by Marika Ray
Reality of Love Boxed Set
With Extended Series Epilogue
Marika Ray
Contents
The Missing Ingredient
The Missing Ingredient
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Mom-Com
Mom-Com
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Desperately Seeking Househusband
Desperately Seeking Househusband
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Series Epilogue
Scene From Love Bank
Also by Marika Ray
About the Author
The Missing Ingredient
Reality of Love Series #1
The Missing Ingredient
Copyright © 2019 by Marika Ray
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First Edition: March 21, 2019
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Dedication
To my high school Spanish teacher with her dark hair, red lips, and extraordinary sass in a small package…
The Missing Ingredient
Who knew a cooking show could get so messy?
Elle Fierro
All I have to do is appear as a judge on this cooking show in Hollywood and my restaurant will open to rave reviews. Pretty much my lifelong dream. What I absolutely shouldn’t do is sleep with one of the contestants and ruin everything I’ve worked so hard for. But he gives good hugs, makes me laugh, fills out a simple T-shirt like nobody’s business, and is sweeter than the maple syrup he dripped all over my naked body last night…
Austin Cox
I may have been drunk when I applied to be on that reality cooking show, which is why it’s hard to believe I’m here. What’s even harder to believe is that Elle, with her painted red lips and fiery disposition, is in my bed and making me forget I need to win this damn show to get my little sister out of the foster care system.
When Elle throws me under the bus to realize her dream, will our love burn out or will we find the missing ingredient to happiness?
1
Elle
“Dios mío...” I muttered for the six hundred twenty-ninth time that night.
The kitchen assistant looked over at me from the side of her eyes, the slightest flutter to the knife she was currently chopping with. The sick, twisted part of me that reared its head often in the kitchen enjoyed seeing that little tremble. I was the executive chef of this three-star restaurant with reservations booked six months in advance. If I was upset, everyone should be upset. Shit runs downhill, as the Americans say.
“Take that back and make it right,” I barked at the expediter about to exit my kitchen with a totally unacceptable splattering of sauce on the side of the chicken, like it had been murdered right there on the damn plate. I spun around and addressed my next comment to the entire kitchen, my Spanish accent more pronounced as the evening wore on. “If you can’t plate a simple chicken parmesan without it looking like a murder scene, get the fuck out of my kitchen right now!”
Silence, permeated only by the sound of water boiling and steak sizzling, filled the air. When no one left the kitchen, I assumed they were all properly chastised and spun back around to deal with my current disaster, the swordfish supply that was running out way too early in the night. We only had two main fish entrees on the menu and for whatever reason, everyone wanted swordfish tonight. I made a mental note to talk to the kitchen manager about increasing our order for tomorrow’s delivery.
The assistant manager walked by the line and I rushed over to snag her attention. “Tell your servers to push the bass. Or we’ll have to eighty-six the swordfish.”
Her eyes widened for a split second upon hearing we might run out. No top-end restaurant wanted to exhaust their supply of a menu item at only eight o’clock in the evening. We had hours to go and mouths to feed. To run out of the swordfish would be an embarrassment. And considering tonight was my last night at this restaurant, I couldn’t allow that to happen.
I’d been with Lilalia for five years, turning it into one of New York’s top-rated restaurants as the executive chef. I ran my Soho kitchen with an iron fist. I expected perfection, both from myself and from the staff I hired personally. Considering I was only five foot three and female, I had to put a bit more bite in my bark in order for everyone to take me seriously.
“El Jefe!”
I turned to find a server poking her head into the kitchen, a timid smile on her face. Everyone in the restaurant called me “El Jefe,” which meant “The Boss” in Spanish. I pinkie swear I didn’t order them to call me that. My first name was Elle and my last name Fierro, so if you put Elle and “F” together in Spanish, it was pronounced Elle Efe, which was very close to El Jefe.
The important thing to note here was I secretly loved that they call me The Boss in Spanish. It gave me a little thrill every time I heard it, like I was actually six feet tall, commanding my people from up high.
I may have issues with my short stature. I couldn’t say for sure.
“What is it?” I asked her quickly. I had things to do and swordfish to pull out of thin air.
She talked rapidly, trying to spit everything out before I inevitably snapped at her. “There’s a gentleman who insists on meeting the chef. Can I send him over?”
I narrowed my eyes at her and she shrank back, but still stuttered out, “I-I promise he looks reputable. Fancy suit and shoes. Just paid with a black Amex.”
“Mmm.” My noncommittal noise made her eyes widen, but she didn’t slink away. The staff knew not to interrupt me for just anyone. If she was this insistent I speak privately with a diner, he must be someone important.
&
nbsp; Reaching up, I pulled off my hat. “Send him over in three minutes.”
I spun around, not waiting for her response, and went into the back where we all stuffed our private belongings before donning our aprons and turning into the finest kitchen staff in New York.
My LOEWE bag sat by itself in the premier locker position, as it should. That handbag cost me more than my rent. Twisting the tube of my signature deep red lipstick I always carried with me, I smoothed on another coat, making sure my full lips were perfect. A few wisps of dark brown hair were swept back into my chignon and I was ready.
One never meets a rich male without looking her best.
Mother dearest taught me all manner of things growing up, but that tenet had to be number one.
I swept back into the kitchen, smoothing down my tight apron, and flung open the swinging door before stepping through like I was on the catwalk. Always make an entrance. Yes, that’s right, darling. Another life rule from Mother.
To my delight, a tall handsome man stood waiting for me. To describe him as delicious would be an understatement. He filled out his suit like a soccer player, all buff muscle and smooth moves. Perfectly gelled black hair and dark eyes completed his look and piqued my interest.
“Ms. Fierro?”
Wasting no time extending my hand, I nodded regally. “I trust you enjoyed your meal this evening, Diablo Hermoso?”
His huge hand enveloped mine and tugged me closer. “Sarò il tuo diavolo.”
The gorgeous package, the accent, and now the flirtatious invitation to be my own personal devil in Italian was all quite nice. My exact list of attributes in an ideal man brought to life and offering himself on a silver platter. Under normal circumstances, I’d be thrilled to make his acquaintance, if you know what I mean. But there was something about him that was too perfect. I just didn’t feel that flutter of excitement in my belly like I should.
My step back was subtle yet he noticed. He released my hand and pulled out a crisp white business card from the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
“I would love to discuss your swordfish preparation further.” His English was spot-on, despite his request being quite odd. I’m sure he had no interest in my swordfish, but rather a particular interest in getting into my bed.
I pulled the card from his fingers, not missing the way he held on much longer than necessary. “I will call you next time I feel like...discussing swordfish.”
A smile quirked his thin lips before he leaned forward and kissed me on both cheeks. His stubble grazed my skin and normally that kind of intimacy would send a shiver down my spine. This gentleman? Nada.
A shame really. What a waste. A beautiful man. Pure opportunity. And yet no tingles down where it mattered.
He sauntered off, disillusioned that I’d be calling him tonight. Lo siento. Italy would get no love from Spain tonight.
I flung the door to the kitchen back open, my mind on why my tingly bits had seemingly left the building. I must have startled my sous chef, who clearly didn’t have a mother to teach him about grand entrances, because he dropped a spoon right on the counter, sauce flying off and splattering onto my cheek.
Everyone froze, like the splatter was the shot heard ’round the world. I blinked once, the pale face of my sous chef not changing. My spine elongated and I pulled myself up to my full height.
“I’m so very sorry, El Jefe,” he finally whispered. His hand extended into the space between us, a clean rag his peace offering. I accepted it, gave him a stiff nod, and then marched back out to the locker area to clean my face in private. As I passed my staff, they all averted their eyes out of respect. They knew how fastidious I was about my appearance.
We somehow made it through the rest of the night like the well-oiled machine I knew we were. Everyone was on their best behavior and we came very close, but didn’t actually run out of the swordfish thanks to the servers pushing diners toward the sea bass like they’d been advised.
As usual, my feet were killing me and I was starting to come down from the high I got every time I put on an apron and ran a busy kitchen.
“You got it from here?” I asked my sous chef. He nodded firmly and despite the sauce incident earlier that evening, I trusted him. I went to the back and stowed my folded hat and apron in my handbag. A quick trickle of sadness overtook me as I packed up for the night.
Five years was a long time to give your heart and soul to a restaurant. I would miss Lilalia and everyone who worked there. Yes, I was the head chef, but I couldn’t have achieved those three stars without their assistance. And as often as I tried to keep things just business, they insisted on talking about their families and personal lives, dragging me into the friendship zone, kicking my stiletto heels and screaming in Spanish. I slammed my locker shut for the last time and began my walk through the kitchen to get to the parking lot.
This time, my grand entrance was not by my design, but because of my staff. They all stopped what they were doing and spun around, hands on hearts as I walked through them. The backs of my eyes began to sting and I could feel my chin wobble. When I got to the door, I spun around and took them all in, still at attention with eyes on me.
Breaking my code of all-business-all-the-time, I smiled at them with all the love in my heart that I never allowed to show. I bowed, the sweep of my head my thanks to them for years of impeccable service. Then I lifted my hand and blew them a kiss.
I walked out to applause.
The tears came as I walked across the dark parking lot to my car. I swiped them away before anyone could happen to see. Showing emotions was definitely not one of the tenets taught by my mother. I really had nothing to cry over anyway.
My future was bright. I was leaving Lilalia to go to Hollywood and record a reality cooking show called Taste Test. I’d been invited to be one of the three head celebrity judges, an honor that would get me the type of press I’d need in order to come back to New York and open my own restaurant. The space was already purchased and my contractor was building it out. I just needed to get enough buzz going to make sure the line was out the door. With this reality show, I’d be set.
Everything I’d dreamed of since I took my first cooking class in a little restaurant in Spain at ten years old was coming true. All the derision over the years from my mother for picking a profession that required getting sweaty and actually working was finally paying off.
“I’m not a short order cook, Mother, I’m a fucking celebrity chef with my own restaurant,” I muttered to myself as I drove away from home for the last five years.
My eyes were leaking because I was proud of myself. Because my staff cared about me. I’d made a difference, I’d left my mark, and that felt good. I’d miss everyone I yelled at every night, but I had plans that made leaving inevitable.
After parking in the private lot I paid extra for, I let myself into my tiny apartment. It wasn’t that I didn’t have the money for a much bigger place. I did, thanks to Mother dearest and her many years of modeling. It’s just that I didn’t like being alone in a huge place, pin-balling around with no people to absorb the noises and make the space a home.
After changing into comfortable silk pajamas, I pulled out two suitcases and started layering my clothing into them. The producers told me to plan for a couple weeks, though they’d condense the taping into as few days as possible. How a woman could possibly pack for several weeks was beyond me, but I did my best.
I packed shoes, each in their own bag to prevent scuffs that invariably happened when you traveled via airplane. I’d traveled quite a bit internationally with Mother, so I knew what kind of damage could be done. I chose three handbags and wondered if that would be enough.
Dumping out my LOEWE bag from earlier, I saw the business card from the Italian. I picked it up and fingered the sharp edge. I considered calling him for a nice distraction after all. Sort of a “farewell for now” gift for myself.
But then the sensible side of me worried about getting enough sleep before my
long flight. Which then led me to wondering when the hell I’d gotten so old as to turn down a gorgeous male in trade for beauty sleep.
“This is it then, huh? You’ve gotten old, Elle,” I said to myself in the full-length mirror in my bedroom. Yes, I was wearing silk pajamas, but they were pants, not a pretty nightie like I used to wear prancing around all manner of hotels and strangers’ homes when I was in my twenties. No, thirty-two was not old by any means, but there were times, like tonight, when I felt positively ancient.
Maybe Mother was right. Maybe I was working too hard and not balancing it with enough play.
I pulled my hair back from my face, the heavy current of dark brown hair hiding the expanse of skin I suddenly needed to examine. Leaning my head back, I ran my hand up and down my neck. No evidence of jowls or loose skin. No wrinkles down my chest. Tilting my head left and right, I couldn’t find any fine lines around my eyes or laugh lines that held my makeup hostage.
