Melted
Cooking up a Celebrity Book 1
Hadley Harlin
Henwin Press LTD
Copyright © 2019 by Hadley Harlin
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Any appearance to real people is purely coincidental and should not be inferred.
Editor: Emily A. Lawrence
Cover Design: Shanoff Designs
Created with Vellum
Contents
Melted
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
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Afterword
Sneak Peek of Book 2
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
About the Author
Melted
The world’s sexiest bad boy chef three years in a row. The woman whose restaurant he tried to ruin. A cooking competition that throws them together. Who will melt first?
Hawthorne West is at the top of his game, racking up celebrity chef appearances and women across the globe. Until he’s asked to co-host a new travel cooking competition with Chef Sophia Sato.
Licking her wounds after a Michelin star snub, Sophia agrees to co-host the show to bring buzz to her restaurant. It isn’t until she arrives in Paris that she realizes Hawthorne comes with the gig.
Sophia is so forked.
Melted is a stand-alone, full-length romantic comedy with an enemies-to-lovers couple that is sure to melt your Kindle! HEA and NO CHEATING!
*While each book in the Cooking up a Celebrity series is a stand-alone novel featuring ONE couple, the books are connected by a shared storyline. Read Seared (Book 2) followed by Fired (Book 3).
Chapter One
Sophia
Chicago, Illinois
My fingers curled around my iPad, the only movement I allowed myself in front of my staff. I scrolled through the list of restaurant names one more time, expecting to see Sassafras. Perhaps I’d missed it. But my heart knew what everybody else’s already did. We’d been snubbed. I’d been snubbed.
“We’ll get it next year,” someone piped up in the back.
“Yeah, don’t worry about it, Chef.”
“Their loss!”
One voice rose above the rest. “What they said. In the meantime, anybody down to celebrate mediocrity?”
It belonged to Puck, who was hoisting an obscenely large champagne bottle. Of course, my wild pastry chef would try to lighten the mood. It was pretty much the only reason I kept him around, since neither punctuality nor sobriety were high on his priority list. Well, that and his amazing sugar and chocolate creations.
I forced a smile. “Absolutely. Even if we didn’t get a Michelin star, that doesn’t mean the year is a bust.”
“Or that we suck,” Puck added unhelpfully.
I gave him my ‘angry boss’ face, and his smile fell away. Puck had seen me fire more chefs than he had fingers. Even if he was a sugar god, he understood there were limits to my patience.
I continued. “Okay, people. When it airs later this week, the coverage from the Netflix show will boost interest in Sassafras. Our job is to hold that interest and turn curious diners into deliriously happy, repeat diners. So, on to tonight’s service. First, to the wait staff, push the 2015 Bordeaux.”
The new girl gasped, then hid her face with her apron.
“I thought I told you she was still sensitive,” Lena, my petite business partner, whispered behind her hand. Lena wore black leather pants, stilettos, and an oversized pink sweater that made her look even smaller than she was. Even with the four-inch heels, she only came up to my shoulder. A string of milky pearls hung from her neck and she had a diamond the size of a strawberry hanging from each ear.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, annoyed about the hand holding and coddling I’d stooped to since partnering with Lena. The kitchen wasn’t the place to fuck up. My chefs could do that on their own time with their own lives. Here, we had a military order and a precision to detail, and if you didn’t like it, you could find another place to work.
Lena felt differently. She thought I needed to drop the cutthroat kitchen attitude. She’s the one who made me stop firing a line cook a week. I’d agreed, but only because Lena was scarily persuasive.
“Push the 2015 Bordeaux. We mysteriously—” here, I raised my eyebrow at Lena who smiled coyly at me, “—ordered twelve cases of it due to a… technical glitch. I know it’s expensive, so hype it up. It’s worth every penny.”
The new girl buried her head, panic-stricken at the idea of trying to convince her tables to order a $200 bottle of wine.
“Second,” I bulldozed forward, “we’ve got three tables of regulars tonight. They’ve come every week for this month’s tasting menu. Lena, have front of house seat them in Maria’s section. Give them a surprise fourth course in between the corn course and tomato course. I want a fluke sashimi with yuzu vinaigrette. Garnish it with finger limes.”
My sous chef quickly took notes and nodded to the line cooks, a silent order passing between them to go check for the delicate finger limes. Although I had everything memorized, I flicked through the notes section of my tablet, making sure I didn’t miss anything important.
“Third. Front of house. I noticed your table settings have been inconsistent. Every plate needs to be exactly three inches from the edge of the table. Not two inches. Not two-and-a-half. Not three-and-a-half. Diners notice details.”
I reached in my pocket and pulled out a tape measure, but Lena smoothly put her hand over mine. “I think they get it. Just in case, I’ll go through everything again before first seating with front of house.”
She held out her hand in a “give me” gesture, one elegant eyebrow raised. Like I was the one that needed chastising. She wiggled her fingers until I dropped the tape measure in her hands.
I sighed. “Fine. Any questions about the menu? I hope not. Please, enjoy the champagne after the last seating. It’s back to the drawing board first thing tomorrow morning for next month’s new tasting menu.”
I clapped my hands and the staff jumped to their stations to finish their prep for the night’s seatings. Pots clanged and flames rose as back burners clicked to life. My entire kitchen throbbed to life like the perfectly oiled machine I’d crafted it to be. Our tasting menu was timed to perfection, and I expected everyone to know their dance moves perfectly. I trusted them.
Mostly.
Puck was my wild card, and he was wagging his eyebrows suggestively at Lena while pretending to spew champagne from the almost life-sized bottle he still held like it was an extens
ion of his own cock. Childish, but I guess the rest of the staff got a kick out of it. They guffawed and gave him lewd gestures back as they fired the line.
As we left the kitchen, I caught Lena grinning wolfishly at Puck. “Don’t encourage him.”
Lena shrugged. “He’s good for moral. And easy on the—”
I spun and grabbed her by the shoulders so she could see my face. “You know I love your carefree spirit, right?”
Lena nodded.
“That’s why I’m going to kill that part of you right now for your own good.”
Lena frowned.
“Before it gets you into trouble,” I continued, “and I’m forced to literally kill you. There will be no workplace romances. In fact, it’s best to get used to the idea of celibacy for the next year. I want that star.”
Lena looked at me aghast, her hand over her mouth. “I understand you’re disappointed, but you’re toeing the line of insanity. There’s only one solution to your sickness. You need to get out. Like right now. Go get ready.”
“I’d rather not,” I said. Not only had I been snubbed, but the man who tried to ruin me, Hawthorne Fucking West, graced the front page of every blog and food-centric magazine from here to Beijing. Which meant he definitely saw the snub and was probably toasting to my failure.
Sexiest Chef Alive, my ass. More like Jerkiest Chef Alive. And he wasn’t even a chef. Not anymore. He was a television personality. It was a knife in the heart of every true chef.
Whatever. It didn’t matter to me. I didn’t have time for sex, anyway.
The only commitment I made was to my craft. I didn’t even casually date after my last relationship ended a year ago. Lena had dubbed him “Quick Mitch,” although that was mostly on me.
After a long day in the kitchen, I could get in and out and asleep in under ten minutes. Mitch was fine with that. We both worked in the restaurant industry and were like ships passing in the night.
I soon realized the emotions involved in relationships were draining. In my quest for stars, they were the last thing I needed. All of my energy went into my work. I preferred it that way.
Of course, that meant the most excitement my lady downstairs had gotten in the last year involved a very put-upon dildo I had nicknamed Harry Tickler. I’d splurged on him, figuring this was my most serious relationship for a while. He came with a vibrating rabbit, but I cracked it in half one particularly frustrating evening.
Damn.
This night was shaping up to be even more frustrating than the night I killed Harry Tickler.
Lena guided me to the front of the house where cascades of botanicals framed our white subway tile entry way. Retro green leather chairs lined the bar, popping against the black wood walls. Instead of flowers, we kept delicate succulents on every table. It was elegant and herbaceous.
Lena leaned against the wall, the hanging vines framing her face. “You know what they call you behind your back.”
“Goddess of the grain?” I tried.
“Ha. No.” Lena laughed. “The food fascist.”
“I know you think I should be offended, but that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”
“It’s not a compliment.”
“So you say.”
“You’re impossible.” Lena threaded her arm through mine. “Seriously. We’re going out tonight. My treat. You can’t create award-winning dishes when you’re strung out like this. I can see gray hairs and stress wrinkles forming as we speak. How about a massage and a facial, then we hit the town? Let the staff take care of Sassafras tonight. It’s why we hired them.”
Lena and her carefree, heartbreaker attitude brought much-needed balance to my life, but the thought of being stuck in my head for an hour at a spa terrified me. I wanted the mind-numbing bliss that came from chopping perfectly proportioned potatoes and carrots. I never let my mind wander when I was cooking. I stayed focused on perfection, from every radish to every exquisite cut of steak that had the good fortune to cross my knives. The same way I’d been doing it since I dropped out of college to go to culinary school ten years ago.
I shook my head. “Really, no. I’m going to hop on the line tonight. It clears my mind.”
Lena stopped walking, pulling me to a halt in front of the living wall of bright green herbs and microgreens that decorated our entry wall. She’d talked me into planting them last year, and I had to admit they were calming to stand under and visually stunning. They also served a purpose. We asked guests to get up and pick bunches of herbs themselves for their fifth course palate cleanser.
Despite the fact I towered over Lena, she was unmoved by the cross-armed glare. When she didn’t wilt, I pouted instead. “I want to wallow, and cooking on the line helps me.”
“Okay, have your weird form of relaxation, but after service, we’re going out. I’ll be waiting.” She leaned over the front bar, pulled a bottle out, and waved it around, a wicked glint in her eye. “With whiskey.”
“Fine.” Maybe a night of debauchery would motivate or perhaps shame me into working harder. Or at least allow me to pass out without picturing Hawthorne Fucking West.
Chapter Two
Hawthorne
New York City, New York
Somewhere in the bowels of the building, the live studio audience practiced how to clap and cheer on cue. The noise echoed through the air ducts and into my green room, where I sat massaging my jawline and examining the stubble in the well-lit mirror.
I lifted my chin and pointed to my signature scruff. “Maybe take it down a little here.”
The petite stylist nodded. Behind her, a make-up artist waited to powder the shit out of my face, giving my skin a matte finish suitable for the glare of television lighting. After an evening photoshoot for People Magazine last night, I was barely awake, and my agent had scheduled me for two daytime talk shows and a pitch dinner with my editor for my next project. Now that I was back in the states, I really needed to visit my father, but that could wait. That could always wait.
I hadn’t been home to Chicago in over a month, but he had plenty of paid lackeys to take care of him. I preferred life on the road, always in pursuit of the next great food story.
As the editor-at-large for Food & Dine, I went wherever my desire took me. Some days, it was learning the secrets to jerk chicken from a Jamaican roadside food cart. Other days, it was searching for the best pimento cheeseburger that Nashville had to offer. As the newest and hottest bachelorette destination, Nashville had a lot to offer.
For the last week, I’d explored Italy during Milan’s Fashion Week. Fashion Week was not the faint of heart. Not if you do it right, at least. I pitched to my chief editor that even models needed to eat and spent last week scouting the hottest restaurants and nightclubs in Milan, eating and fucking my way through the city. What a beautiful city it was.
Now, I needed fifty billion aspirin and my bed, but there was no rest if I wanted to stay on top. I kept telling myself the transience was starting to wear on me, but a few days of solitude and the gray, Chicago winters always left me leaving for more. I was happier on the road than I’d ever been behind the stove. It wouldn’t take a first-year psychology student to diagnose me. Hell yes, I was running, and I saw no need to stop. The money and perks of celebrity outweighed any primal need to settle down. I’d never been one to covet a nine-to-five job or a nagging wife.
This life was more than either of my firmly Midwestern parents could have dreamed of living.
The makeup artist took over, powdering down the shine and filling in any lingering dark circles courtesy of Milan’s best models. As used to celebrities faces as she was, she still asked for an autograph after I examined her handiwork. At least I no longer looked like a sex-addict.
“I relax by watching cooking shows,” she said sheepishly, barely able to meet my eyes while she fumbled for a pen. “My girlfriends and I each plan a big meal when we get together and we especially loved watching you on Mouthful.”
“I hope your mout
hfuls were better than most of mine on that show,” I joked, inwardly seething about the show that shot me to fame. For a cooking competition, it was amazing how often I was shirtless.
I scrawled my signature on a piece of paper and handed it back, my fingers brushing her wrist. She flamed bright red, and I could imagine her thoughts as easily as if they were my own. Where had my lips been and would they come closer, just for a second? Just to see if they were as irresistible as the tabloids claimed?
“Thanks, uh, you,” she stammered. “Thank you, I mean.”
The producer poked her head in and announced five minutes until my segment.
I stood from the swivel chair, towering over the girl. Shy as she seemed, she boldly reached out to grab my arm and thank me properly. I could appreciate boldness. I rewarded her with a thumb across her dimples, thinking for a moment she wouldn’t be a bad way to spend a quiet night after the debauchery of Milan. Her electric blue hair and nose ring would be a welcome departure from the carbon copy models I’d been with lately.
The tabloids and online news sites had a field day every time I left a show or restaurant with a new model, each one more beautiful than the last. I couldn’t give a fuck what they said. It was much too fun being me.
Melted (Cooking up a Celebrity Book 1) Page 1
