by K. K. Allen
“What’s the angle? Isn’t there always an angle?”
Faye cringes a little. “I’m hoping we don’t need one. The concept is original, and that should be enough. You’re a pretty face, Desmond Blake. Just so happens, you make a damn good meal too.” She swivels her head to face the kitchen. “What was on the menu today?”
“Lobster ravioli from scratch.”
She grins. “Sounds delicious. How’d that go?”
I chuckle as an image of a flustered Maggie floats through my mind. “Great for most.”
She laughs. “Why do I feel like whatever went on today would have made a great episode?”
I nod. “You’d probably be right. It was comical at best.”
“Well, if you like the pitch, I’d like to get some things down on paper and fly my production crew here to scope things out. I’ll warn you—I like to move quickly. I want to aim for a fall series premiere, which means we need to have a pilot in the can in just a few months to get the full green light from the network.”
“Just like that?”
Faye shrugs. “Just like that. You’ve got something special here, Desmond. It’s time for the world to see it.” She stands up and glances around the room. “Now while you’re thinking about it, how about some of that lobster ravioli?”
See Through
Maggie
A series of clacks from a pool game going on somewhere in the room almost cause me to drop the phone in my hand.
“Are you at a bar?” My mom’s accusing tone still makes me cringe, even though we’re thousands of miles apart.
I’m at Shooters, a sports bar below Edible Desire that specializes in billiards. The atmosphere is classy and chic with its windowless walls and dim lighting, which goes perfectly with my current mood. Between the distressing phone call with my mom and not getting that damn certificate, I have every intention of drowning my sorrows in gluten-free liquor.
“It doesn’t matter where I am. I just wanted to call you back and tell you that I’m still fine. I’m still alive, and I hope you’re fine too.”
My mom huffs her dissatisfaction. “You can’t possibly be fine. It’s been three months, Maggie. Where are you living? What are you doing for work?”
“Can you please trust me when I tell you that I’m doing fine? I just needed some time away. Some… space.” I push out the words, trying my best to control my tone.
There’s a beat of silence before her cold tone blasts through the line. “The agency is asking for you. They’re still trying to book you despite your little absence.”
I grind my teeth in response to her words. Little absence. She talks to me like I’m a toddler in need of some tough love. But really, everyone knows my mother cares more about her manager’s cut than she does about being a mother. I need to tell her that I’m not returning to modeling. It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I know she’ll freak out more than she already is.
“Mom, stop, please. Just tell them I’m taking a break and that we’ll contact them when we’re looking again. Can you do that?”
A heavy sigh breaks through the phone line. “Oh, sweetie, you don’t need a break. You’re just embarrassed because of your fall.” Her coaxing words can almost be mistaken for caring. “It’s been months. All will be forgiven and forgotten. Falls happen to the best of us.”
“That’s not what this is about. I just need this time. I need to figure out if modeling is still what I want.” I cringe the moment the words hit the air. There it is, the setup to ease the blow.
“What?” Her shriek is so loud, I have to pull the phone away from my ear.
Another crack sounds from the pool table behind me, causing me to jump. My mom always gets me so worked up when we talk. I had good intentions by calling, but this is exactly why I’ve been avoiding it.
“You are at a bar,” she accuses. “Are you drunk?” Her voice lowers menacingly. “Are you with your sister?”
I’m definitely not ready to open that can of worms. “What? I’m sorry. Shoot. Can’t hear you. I’ll have to call you later.”
“Maggie Grace Stevens, don’t you da—”
“I love you. Bye.” I let my final word ring for an extra beat before I end the call. But I don’t stop there. I power off my phone, giving my mom zero chance to call me back. My next heavy sigh is one of relief.
By the time Monica joins me after her long bathroom break, I’m finishing my vodka soda with a loud slurp before plopping the lime into my mouth and sucking every ounce of alcohol from its flesh. “Here,” I say, sliding her drink in front of her.
“Thanks,” she says, as perky as ever. “I’ll trade you.” She slides a piece of paper in my direction.
I eye it with a glare, and my head snaps toward hers. “What is this?”
Her glass is poised at her lips when she raises her brows. “It’s your cooking certificate. Congratulations. You earned that, sis.”
I laugh sarcastically. “Not according to the cooking lord himself. What’d you do? Pay him off?”
She narrows her eyes, her excitement dwindling rapidly. And for that, guilt swarms through me. Desmond has some nerve handing my sister a pity certificate.
“No, I didn’t pay him off,” she grits out.
I bite down on the straw of my empty drink, cursing internally. Sometimes I hate that I’m such a pain in the ass. I’ve been a difficult bitch since the moment I arrived at my sister’s office at BelleCurve, even after she was gracious enough to offer me her couch, but it’s like I can’t help it. The world she’s built around her seems to be one big trigger for everything I’ve tried to avoid.
I stare down at the certificate as guilt continues to cycle through me. Perhaps I should be more grateful for her gesture. She obviously went out of her way to take what should have been mine to begin with. She was only trying to make me happy.
With a sigh, I shake my head and force out a laugh. “Well then, what’d you say to convince him?”
“I just told him you deserve it and that it wasn’t fair for him to keep it from you. That’s all, I swear.”
“And he handed it over to you? Just like that?”
A hopeful smile breaks through her expression. “Desmond’s not a bad guy.”
“Yeah, well, instead of embarrassing me in front of everyone in class, he should have given it to me himself.” Lord knows I’ve had enough embarrassment to last a lifetime.
Monica growls. “Can’t you accept the dang piece of paper and move on? Or don’t take it. I don’t care. I just wish y’all would stop bickering so much. You’re my sister, and Desmond is Zach’s best friend. News flash, sis—there’s no escaping each other. One of these days, you and Desmond will have to figure out how to get along.”
Annoyance burns in my chest. “I can tell you right now, that will never happen.”
She lets out a frustrated growl and shakes her head. “How about we talk about something else?”
My entire body relaxes at the suggestion. “Yes, please. How’s school? How’s work? How’s the relationship?”
Monica perks up instantly at the mention of all the above. “School keeps me busy, and when school doesn’t, work does. I guess that’s good since Zach and I barely see each other right now.”
Not only is Zachary Ryan a football player for the NFL, but he’s the star quarterback for Seattle. After meeting him and seeing their connection, I totally understand why my sister is head over heels for the man. They complement each other in a way couples only dream of. He’s the chocolate to her strawberry as she often says.
“You knew what you were getting yourself into,” I say with a weak smile. We both suffered through the NFL’s crazy schedule when we were little and our dad played for Dallas.
Monica bites her lip. “Yeah, well, you try having a sexy boyfriend with zero time to be together.” She leans and lowers her voice to say the last two words, lifting her brows as if insinuating sex is a crime.
I scrunch up my face but am unable to keep the laug
hter from slipping past my throat. “Are you horny or in love? Because right now, I’m not sure which it is.”
“Both,” she says easily before sipping happily on her drink. “I just happen to really miss the sex right now. Between all the production shoots I’ve been working at BelleCurve and Zach’s football schedule, we’ve barely seen each other. I miss him.”
I look up just in time to see Zach walking through the door to Shooters. I lift up my hand in a wave. “Here’s your hottie now.”
Everything about my sister lights up when she sees him. She’s off her chair and jumping into his giant arms before I can take my next breath. I have to turn away from their makeout session while I wallow in my loneliness and suck down more of my drink.
“Hey, Maggie,” Zach says with a squeeze of my shoulder.
I swivel in my stool and flash him a smile. “Hey, Zach. Ready for your game tomorrow?”
He claps and rubs his hands together, emitting an energy that’s impossible to ignore. “You know it. How was class today? Desmond still being a pain?”
I lift my eyes and nod. “Did you ever doubt him?”
Zach chuckles. “Not for a second. Want me to talk to him? Straighten him out a bit? You know I’d be happy to.”
No matter the relationship Zach has with our father, he is impossible to hate. I find myself smiling my first genuine smile of the day. “Only if I can watch.” Then I eye the certificate in front of me again and swipe it from the table, a burst of adrenaline leading me. “On second thought, I think I’ll handle the straightening out myself.” I stand from the bar. “Keep my spot warm. This should only take a minute.”
Monica and Zach’s laughter fade as I exit the bar and take the stairs two at a time to the kitchen entrance. I try the door first, but it’s locked, so I knock hard on the glass instead.
A few moments later, the door flings open, and I’m ready to give Desmond the tongue lashing I’ve quickly prepared. My mouth is already opening, my hands are clenched by my sides, and the first syllable leaves my throat when it catches at the sight before me.
It takes me a moment to realize that the man who opens the door is the same one I just saw in class. But this time he’s shirtless, sweaty, and breathing as hard as someone who just ran a record-breaking 5K. He lifts an arm above his head and rests it on the top of the door frame, leveling me with his gaze. But my eyes don’t stay on his. Instead, I follow a drip of sweat that’s running between his pecs then down the center line of his abs until it reaches his navel. He’s wearing pants, thank God. But they’re hanging low, and now I’m imagining too much.
Damn. If I didn’t hate Desmond Blake, I think I might just love him.
“Back so soon?”
My gaze snaps up to find his eyes twinkling with a devilish gleam. His voice is deep, thick, filled with sex, and masked with humor. For a second, a pang of jealousy hits me over whoever has the ability to evoke more from Desmond than sarcastic quips and cruel indifference.
My skin starts to prickle as warmth washes over me. I can feel the flush in my cheeks as my eyes meet his. And just like the moment we met, I feel like he sees far too much. I swallow, attempting to regain control, but it’s nearly impossible when he’s dressed like that.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your activities, but”—I clear my throat then smash the paper to his chest before peeling my eyes away from his hard body again—“despite whatever my sister said to you, I don’t want a pity certificate. I want to know I earned it.”
He cocks a brow. “You don’t believe you earned it?”
“I do.” I stumble a little before righting my shoulders. “But I need to hear it from you.”
“Are you saying you need my validation?”
My jaw drops while his words tumble around in my mind. Is that what I came here for? If so, I’m giving Desmond far too much credit. Time to backpedal.
“I did earn it, but I’m not going to hang something on my wall that someone had to beg you to give me. I want you to hand it to me and tell me I earned it, or I don’t want it at all.”
He shakes his head, never losing the twinkle. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Maggie, but I can’t do that. You’ll have to come back to class and take it seriously if you want me to reciprocate.”
My mood instantly falls, and the attraction toward the nearly naked man in front of me is dissolving at a rapid rate. “Are you going to make me kill a lobster again?”
He sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t give a damn about the lobster. I care about those who come to my class and work for the reward. There are plenty of other cooking schools you can go to, pay, never show up for class, and then still walk off with a trophy in the end. Not here. That certificate is equivalent to college credit, and I take pride in that. All of my students should too.”
“But I did show up for every class. I was here.”
He shakes his head. “No, you weren’t, Maggie. You’ve always been somewhere else, two steps from disappearing completely. Before any of us know it, you’ll be heading back to LA like you were never here to begin with.”
I don’t know why, but this conversation suddenly feels incredibly intrusive. I feel my body begin to shake, and my chest heats with emotion. Desmond has no clue where I came from or why I’m here. He can make all the assumptions he wants, but he’ll never see me, not the real me.
“You know nothing about me and my decisions. How dare you assume anything other than what I tell you. You don’t know me, Desmond Blake.”
He shrugs. “You’re right. I don’t. But you’re as transparent as that makeup you wear. You think it conceals what’s underneath? Well, you’re wrong. I may not know you, but I see you. You may be able to fake your way through life, but you won’t get away with that shit in my class.”
My throat tightens at his words, and I’m suddenly reminded of all the reasons I hate Desmond. This conversation now tops the list.
I step back before he can see the tears brimming in my eyes. “I can see through you too. And you know what? You don’t care about anything or anyone but yourself.”
With that, I jog back down the stairs and fly through the door of the bar. “I’ll have another one of these,” I say to the bartender while sliding my empty glass toward him. I ignore Monica and Zach’s intense stares.
“I’m going to head back to my place,” Zach whispers to Monica. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the game?”
“Okay,” she says, and they kiss for a full minute before he finally gets up and squeezes my shoulder. “Bye, Mags. Will I see you at the game too?”
I shake my head, wishing people would stop trying to fold me into their lives like I’ll fit in. I never will, not when it comes to football or cooking or Coach Reynolds. “No, but have a great game.” I fist-bump him, and he’s gone before I can blink again.
Monica leans in and rests her head on my shoulder. “If it makes you feel any better, you look really hot today.”
And then I laugh because only my sister can find a way to lighten the mood when I’m wallowing in my own despair.
Production
Desmond
After Maggie leaves, I’m in no mood to continue messing around in my storage room. Instead, I grab a folded towel from the bathroom and wipe myself down with it.
I’m walking into the main kitchen when the front door opens again. “Dear Lord,” I mutter with exasperation. “What now?” I swear I locked the door after Faye left. But then the mystery is solved when, a moment later, I’m faced with Zach. “Shit.” Surely he’s here because he’s caught wind of the war waging between Maggie and me. This isn’t going to be pretty.
Zach’s eyes are dead set on me as the door shuts behind him. Then his hands move to his hips, and he narrows his eyes. “I don’t even want to know what you’ve just been doing.”
“Ya sure? Because I’m saving us thousands in handyman fees by remodeling the storage closet myself.”
His face twists in confusion. Zach never has to handle the minor
details since I’m always here managing the day-to-day operations.
“Whatever. We’ll get back to the storage closet. What’s the deal with Maggie? Would it kill you to be just a little bit nicer to my girlfriend’s sister?”
“Have you met her? Yeah. Yeah, it would.”
Zach sighs his frustration. “I swear to God, dude, your issues with the female species are beyond my comprehension.”
I shrug and take a seat on the couch near the entrance, gesturing for him to sit with me. I have a feeling this talk won’t be a short one. “It doesn’t matter anyway. She was all upset that she didn’t get a cooking certificate today. I’m not sure why since she never gave a shit to begin with. But even after I gave Monica the certificate to give to Maggie, Maggie didn’t want it. She just stopped by to return it.”
“Really?” Zach asks, and I can see that he doesn’t entirely believe me.
I shrug in response. I suppose my version of the story might be a little one-sided, but I don’t really care.
Zach leans back in his chair, looking almost as exhausted as me. “We’ll get back to Maggie. Who was the blond woman I saw leaving the kitchen thirty minutes ago? She didn’t look like your typical student.”
“You saw her? You should have come said hi.”
Zach chuckles. “Nah, I’m good.”
“You sure? Because she’s pitching our new television show to her network executives at Good Eats. She’s already talking about filming a pilot.”
Zach’s jaw falls. “Don’t tell me that was—”
“Five-Star Faye. In the flesh.”
“She came back?”
I nod with a huge grin for two reasons. One, he sounds impressed. Two, I might have just distracted him from the whole Maggie issue.
“What is she offering you now besides a ticket to the mile-high club?”
“Dude. You mean, what is she offering us? You and me. We’re in this together. She thinks Edible Desire deserves its own television show, a behind-the-scenes look at how we run our scratch kitchen and school, or something like that. She hasn’t sorted out all the details.”
