want to see me? And why the fuck was I deconstructing every fucking second of every fucking day like a goddamn pimply middle schooler?

  I increased my squat weight before switching to sprints on the treadmill. I stayed an hour longer than I planned to see if she’d come down. She didn’t. Eventually, I needed to shower and pack to make sure I didn’t delay our 9:00 a.m. departure.

  As I rolled my suitcase outside, Charlotte waved me down and asked me to sit next to her. I didn’t try to make excuses. I sat in our luxury tour bus, fiddling with the heat and listening as gamely as possible to Charlotte’s worthless questions.

  Sophia boarded the bus last, thanking the driver and sitting in the chair on the opposite side of the aisle. She resolutely ignored me and refused to make eye contact.

  Should I tamp this down, get on with the show and ignore the chemistry I knew she felt, too, or should I say something? Would this just be for a fuck? I guess I would be fine with that. I had no reason to think emotions would make it messy. I didn’t do emotions. As long as Sophia knew that upfront, it shouldn’t be an issue. Things only got out of hand when both parties weren’t transparent.

  I was still trying to figure out how to approach the situation—besides more Jägermeister, obviously—when the driver motioned for Charlotte to come up front. We were in a valley of the Alps and only a few hours into our ten-hour drive. I was so busy mulling over my ice queen that I hadn’t realized that the lightly falling snow had gone from picturesque to downright dangerous.

  Charlotte’s face didn’t scream reassurance as she spoke with the driver. She kept frowning and pointing to the gas pedals. The driver shook his head, muttering in German. Finally, she took out her cell phone and made a few quick calls while the quiet chatter swelled in volume. Everyone sounded nervous. Being stranded in a snowy mountain in November wasn’t a top bucket list priority.

  Charlotte picked up the intercom microphone. “Ahem, yes. Hello, everyone. It looks like the storm we were tracking moved in quicker than anticipated.”

  The rumble grew and Liam shouted, “What the hell? Are we stranded here?”

  “Not stranded, per se, but we can’t continue.” She gestured out toward the mountains.

  Clara’s voice trembled. “Do we have to sleep in the bus?”

  Charlotte tittered in that annoying producer voice she used to deliver bad news. “Oh no. Our driver is taking us to a hotel right now. It should clear up in a few hours, and we’ll be on our way, none the wiser. Thank you for your understanding.” She clicked off and sat next to me, oblivious to any questions lobbed in her direction.

  “What’s the true story?” I asked her.

  She tittered again. “That’s the story.”

  “And you’re sticking to it,” I said drily.

  “We should be there in a few minutes. Don’t worry, Hawthorne. Everything is fine.”

  Sophia caught my eye from across the aisle. She looked as dubious as I felt, but there was nothing to do and no way to fight Mother Nature.

  We’d settled into a small hotel that looked like a German gingerbread house made out of wood w
ith a huge cuckoo clock painted in the front. It screamed Alpine.

  Production basically bought the place out due to it being off-season. This was no doubt costing production a pretty penny. If I had to guess, their skinflint asses regretted not splurging on cast plane tickets now.

  My room had a snowy picture-perfect view, if one cared about perfect anything when they were fucking stranded. Charlotte may have said it would only be a few hours, but I knew bullshit when I heard it. She wouldn’t have been authorized to buy out the rooms if that was the case.

  Just as I was steaming up a muscle-relaxing shower, my phone rang. Dad’s VA number scrolled across the screen.

  I took a deep breath and exhaled. “Hi, Dad.”

  On the other end, Dad’s voice was low and unapologetic. “Did you think I wouldn’t hear about what you did?”

  “Why do you care what I do in Milan?”

  “Milan? What are you talking about? My fucking nurse showed me another magazine article, a nasty one, and it’s got your foul fingerprints all over it.”

  The light went on inside my head. Dad may have gone crazy, but he fancied himself a gentleman through and through.

  “I may have shit on you,” he continued, “but did you ever see me shit on your mother? Or any other woman for that matter?”

  “This wasn’t about shitting on Sophia, as you so eloquently put it.”

  “Cut the fancy bullshit,” Dad barked at me, his military training taking over. “You know better.”

  I said nothing. I’d already owned my mistake to Sophia. I saw no need to own it to Dad, too.

  He snapped on me. “By the way, whatever happened to Emma? I’m sure you screwed her over a thousand different ways to Monday. Is that why she left?”

  It wasn’t worth arguing about or even telling him the truth. That I’d broken little, innocent Emma’s heart. Why give him that satisfaction or more ammunition against me? He didn’t deserve the truth. “Pretty much, Dad.”

  “She was the best thing to happen to you.”

  “Guess, I’ll never know.”

  “She was always so sweet and attentive to you. And now what? You’re going to wander around the world looking for something you can never have for all of eternity? That’s not what an adult does. They find a person who’s good, and they take some goddamn responsibility.”

  I stood up, breathing heavily through my nostrils. “That’s enough, old man. I saw how the ‘best thing’ can ruin a life. It ruined you for good. Why do you think you’re stuck there? You brainwashed one person into thinking you were worth it when everybody else sees your crankiness for what it is: a fucking nuisance. Goodbye, Dad.”

  I hung up, still breathing raggedly, and punched the wall. Fuck. My knuckles were definitely going to be bruised. Hopefully makeup could do something about that before our next film day.

  Although by the looks of this storm, I’d have all the time in the world to heal.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sophia

  The Swiss Alps

  I stepped down into a sunken bar off of the inn’s lobby. It was dark and smoky from the crackling fireplace and the black night outside. The storm was still raging, but Charlotte insisted we could get on the road by tomorrow night. I’d phoned Lena almost every day to check in on Sassafras and discretely determine how badly Puck was fucking up, but I forced myself to sit at the bar and leave my phone behind for now. A snow-imposed vacation.

  Also, Lena had threatened to cut off her money flow if I called more than once a day.

  If Rie knew how much I phoned home, she’d tell me to grow some balls and start showing Lena some trust. Then, she’d disable my international plan. Luckily, with my phone in my room, that meant Rie couldn’t reach me, either.

  So far, I’d made Lena give me daily seat counts and how many plates we were turning over per night. Both had steadily increased over the last week. I had a theory, but it hurt to admit it. The uptick in reservations started the day after Hawthorne released that “anonymous” piece about me. People liked to see the gossip, and I was the hot talk this week. No publicity was bad, as they said.

  I didn’t see any need to tell him that, however.

  I strode into the dining room of our little hotel and took stock. It was quaint in an old-world way. Every table had a twinkling tea light in the middle of it. I chose one in the back under the wooden beams, away from the roaring fireplace, and ordered a glass of red wine. A stuffed moose head loomed over me as I contemplated Hawthorne and the truce. I might be celibate for now, but I knew when a man wanted me. Hawthorne had forced himself to leave. I could see it in his storm-wild eyes.

  Those eyes mirrored his soul perfectly. Dangerous. Unpredictable. Capricious. Absolutely not something I needed to get myself involved with. The man lived out of a suitcase, for Christ’s sake. It wasn’t possible for me to get any more settled down than a brick-and-mortar restaurant.

  I sat swirling and sipping my Pinot Noir when Jackson stepped into the bar. He wobbled a bit, like he’d already been drinking. Luckily for him, the crew had the night off from filming. Technically, this stop wasn’t scheduled, so everyone was off the clock.

  Nobody knew what to do. Being stuck in the Alps for the foreseeable future wasn’t exactly covered in the rules Charlotte gave us. If Jackson wanted to flirt with me, fine. It might be entertaining.

  He swaggered over, away from his little group of fellow contestants at the opposite end of the restaurant. “Can I sit?” he asked, flopping into the chair.

  I raised my wine glass in answer.

  “Two more for the fancy chef,” he shouted, and the bartender actually obliged the annoying American tourist with two glasses of Pinot. We clinked, and I watched him down his whole glass in one gulp.

  Immediately, I felt a sense of wrongness. He was a contestant, and he was drunk. Even if I was entertained by his antics, wit, and skill, nothing would ever happen between us. Nor did I want it to. There was an edge to Jackson that I couldn’t quite place. An edge I didn’t like.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  I humored him. “About what?”

  He waved his hands around. “All of this. Am I gonna win?”

  I smiled. “Do your best. Let your food talk for you.”

  Jackson leaned over the table, the lights illuminating his coffee-colored eyes. “I know how much you enjoy it.”

  “Your food? Yes, you have a great instinct to your cooking. But we can always continue to learn and grow. Don’t get cocky. That’s when you make mistakes.”

  “Speaking of cocky…” Jackson’s eye flickered down to my breasts.

  The only way to deal with him in his state was by being upfront. “Eyes up here, buddy.”

  He continued to leer. “I know you want me. I watched the way you ate every last fucking bite, and the lust in your eyes.”

  I stood up, wondering if the other contestants could see or hear me from this distance. I could scream pretty fucking loud if I needed to, but I’d rather handle it on my own and not make it awkward for the rest of filming. “I think this chat is over.”

  “So prim and proper and buttoned-up, aren’t you?” His voice was low and chilling. “I bet you haven’t been fucked good in a long time. I read all about your ice queen exposé. I’d be doing you a favor. Maybe a big enough favor to win this whole thing.”

  I didn’t even care enough what this asshole thought to spare him a slap. Only Hawthorne ever got that sort of reaction out of me. I turned to leave.

  “Good night, Jackson.”

  I heard the chair scrape back, and in an instant, Jackson had me pinned against the wall. I suddenly wondered how much he’d drunk. This corner was too dark. The little tea lights no longer twinkled romantically—their weak light threatened to hide every dark secret and bundle it into eternity.

  Jackson pushed himself against me, leaning heavily on my neck. His hands clamped around my wrists. “I’ll make you change your mind.”

  “Get your hands off m
e,” I said coldly. “Or you’ll regret it. I promise you.” I put two hands on his chest and tried to shove him away, but his huge frame blocked out the last of the light as he lunged at my face.

  I tried to scream, but Jackson drove his tongue down my throat. It was disgusting, like he was trying to scrape my gums raw. It was fight or flight, and I was too ready to fight to think about fear.

  I bit down hard and immediately felt a gush of salty, warm blood. I gagged at the iron taste as he swung back, ready to punch me.

  “You bitch!”

  A shadow appeared, and a giant hand ripped Jackson off my neck. The tea light illuminated his face for an instant, but I would have recognized the massive size of him anywhere.

  Hawthorne.

  “Take your fucking hands off her, you little pervert,” he said evenly.

  Jackson flailed his arms wildly, but he couldn’t break Hawthorne’s hold. “Or what?”

  “Or I’ll get you kicked off this show,” Hawthorne promised, “and jailed for attempted rape. I may also kick your ass for fun.”

  “I didn’t attempt a thing,” Jackson slurred. There was a laugh to his voice, but there was also a hint of fear. “You couldn’t touch me.”

  Hawthorne wrapped his fist more securely in Jackson’s shirt and pulled him closer. “Try me.” His voice was calm, but terrifying. Even Jackson could hear the promise in his threat.

  Hawthorne unbound his hand, and Jackson rolled his shoulders, pretending to unruffle himself. But the guy barely held his shit together before turning to race away, his hand clutched to his bleeding mouth.

  “Not yet,” Hawthorne said, grabbing him again by the collar. “You better fucking apologize and hope to God I don’t catch you doing something like that again. If you so much as breathe on a female contestant, your ass is mine.”

  “Sorry,” Jackson mumbled, blood dripping down his lips.

  “Louder.”

  Jackson hesitated a moment, trying to decide which was worse—having to apologize or making Hawthorne angrier. Finally, he gathered himself and met my eyes. “Sorry!” he said. “I shouldn’t have done that.”