Taste on my Tongue

by Beth Bolden

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  Bonus Deleted Scene

  Wrapped with Love

  Acknowledgements

  About Beth

  Beth's Books

  Copyright

  “I’m sorry, I have to ask,” Landon says, the sarcastic edge to his voice contradicting the deference of his words, “but are you lost?”

  Ian, Landon’s new but still long-suffering agent, shoots him a reprimanding look which typically means Landon is supposed to behave himself.

  Landon doesn’t mean to be rude, he really doesn’t. It’s just that behaving is such a buzzkill and this meeting is already boring enough. Also, he definitely thinks his question was at least a little legit.

  “I’m a singer,” Landon restates his concern, nicely this time. “I don’t know what my cooking skills have to do with my career.”

  “I think what Landon is asking is why that’s a relevant question,” Ian intervenes as the producers sit stone-faced across the conference table. Ian told Landon this meeting was important, and Landon was at least trying to take it seriously until the lady on the far left—a Max Mara suit aging her by at least ten years—asked him if he knew how to cook.

  The dick in the middle—his Tom Ford suit wasted—cuts in even smoother than Ian does. Even though his watch and the cut of his suit proclaim him to be an asshat, Landon sits up a little straighter and tries to pay attention.

  “You earned, what? Third place on The Voice?” Landon doesn’t like the sneer in the voice of the man he can’t help but mentally think of as Tom Ford, but he’s still listening. “Strong debut album. Follow-up . . . not so much.”

  Unfortunately, Tom Ford is not exaggerating. Landon knows he’s gotten bitchy over the last year, but nothing has fallen his way in an industry where success depends on the smallest detail.

  He came out of the closet at exactly the wrong time in his post-reality show career, right at the moment when all his young girl fans genuinely believed they might have his babies one day. He doesn’t regret the honesty, only the timing, and how it decimated what was looking like a decent career.

  His publicist had begged him to wait until his third album—his serious album, she’d called it and he’d actually laughed in her face—but now she’s the only one laughing. He’d done exactly as he’d wanted and now there might not even be a serious album to poke fun at.

  Ian is supposed to open new doors for him, except that he’s just brought him to a meeting where all the producers want to talk about is the one room he almost never voluntarily enters—the kitchen.

  “So, to reiterate the question, can you cook?” Tom Ford continues.

  Landon doesn’t like Tom’s attitude, but beggars can’t be choosers, which is what he’s learned after The Voice. The reality show was supposed to propel him into stardom, but all it did was tease Landon with a tantalizing future that he can’t quite reach.

  “No. Not at all,” Landon says. He’s tempted to lie, but it would take about five seconds to expose him and it’s not worth the risk.

  “We like you as a contestant for a new reality show,” Max Mara chimes in. “It’s called Kitchen Wars. You’d be paired with a chef who would help teach you to cook during the show’s run.”

  “I wouldn’t have to know how to cook?” Landon is understandably skeptical.

  “Not even how to boil water.” Max Mara seems to believe he couldn’t. And she would be wrong; he boils water all the time for his French press. It’s the one thing he can do in the kitchen.

  Landon still isn’t sold. He’s a singer; not a cook. Right now, he and Ian are still shopping his next album to different labels, but all he has to do is catch the edge of Ian’s gaze to know right away that his agent really wants this for him.

  “Next week we’re hosting interviews with the casting director and executive producers,” Tom Ford adds. “We’d really like you to come in.”

  The thing is, he doesn’t want to learn how to cook. He’s lived twenty-five mostly excellent years without any culinary skills. He’s not inclined to change the status quo.

  “What about Dancing with the Stars?” He makes one last ditch effort to avoid the inevitable. “I’d be great on that.”

  Tom Ford’s look is both pitying and galling. Landon has met too many men just like this one during his time in LA. It’s like they grow them in factories, pushing out freshly-suited copies every ten seconds. They both know Landon is not high profile enough for Dancing with the Stars.

  They both know he would be lucky to be cast on this show.

  “Landon will be here,” Ian inserts in an absolutely certain bid to save the last scraps of Landon’s pride.

  The meeting ends in a pair of handshakes and Ian barely holds in his explosion until they reach the parking garage.

  It’s already warm, late July in Los Angeles, and the concrete is steaming in the mid-morning heat. Ian turns on him, exasperation clear on his face and in his voice.

  “Do you even know who else is on their list? You need this, Landon.”

  He can probably guess who else is on their list. He’s very familiar with the others in his position, scraping by and pulling themselves up the ladder of stardom by the tips of their fingers.

  “Yeah, but I’d be better than all of them.”

  Ian’s sigh is the definition of frustration.

  “You know how good I am on TV,” Landon insists. “You know because you watched my season of The Voice before you signed me. I wasn’t the best singer, but I’m great on camera. Don’t think that Tom Ford and Max Mara don’t know that already.”

  Ian still looks skeptical. “You need this,” he repeats. “You need to appeal to a new demographic.”

  Neither of them bring up the particularly sore point that Landon pushed away the one he already had.

  “I’ll do it, okay?” he says.

  Ian pokes him hard in the chest. Landon grimaces. “You need to be picked first.”

  Landon rolls his eyes. “They both wanted me. That whole third place bullshit was a bad negotiation tactic.”

  He’s seen too many Tom Fords over the last few years. They’re easy enough to read if you know what to look for.

  Relaxing a fraction, Ian nods. “Agreed.”

  The biggest problem Landon has with LA is that pride is reserved exclusively for those who win. The rest of the pack have to claw their way up however they can, and for Landon, the next rung of his ladder is now Kitchen Wars.

  Landon knows he nails the interview—he can be charming if required, and between his own introspection and Ian’s quiet desperation, he’s decided it’s required here. Tom Ford and Max Mara are scarce and it helps too that the casting director is friendly and relaxed, which is practically extinct in Hollywood.

  He’s not surprised at all when Ian calls and tells him he’s been cast. Landon walks into the kitchen of his apartment and shoots the stove the most venomous look in his repertoire. “It’s just you and me now,” he announces to the collective appliances. “God help us all.”

  Landon really, really, really doesn’t want to learn how to cook.

  But he still wants to sell millions of records, and hear his songs on the radio, and be recognized when he goes to the beach. So
he signs the contract despite all his misgivings that there is pretty much no one on earth that will be able to get him to cook, never mind interest him in legitimately trying.

  It turns out he’s wrong on both counts.

  Two months later, Kitchen Wars finally starts filming.

  When Landon walks into the studio for his first day of cooking boot camp and sees his chef, he has to instantly revise every expectation. The man in front of him is all long lines, lean legs, and this sculpted torso that literally nobody that cooks for a living should have, all topped off by a wild curly mane that Landon’s fingers itch to touch, wide blue eyes, and a pair of lips that send his mind straight to the gutter.

  It turns out there is most definitely a man out there that will interest Landon in learning to cook.

  The topper is when Landon saunters over, eyes flicking over those long legs in tight jeans and the little glimpses of tattoos he sees through his mostly transparent white t-shirt, the man actually blushes.

  “Landon Patton,” Landon says, extending a hand. “Unfortunately, it’s gonna be your miserable job to teach me to cook.”

  The man flushes even pinker as he takes Landon’s hand. “Um, Quentin. Quentin Maxwell.”

  For one rather breathless moment, they stare at each other, Quentin’s hand clasping Landon’s, his palm warm and soft and slightly damp with nerves, and Landon feels his heart start to beat faster. He feels almost breathless with the possibilities, and it’s hard to deny that Quentin looks equally blown away.

  Quentin reluctantly releases his hand. “I’m a huge fan,” he adds. “Really, you should have won your season. Can’t believe you only got third place.”

  Landon can definitely believe it. Third place was far better than he ever thought he’d end up. But you can say all you want about Landon—and many, many people have—he’s driven to succeed even when the cards are stacked against him.

  So Landon just shrugs and leans back, all carelessly but purposefully arranged curves as he tries to figure out if the way Quentin’s fluttering his eyelashes at him means he’s actually interested in flirting or if this is just Quentin’s natural state of being.

  “It was a competitive season,” Landon says. He doesn’t mention that the third-place finish isn’t what has him scrambling to get another record deal—if Quentin is actually a fan, then he definitely knows that Landon is gay.

  From the way Quentin is staring at Landon like he’s a pastry he’d like to nibble on, Landon decides he doesn’t much care. Quentin might not be averse to a bit of flirting, which makes everything much more interesting.

  “Are you sure you’re a chef and not a model?” Landon asks slyly, still gazing over at Quentin. “You’re gorgeous.”

  Quentin blushes again—baby-blue eyes blazing hot. Landon has to stop himself from doing an actual fist pump at his luck. Not only is Quentin insanely hot, he’s also adorable; it’s a killer combination.

  “Not even close to a model,” Quentin replies with a bit of an eye roll. “I’m just a baker.”

  “A baker?” Landon raises a skeptical eyebrow. He was of the impression that this show was more about cooking versus baking. And if there’s anything he knows less about than cooking, it’s baking.

  “Pastry chef,” Quentin corrects hastily. “Classically trained. But at heart, I guess I still think of myself as a baker. I want to open a bakery, anyway.”

  “That’s why you’re here, to get the money for your bakery?” Landon asks and Quentin nods.

  “So how about you, do you bake?” Quentin asks.

  It’s Landon’s turn to flush red. “Um, ah, not exactly.” He was really hoping someone else had already broken the news to poor Quentin that Landon is not precisely knowledgeable in the kitchen.

  “No cooking either, yeah?” Quentin asks, and he doesn’t even seem slightly fazed by the possibility.

  Basically, Quentin Maxwell is a way better man—chef, Landon reminds himself, chef—than Landon deserves.

  Landon shakes his head.

  “Well, let’s get started then.” Quentin shoots him a quick, bright smile. “Got a lot to cover today.”

  “Lead the way, Quen!” Landon exclaims with more enthusiasm than he ever thought he’d be able to dredge up for kitchen equipment.

  The kitchens are massive, giant stainless steel work tables crisscrossing the space, punctuated by a handful of enormous industrial stoves. There’s shelf upon shelf of kitchen equipment lining the walls. Landon is game for most things—he wouldn’t have taken the reality show route in the first place if he weren’t willing to take a chance on himself—but this is overwhelming. He doesn’t like to approach anything assuming he’ll fail, but well. The Voice was different. He knew how to sing and how to work an audience and a camera. His grayish-green eyes and feathery light-brown hair show up great on TV—even better than in person, where he secretly worries they wash him out. He doesn’t know how to cook at all. He can pour himself a bowl of cereal and work a French press like a boss. That's it.

  Sudden panic freezes him in place, but Quentin’s behind him, laying a reassuring hand on his back. It’s large and warm, and truthfully Landon doesn’t ever want him to move it, even as he hates the way it sends tiny frissons of electricity down his spine.

  Flirting aside, Landon really doesn’t need this distraction right now. He needs to be able to focus so that Quentin can teach him how to cook because he is suddenly very aware that he’s out of his element.

  But before Landon can even open his mouth, Quentin’s in front of Landon, and his hand has moved from his back to his shoulder, pressing in comfortingly. “I know, it all looks super scary,” he says, seriously. As if being afraid of a kitchen isn’t completely ridiculous.

  “Terrifying, actually,” Landon says, a lot more quietly than usual. “Is it crazy? To think I could do this?”

  Quentin’s smile is as soft and warm as the hand on Landon’s body. It dawns over his beautiful face and somehow makes him even lovelier—inside and out, Landon realizes. He’s not just attractive, he’s also kind.

  Basically, Landon is fucked.

  “No, not crazy at all. And it’s not just you. I’m here to help—to teach you, really. We’re a team.” Quentin sounds confident, but Landon is secretly worried that he’s blindly hoping at this point.

  “A real dream team,” Landon says with only a hint of sarcasm, because even if Quentin is blindly hoping Landon isn’t utter shit in the kitchen, he’s still made Landon believe that they aren’t hopeless. And that’s something.

  Quentin’s smile widens, that dimple looking awfully appetizing to Landon. Rather too appetizing. Focus, he reminds himself, focus.

  “So where do we start?” Landon asks. Because let’s face it, if he doesn’t get them back on track, he and Quentin are going to end up making out in the pantry, and while probably really fun, that’s not going to get him another record deal.

  Quentin eyes Landon skeptically. “Maybe to start we’d better go over the equipment.”

  This seems embarrassingly basic, but maybe it’s better to do this now, before Landon mortifies himself during filming by having to ask how to turn the stove on.

  “Lead away.” Landon tries to sound enthusiastic, but it’s hard to get enthusiastic about kitchen equipment, even when the man doing the teaching is Quentin Maxwell.

  As the morning wears on, they begin to grow more comfortable around each other. Landon discovers that Quentin is also a great teacher. He never makes fun of Landon for asking dumb questions—and Landon is sure he asks plenty of those—and he’s unfailingly patient as he not only shows Landon the equipment, he makes absolutely certain that Landon knows how to use it and what each item is for. It’s a bit of slow going, with Quentin wanting to make absolutely sure Landon understands.

  Landon does a lot of things fast; Quentin’s slow and deliberate. Landon wouldn’t think that combination would work very well, but instead of oil and water, they’re fantastic together.

  Quentin
is showing Landon how to use the stand mixer—“I use one of these every day,” Quentin explains as he carefully changes out the mixing apparatus, a large whisk for a ceramic dough hook—when Landon asks him if he knows any of the other chefs they’ll be competing against.

  “I went to culinary school with Rory Dargan,” Quentin says offhandedly, as if this is totally normal. Which to Quentin, Landon is sure it is. Quentin’s never been in reality television before. He doesn’t understand how the game works.

  Landon grunts in frustration as he tries to maneuver the dough hook into the stainless steel bowl so he can attach it properly. When Quentin did it, it was in a slow but absolutely sure motion, and Landon can’t quite figure out how it goes. Probably because he's rushing.

  “You’ve got it,” Quentin says encouragingly, even though Landon knows he doesn’t at all. He rolls his eyes and goes back for another try.

  “So you know him,” Landon states.

  “Rory? Yeah, we’re good friends. I wasn’t sure about doing this show, but when I found out Rory had agreed, it was a much easier decision.”

  Landon barely refrains from rolling his eyes again. He can already tell Quentin is too sweet for reality television; Quen is lucky he has Landon for a partner. No, Landon can’t cook to save his life, but he’s a reality television veteran. He can steer them away from any potential pitfalls and make sure the producers don’t eat them alive in the final edit.

  “Anybody else?” Landon asks. He finally gets the stupid hook into the stupid tiny hole and congratulates himself more on not saying anything sexual than actually accomplishing the task. When his hands have moved from the bowl, Quentin reaches over and flips the mixer on.

  Apparently, Landon’s celebration was premature because the dough hook falls into the stainless bowl with a loud clatter.

  “Shit.” Landon can’t help but curse at how bad he is at this.

  “You’ll get it. Better now than when we’re cooking and I need your help with the mixer and you can’t actually figure out how to use it,” Quentin says sagely and Landon has never agreed more. He doesn’t exactly relish the notion of humiliating himself on television because he can’t work a stand mixer. It’s humiliating enough now.